Peter watched her attentively, expectantly. "Now, how about you? he asked.

Oh shit. She'd been so wrapped up in Peter's life escapades that she'd almost forgotten. Her past… it was her turn now. Peter had done his part, and very eloquently too, he'd even infused some amusement- but now it was her turn. That was the deal… and she couldn't get out of it.

"Well, as far as adventures go… I've been bold a few times and wore things like dresses that were way too tight and short in nightclubs, and I've taken a few laps around the neighborhood on my broomstick." She'd mentioned the latter, hoping to smooth over the former. But Peter was paying rapt attention to her former statement only.

"What happened when you dressed like that?"

"I'm not proud of it, but I ended up with the wrong kind of guy a few times. Like you, I felt like a whole lot was missing afterward. No one was really special, unique, or even stood out to me in any way. It made me feel all men were the same. So I lost interest in men after a while, and to compound that, I've got a thing about losing people in general, so men have a taken a back seat in my life for some time now."

Peter nodded. "I know the feeling. You're expecting something, and then… you realize you can't make yourself feel it."

"Exactly! In my case, the men were often so… self-absorbed. I felt like what I had to say wasn't of importance. They were always wanting to talk about their achievements, and I knew most of it was made up, to impress me, or whatever, doing that macho bragging bullshit thing that I could see right through." She was trying not to sound bitter, but it's ugly presence was creeping out anyway.

"It made me feel like I'd never meet anyone I had anything in common with, or could even have a decent conversation with."

"What was it some famous writer said? Something about love is friendship caught on fire, or a friendship spark that has turned into a flame… something like that." Peter had no idea why he'd opened his big mouth and just said that. "Well," he said quickly, so she wouldn't think he was hinting at romance, "That has never once happened to me."

"Ditto. Sometimes I honestly wonder if it's just a poet's way of trying to make something romantic out of something that usually isn't."

"God, I hope not. Like I said once before, I believe in love." Peter felt like stuffing cotton, or better, cement, in his mouth. He just knew he was going to blow it if he kept saying these corny things. Even to his own ears, it sounded presumptuous, like a very unsubtle hint, and he didn't want her to get that impression. He was not like that. He knew never to assume anything—with special emphasis on girls.

Shannon supposed she must have been somehow sliding closer to Peter by tiny increments, as she kept finding herself an inch closer, then another inch, and pretty soon their thighs were touching most of the time. He was a damn magnet as far as she was concerned. She craved that feeling of his closeness, always wanting to touch him. He didn't even seem to notice, but really, how could he not? She was practically in his lap. In retrospect, she'd noticed how hands-on the guys had been with each other when she'd watched the gig that night, weeks ago. They weren't a bit shy about touching each other, both when performing and on break. Always laying a hand on an arm, or resting a forearm on someone's shoulder. So perhaps that explained it. He was just accustomed to physical contact. She'd thought it was nice to see guys so at ease with each other.

Had she moved closer, or was that his overactive imagination? He couldn't be sure of much anymore, as wishful thinking liked to edge it's way in. He mustn't assume. He did know one thing—the contact felt good, almost too good. He was afraid of something happening to him physically, so he kept talking, hoping to distract himself. These band pants left nothing to the imagination. He knew, because he'd seen the evidence on the other guys when they had these pants on. He'd also looked at himself in the mirror, and seen that no degree of sexual excitement could be camouflaged. The other guys, with the exception of Michael, were envious of his size. Big Peter. They liked to call him that sometimes. But it did have it's disadvantages. He didn't like it when girls' eyes went to his crotch before they even looked at his face. He saw them doing it when he was onstage too. He knew how girls with big boobs must feel.

Peter scrunched his left shoulder uncomfortably. The cat scratches were burning again.

"What's wrong?" asked Shannon.

"Um, Geisha kind of took off during one of the wind gusts and used me as a launching pad."

"What? When did that happen?"

"When your head was on my chest."

"Well, we'll just have to take a look at that."

Shannon jumped up, ran a washcloth under warm water in the bathroom, grabbed a towel and came back, only to begin unbuttoning Peter's shirt. Here he'd practiced pretty damn good control all night, and now she was going to get him half naked again! How was he to appear unaffected? This charade couldn't last forever. Sooner or later he was going to blow it one way or another. He wouldn't come on to her like a "fucking wild animal," as Davy had so eloquently it, but she was still in danger of seeing something shocking, and then, who knew what she might do? There were several possibilities. She might laugh it off, get angry with him, tell him to act civilized, or worst of all, tell him to go home. He hoped to God Shannon understood that men sometimes couldn't control their bodies' reactions.

