Chapter 38
He sensed it without growing aware of it: a slight change in the breeze that brought with it a touch of cooler air, wafting up toward them from lower on the mountain; a change in the moss below their feet, the hard structure beneath their boots slowly yielding to a softer springiness; the darkening of the trees as thin, willowy leaves yielded to flatter, broad ones; a faint hint of sweetness in the air that would have suggested fruit or flowers – or both – had they been on Earth; the faint thrum of power that filled his every senses, just as if had on his beloved starships.
He sensed it before realizing the source or its import; a change that was gradual, barely perceptible, coming upon him without a grand announcement.
Perhaps his dullness was due to his fatigue from too many days of hard labor with too little food and too little rest; perhaps it was due to his near-overwhelming thirst – or perhaps it was due to his ever-growing concern that his decision to take the shorter route over the mountain might have doomed both him and his companion.
Whatever the reason, he continued to walk, stumbling every now and then, proceeding almost blindly, aware yet unaware – until the slope flattened out as they approached an outcropping of rock.
"The angle is decreasing," he told his companion through parched, dry lips. "We must be near the bottom of the mountain," he repeated.
"How far to the river?" she replied hoarsely.
More than twenty kilometers, he thought silently. Another day's hike, he added – but one that they couldn't possible make.
Once they reached the bottom of the mountain, they would be facing an expanse of arid terrain that the reconnaissance satellites had shown to be little more than open scrublands: hot and dry with no protection from the sun until they finally reached the river's edge.
Oh, Dee could make it, he amended; somehow, her remarkable body would survive the brutal conditions she would find on the plain, and she would manage to reach the water – and she would survive.
But she couldn't get there and back to him in time, he added knowingly. At best, she could make it in two days; at best, he had one day left before dehydration claimed him.
They had found water, of course, as they traveled down the mountainside – just as he had known they would. The trees that grew on this side of the mountain were clear indicators that rain fell – and in some abundance.
But not of late, they learned quickly. The few pools that they found were old, filled with water that had been standing for too long; tannic and foul, they had hesitated drinking from them until pressed by sheer desperation – and when they did, they both soon found themselves retching and vomiting as their stomachs rebelled against the fouled water.
Now, nauseated and even further dehydrated than before, they walked slowly, taking care not to miss even a single step, lest a fall break a bone, and trap them both on the mountainside.
In the end, of course, it wouldn't make much difference, he thought; to be found dead, here, by Starfleet rescue teams or dead a few kilometers further would be meaningless to him – and a death sentence of a different source to Dee. Yes, her body would survive, no matter whether they found water or not – but his death would initiate an investigation – but her true identity would be found out, she would be arrested, put on trial, and...
"Gods, you're a grim one," she gasped at him.
"Perhaps I'm just sensing your feelings on the matter, my dear," he countered, quickly realizing that the source of his dark emotions might well be the woman beside him. "I'd like to think that I can maintain a more positive perspective, even in the most dire of circumstances."
She tried to stick out her tongue at the man – but the tissue was too dry for even that minor effort; it stuck against the roof of her mouth, refusing to free itself until she forced it – by which point she had forgotten why she had made the effort.
"Let's take a break here," Picard suggested, feeling her fatigue as intensely as he felt his own, pointing at the rock outcropping, then started to shift his pack from his shoulders.
"No," she answered wearily.
He raised a brow in question.
Andile pointed at the patches of sun that shown through the heavy leaves. "In a few minutes, the sun will be hitting the rock – and we'll be in its path. If we fall asleep, we might not wake up in time to move before we're roasted."
"Then we won't fall asleep," he objected.
"You won't, maybe but me?" She managed a weary smile for him. "If I sit down," she informed him, "I'm staying down. At least the other side will give us some shade."
He considered her words, then nodded, pulling the straps back into place, wincing as the weight dug deeper into the already too-worn flesh, then began to find a way around the rocky obstacle.
A few minutes later, he watched as the rock gave way to more of the thick moss that had been on the far side of the mountain, ease himself into its even deeper softness, pushed back an errant branch that blocked his view –
And froze at what he saw.
His rigid position lasted only a moment however as Andile, unaware that he had stopped short, plowed into his back, toppling him forward, only to miss her own footing in the new patches of moss, and fell on top of him.
"Fuck!" she said – then slowly pushed herself up and off the man, and saw the reason for his abrupt immobilization.
"Fuck," she repeated – but this time there was a hushed reverence in her irreverent word.
"Indeed," Picard agreed as he slowly sat up.
For several moments the two sat, wordlessly staring.
He should have expected to find something like this, he told himself later; he should have known that old volcanic ridges often eroded into spectacular valleys with awesome waterfalls at their heads, spewing water from reservoirs deep within their depths into glimmering cascade that pooled beneath, filling the valley with fine mist, creating a central of crystal clear water that split the valley floor in two.