"Oh, Peter. I wish you'd said something earlier," said Shannon when she spied the scratches. There's four good ones. Geisha really dug in." She was on the couch, straddling his legs, on her knees, facing him, dabbing at the scratches with the washcloth, and cooing over him as if he were a child with a scraped knee. And just as he knew it would, his cock began to harden.

Thank God she wasn't sitting all the way down on his legs, but was supporting herself with her knees; but still, her proximity was too much. It was way too easy to imagine her sitting all the way down in his lap, kissing him, face to face. That idea was too sexually stimulating to ignore. Good thing she was concentrating on his shoulder, and not looking down.

After she'd doctored his scratches, he got up and walked around, hoping to divert his attention enough to trick his hard-on into vanishing. He stopped at her bed, curious. While she was rinsing the ice cream dishes in the kitchen, he reached up and gently pressed on the mattress to check it's firmness, or lack of. It felt pretty good. She came back just then and caught him.

"You can try it out if you want—it's really comfortable," she said this so easily that he took her up on it. What was the harm, anyway? He climbed up the ladder and laid back on the bed. It was perfect—not too hard and not too soft. He almost felt like Papa Bear in the fairy tale, and he giggled to himself. When she asked why, he told her.

"Peter, you are never predictable," she laughed. "I never know what you might say."

On an impulse, she climbed the ladder and lay down beside him. Peter was almost alarmed. This was the last thing he'd ever thought she'd do. But… she was showing her trust in him once again. They lay there, side by side, staring up at the ceiling, where Shannon had stuck tiny, sparkly stars so it would look like the sky. It was more realistic than one would have thought.

Peter commented on it, "I love all the little special touches you've sprinkled around your house. It tells me more about you all the time. All good stuff, of course."

"Thank you. I've always wanted to sleep outside, hence the stars, but I'm chicken to sleep on the deck, living alone like I do. So this is the next best thing. Fake stars over my head," she giggled.

The wind was picking up again, but not to the degree it was earlier. Still, they felt a bit of motion, and Geisha had crawled right under the covers at the foot of the bed, feeling safer there. Shannon and Peter, of course, remained on top. It was June, and fairly warm even this time of night. Shannon had left the sliding glass door partially open, and they felt a kiss of a breeze, since the wind wasn't blowing directly into the house, but on a slight angle, shaving the harshness off the wind. It was just enough to feel refreshing.

"Nothing like a warm, summer night's breeze," said Peter.

There was a comfortable silence, then they turned their heads at the same time to smile at each other.

"Your place… and you too… always make me feel… serene, I guess. Listening to your wind chimes outside and just the slight tinkling of the ones inside is relaxing. When I come over here, I feel I'm in another world."

"I sure hope the outside chimes don't decide to blow away."

"I don't think so. The wind just feels worse than it really is because we're up in a tree. Right now it's probably only blowing about thirty-five miles an hour. Much better than a while ago."

"I like this… very much. Will you sleep here with me instead of on the couch?"

Peter stopped breathing. He tried to formulate a coherent thought, to no avail. All logic deserted him in an instant. There was a strange thundering in his head. He isolated it—yes, it was his heart, pumping his blood forcefully, and it sounded like his bass… rich, deep, unrelenting. But the tempo was much, much faster. Frantic, even.

This moment wasn't tangible mentally nor physically. It had to be an illusion. Reality wasn't something that could be easily seized right now. His throat caught, and the chance of saying something rational wasn't within reach.

"Peter?" She wasn't sure what he might be thinking or feeling. An alert at the back of her brain hinted that just maybe he hadn't been prepared for such a statement. She had to admit that it had come from nowhere. How would she feel in the same situation? She tried to put herself in his shoes, but that was almost laughable. They were different sexes. A man would certainly feel entirely different about her question than a woman would. It disturbed her that she had no idea what he might be thinking. She did have an idea what the average man would think, but Peter was not, of all things, your average man.

Peter was, in fact, overcome. Too overcome to even feel flattered. Desperately, he tried to think of something to say, almost choking himself on the adrenaline coursing through him. It felt like a damn tidal wave.

At last, he was able to force a few words out. "We could drag your couch out on the deck, and you can have your dream of sleeping under the stars tonight, if you want… I'd protect you," he congratulated himself inwardly on managing to get his vocal chords moving.

"Oh Peter…" she rolled over from her back to her side, within inches of him as he lay on his back. She reached up and brushed the hair out of his right eye, then, not being able to refrain, burrowed her hands into his thick, luxurious hair. Something she'd been yearning to do for way too long. "Sorry, I just couldn't seem to endure another moment without burying my fingers in your hair," she said.

Peter caught one of her wavy strawberry blonde curls and let it sift between his fingers. "I've thought a lot about feeling your hair too."

Their eyes were locked, the low light making everything seem romantic and a bit surreal. The reflections from the assortment of beads and bright balls hung from the ceiling mirrored in their eyes, making this seem like a dream.

"Can we really sleep out on the deck?" she asked.

So, she really was serious. She really did want him to spend the night.

"Of course," he said quickly, before he lost his power of speech again. "We could push the couch out, or maybe the mattress. I'm not sure which would be easier. But… if the wind gets bad again…" He was sorry he'd said it, because her eyes showed her disappointment immediately.

"It's supposed to be windy again through tomorrow, according to my dad. And being out on the deck might feel worse than it does in here, right?" Peter nodded reluctantly. He wanted to make her happy, but not at the expense of horrifying her.

"Well, even if we have to wait for another night, we'll have fun doing it!" Her eyes danced with anticipation. "I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't had an urge to sleep outside."

Peter thought he might die of the enjoyment he was getting out of this unexpected fortune, this bounty of pleasure he felt at the mere idea of spending the entire night with her. And the promise of another night had been strongly suggested in what she'd just said. He thought he just might burst.

"Wanna watch TV or something?" she asked, propped up on her elbow and smiling down at him.

"Anything's fine with me, as long as I'm with you." He'd just made himself proud again. He was getting a lot better at saying the right things to her. He could tell by the look on her face that she was digging it.

Next, she began rubbing his face, gently scratching at his beard stubble with her fingertips.

"Oh sh… I mean, damn, I forgot my razor. Should scrape that off," he said.

"No… no. I'm glad you forgot your razor." Now she looked like an imp with a plan. "I like it—the roughness." She rubbed her cheek against it, glorying in the raspy way it sounded and felt.

"You do? Why?" Peter looked perplexed.

"Its… attractive," she said, instead of saying what she wanted to. That it was sexy. When she'd commented on his sideburns that he was growing, she'd said the word sexy and she'd thought he was surely going to die from embarrassment.

She wanted so badly to just lean down and kiss his lips. She was fighting herself tooth and nail not to do it. It wouldn't be good in more than one way. It would change things between them instantly, and as a result she might eventually lose him as a friend. Lovers didn't often remain friends after a break-up. Not only that, but she had never had that special feeling for a man, and was afraid of it happening yet again- that nagging disappointment. Peter was just too dear to her to have that happen. She'd rather fantasize about something special than "go for it" just to have it flop like all the others had. Besides all that, she didn't know how he felt. What they had was rare, and trying to push it to something even better seemed somehow unnatural.

The wind whipped up again, causing the tree to make a horrible groaning sound, the wind chimes to clank with a startling clarity, and that weird whistling, howling noise to escalate. Shannon found herself where she always felt safest—her head on Peter's chest, her arms around his torso.

"It's alright. I've gotcha," he used a light, teasing tone that seemed to calm her. "I'll also protect you from the boogey-man tonight," he added with a dimpled smile.

She wanted to tell him about the feelings that were warring inside her. Of never wanting to lose his friendship, yet wanting to give in to her desire—the way a woman wants a man, with a fierce need. An affectionate need. A primal need. She wished for all of those things. But she should be so lucky…

They took turns changing into their pajamas in the bathroom, then lay down together in the same position they'd been in. They talked long into the night. He wasn't afraid to touch her now. He feathered his fingers over her cheek and just quietly stared at her. She supposed he thought that was safe since she'd done it to him. Otherwise, she got the feeling he'd never do it on his own. At every turn, he was afraid of offending her. Most of that time she was in his arms; she never left them even when the wind died down. They finally caught a few hours' sleep when it was close to dawn. Peter couldn't get over how natural it felt for him to sleep with her.

Sometime after they'd fallen asleep, Shannon had slipped between the sheets, and held them up for Peter, tugging him in after her. Peter could feel Geisha's soft, warm feline body at his feet, and with Shannon in his arms he slept those three or four hours soundly, but experienced dreams that featured him kissing her, holding her close, caressing her, hour after hour. Even in his dreams, he was aware he didn't want to wake up because he'd have to bid those dreams farewell.

He finally woke up though, to a very awkward situation. He had one of those morning hard-ons that Davy so abhorred. He hadn't asked Davy how to handle this dilemma! On second thought, Davy had probably never spent the night in bed with a female without having sex. So for Davy, the situation wouldn't be humiliating. When he opened his eyes, she was looking right at him, eyes squinty, hair sticking out every which way, looking cute as a red haired lynx. He just smiled back, appreciating her loveliness, her natural beauty.

Shannon was admiring him as well, noting his eyes were amber in the morning light when she dragged her gaze away to look at her watch. "Peter! It's ten! Practice! Hurry, you have to get out of bed! I'll make you some coffee, then you need to get back to the Pad!"