Some of the falling water hit closer to the base of the falls, landing on a stone shelf, deadening the roar to a faint thrum even as it shattered into a fine mist that created a thick haze at the bottom of the fall; the mist rose on currents of air driven by the sun-warmed rocks only to fall as downdrafts from the fall carried them back down again.
Catching the sunlight that came over the top of the outcropping, the water acted as millions of miniscule prisms, creating rainbows that constantly changed in shape and location and size.
Wherever the mist landed, plants grew in perfusion: deep and dark green mosses covered the ground, trees clinging precariously to the steep valleys walls, their branches reaching over the central plain, snatching at every drop of moisture they could reach, while vines hung from their branches – and everywhere, flowers blossomed in exclamations of color both brilliant and subtle.
It was beautiful, it was stunning – but for the moment, all he truly saw was...
Water. Everywhere.
Without a sound, Andile pushed to her feet, dropped her pack, raced to the stream's edge and threw herself on the ground, plunging her hands into the fluid and raising them to her lips.
Picard opened his mouth to call out a warning – then stopped.
If this wasn't potable water, then it didn't matter what it was; if it was water, they lived; if it wasn't, they – or at least he – had but a few hours left – and shortening that demise might well be the better decision.
Following his companion's lead, he loosed his pack, then joined her as she lay on the grounds at the water's edge.
Even as he stretched out beside her, she scooped a second handful of water into her mouth and swallowed, then turned to grin at him.
"It's water. Fresh water," she added, then turned back to the pool, drawing up a double handful of the precious liquid, downing it greedily.
He reached out and scooped a handful of the clear fluid into his own mouth.
It was water. Cool, delicious, reviving water. Never had anything, not even his family's own wines, tasted as delicious as this did now.
He scooped up another handful, gulped it down – then reached out, grabbing Andile's hand as she reached her hands in again.
"Not too fast," he cautioned. "We can't afford to become sick again," he reminded her.
She nodded, using the handful she had to wash the caked salt from her face instead, then ladled one more scoop over her head.
Sated for the moment, she rolled on her back, stared up at the thick forest that hung high over the waterfall – and laughed.
"Gods!" she laughed. "Gods! I thought we were dead there, Picard! I only wanted to come around that ledge because I didn't want to die in the sun!"
He took a second, smaller sip of the fluid, washed his own face, then rolled over as well. "We were close enough," he agreed soberly – then turned to her. "I'm sorry. I misjudged the terrain," he said apologetically. "I thought..."
"I know what you thought," she said – then rolled onto her side, looking at him. "You thought you made the right decision. You didn't. We almost died... but we didn't. Welcome to my life, Jean-Luc," she said – then pushed herself up to her feet.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm making camp," she announced, aiming for the bag she had dropped moments before, opening the fasteners, the unceremoniously dumping the contents on the ground. Ferreting through the pile, she began to pull out what few clothes, towels and blankets they had, then bundled them up and began to walk away.
"Laundry," she announced simply – then stopped, looked at him and added, "Take those off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Take your clothes off so I can wash them," she repeated – then sighed as he reddened. "Don't be a prude," she explained in exasperation. "I'm not interested in your body. I just want to get some of this filth off of our clothes!"
"That won't be necessary," he replied quickly.
Her mouth dropped in astonishment. "Not necessary? By the gods, Picard, have you been downwind of yourself lately?!"
"I only meant that I am fully capable of doing my own laundry, Dee," he protested.
She rolled her eyes then affixed him with a brutal gaze. "Let me explain this to you, Picard. You said that when we found water, we could make camp for the rest of the day. Well, we've found water – and I really want to make camp, put up my very sore feet and just sit for one evening. But if you think I can relax for one nano-second with your stench floating about, you are severely mistaken.
"So either get your clothes and yourself clean – or at least cleaner – or I will do it for you, and your modesty be damned," she growled, then spun away and stalked downstream.
For a moment he watched her, too stunned to respond – then sighed and began to unlace his boots. She was, of course, quite right; they were both filthy and stinking – and she had every right to expect a stench-free tent when there was so ready a solution to both problems.
She had even done him the courtesy of leaving so that he could have some privacy as he washed, he added, realizing why she had taken herself – and her laundry – away from him.
Still, he thought, this was... demeaning, he decided at last. Humiliating. Stripping down in public... All right, so the nearest sentient being – excluding Dee – was the better part of a week's hike away, and by no stretch of the imagination could this remote spot be considered public, he conceded – but Starfleet admirals do not go striding about on strange planets in the altogether, he announced silently as he removed his other boot.
Hell, we barely go naked in the privacy of our own apartments, he added, managing a wry grin at the realization. Uniforms by day, pyjamas by night, always dressed enough to be able to respond to an emergency message without risk of embarrassing one's self or one's caller. It was a wonder we aren't expected to shower in our clothes!