How in hell was he going to get out of bed, with her right there? You can't hide a huge erection in pajamas. It was impossible to miss.

"Okay, well, you go get the coffee and I'll get up and get dressed," he suggested. Didn't work. She just stayed where she was. "Climb over me," she said, since she was on the outside. He panicked from within. If he were to do that, she'd not only see it, but she'd feel it too!

"I can't," he said lamely.

"Why not?"

"I don't know," he couldn't think of a single way to get out of it. Right then she knew she had to admit it to herself. She wanted the extra body contact, even if it was through pajamas. Peter was making her crazy, out of her head with desire. Something would have to be done about this. She was becoming irrational. Asking him to climb over her just to feel his body slide over hers! Reprehensible! Underhanded too.

Peter was still struggling with the "why not" part. "Just give me a minute," he murmured, his voice almost a whimper.

"Why? You're running late. Mike'll be mad!"

"Shannon! Give me a minute!" Peter was now highly anxious. She'd think he was a scoundrel of the lowest order if she saw the state he was in physically. But as long as they stayed this close, practically touching, he feared the erection wasn't going to deflate. He knew his own body—it could be insistent.

Okay, maybe he had it figured out. He'd climb over her without touching his lower body to her, and then go down the steps to the floor, facing away from her. That just might work.

"Okay, here I go," he braced his arm on the opposite side of her, lifting his lower body much like an inch worm would do, so it wouldn't touch her, and slid across her. He could feel her breasts, warm, soft and full under his chest. That didn't help his situation at all. When he was centered on top of her, his thoughts went into overdrive. I'm exactly in the right position to… no! Don't think that! He grabbed onto the top of the built-in ladder, trying to work his body under himself so he could climb down with his back to her. This was tricky, as the ceiling was only inches above his head as he maneuvered himself. His hands were damp because of his nervousness, and that was what did him in. His hands slipped off the top of the ladder, and down he went—head first. Shannon screamed. His body hit the steps on the way down. Clunk! Luckily, he automatically coiled his body into a ball and went right into a somersault as soon as he hit the floor. He had Davy to thank for that! He'd taught Peter that move in case Peter was ever bucked off a horse, and was going to land on his head. The pain in the back of his neck and upper back weren't pleasant, but it was better than landing on his head. It had also made his erection disappear in record time.

"Shit," he murmured to himself.

"Peter! Peter, are you alright?" Shannon's head appeared over the side of the mattress, her mouth a huge O.

"I'll live," he croaked out.

"Why in the world did you try to go down the steps that way, instead of the way you're supposed to?"

"Thought I'd try to be fancy." Maybe that would satisfy her. "I gotta go, like you said, I'm running late."

Peter had no time to wait for coffee. He accepted the English muffin from her hand with a shy thank you as he scooted out the door. All he'd had time for was to splash his face with water, brush his teeth and comb his hair, As he exited, he said he'd take a shower after practice, then make Geisha's box and bring it over tonight. Shannon shook her head slowly as she watched him head for the street from her kitchen window. She'd seen the curious bulge straining against the sheet when she first woke up. He'd still been slumbering. All that trouble that he gone to, including diving to the floor from her bed, in an effort to hide it from her. What guy would put himself in jeopardy just to protect her from seeing it? Only Peter…

By the time he got back to the Pad, he could barely turn his head, his neck hurt so much. Of course, the others thought he'd made love to Shannon all night, and that was why he was sore. That's when all the teasing started. The relentless teasing. He decided to swallow a couple of aspirins, grin, grimace a bit, and bear it, and on to practice they went, the teasing continuing unabated for the duration.

How do I handle this? Peter's passion for Shannon was insane. She was all he thought about. He feared the future. He knew she wanted him as a friend, and he felt the same…but he had to admit there was potential for more on his part. Well… more than potential. He wanted a relationship, a romance. He knew he shouldn't even be thinking such things, and the fact that he'd never make a move on her was the only thing that saved him from looking like a court jester. She had touched his cheek, caressed it even. He'd done the same to her. She'd allowed it. She'd laid in his arms, starting out because she was afraid of the wind, but ending up staying, even when he knew she was no longer afraid. She had done it because she'd wanted to. She'd invited him to spend the night with her—in her bed!

But he shouldn't use any of this as a reason to feel a pressing need to rush things. He had her trust, and that was plenty enough for now. He already knew she was wary of men, afraid she'd only get a repeat of the past, that she'd never find the one who felt right, who treated her right. Precisely the same thing he feared. But if they could grow to trust each other enough, he wondered…was there even a tiny speck of a chance?

Something was bound to go wrong. It always did where girls and he were concerned. Sooner or later he would say or do something that would turn Shannon completely off, and she'd give him his walking papers. A memory of a friendship lost, and a romance that never happened…