He grinned to himself, remember his first years as a captain, remembering how he had trained himself to change from one set of clothes to another in as little time as possible, lest an emergency call at exactly the wrong moment and catch him half-clothed!
Youth, he sighed, half embarrassed, half nostalgic. Fortunately that sense of frantic urgency hadn't lasted too long, he reminded himself, but even so, he never lost it completely, never really yielding to the temptation to risk being caught unprepared for duty.
True, I compromised with sleep shorts only for the last ten years – but only when I had a robe nearby, he added hastily, trying to justify his actions to himself.
He pulled off his shirt. So when was the last time I slept in the nude? he asked himself. Unfastening his pants he mused, not in years; hell, not in decades, he added as he dropped the mid-caked trousers to the ground; certainly not since before my Academy days, he added, excluding those certain occasions when any form of sleepwear might have interfered with the night's activities, he added with a grin as he slipped out of the remainder of his clothes.
And how long ago was that, he asked himself with an equally dry sense of humor. Years? Decades?
Years, he knew; yet another part of my life that time has taken from me.
And that I've let it take, he added.
Still, I'm not _that_ old, he told himself.
Glancing down at his body, he took a moment for a frank evaluation.
Overall, he thought, not too bad – then gave a sigh.
Not too bad – for an eighty year old man.
This is why I don't go about naked, he thought to himself; it's got nothing to do with propriety or being ready for duty or emergency calls in the middle of the night; it's because I don't enjoy being reminded that I am old – and getting older.
Still...
He looked at himself.
My skin – well, he thought as he looked at himself, not nearly as pale or as flabby – or as wrinkled - as I had feared, the firm flesh a testament to a carefully watched diet, the golden color on his arms and shoulders displaying the effects of the brief exposure to the sun of this world. A few more hours exposure, even in this leaf dappled amount, and one might not know I've spent the last few years inside an office in Starfleet Command, he thought with a smile.
As for muscles... well, perhaps they weren't as toned as they had been when I was twenty – but the efforts of the last few weeks of work were definitely obvious; he flexed one arm, watching the bicep bulge appreciably, then looked down at his stomach, noting the unmistakable delineation of the abdominal muscles there. Clearly, his regular work at the gym still had some benefits, he chimed with pleasure.
He glanced behind him – and sighed. Why did the Picard men lose their posteriors as they grew older? he asked himself unhappily, remembering how his grandfather and his uncles had looked at his age – and realizing the same fate lay in wait for him. Not that his backside had absented him completely – not yet - but there was no question that it was smaller than it had once been, an all-too-clear sign of his advancing age as well as his genetics.
He glanced up, risking a quick glance at his departed companion, confirming that she had not observed his moment of self-inspection – but to his infinite relief he realized that she was paying him no attention whatsoever.
Instead, she was working.
As I should be, he chided himself.
Bundling up his clothes, he carried them to the edge of the stream, then walked down it a short way until it grew shallow enough for him to wade across.
Stepping into its depth, he discovered that the stream rested in a fairly wide channel carved out of the same volcanic rock as the rest of the valley, with water moving quickly enough to prevent any dirt or silt from accumulating on the bottom – but fast enough he added, to sweep away his clothes should they not be weighted down.
He clambered out of the water and began to hunt for some rocks and stones to serve as weights for his laundry; finding several, he carried them to the water's edge, lowered himself back into the stream, then weighed the clothes down with the stones - though he felt that any garment as heavy with dirt and mud as these clothes were would have no business floating at all.
The clothes, however, seemed to have a different plan; even with the rocks atop them, they seemed resolved to work their way free of the heavy weights. He exited the stream again, and found a several more stones to serve as ballast for his laundry.
He started to re-enter the water – then stopped; if they weren't enough, he would have to climb out again to get additional stones – and the edge of the stream was growing slippery from his trips in and our of the water.
Instead, he gauged the location of the clothes, trying to allow for the refraction of the light on the water, tried to gauge the effect of the current on the weight – and tossed in the rock.
It splashed into the water with a satisfy wash of spray but missed the target; trying again, Picard came closer with his second attempt – but the clothes didn't seem all that secure, he decided.
A few more stones – and it was no longer a matter of weighing down the clothes as much as it was a game of seeing how close he could come to an imaginary target.
The seam at the shoulder, he murmured to himself, pitching a heavy black stone into the water – and now the right hem of my pants...
_Having fun?_
He started, having lost himself in the moment and the game, spun to face his accuser, then realized he was undressed.
His hands darted down protectively, even as he realized that he was still quite alone.
_Yes, I am having fun,_ he replied petulantly, trying to non-chalantly lower himself back into the water.
He heard her laugh, the sound as soft and melodic as it had been when he had first heard it, more than sixty years ago, even though the sound existed only in his mind.
_Don't worry, Picard; I'm not peeking,_ she told him. _I spent two months in your bed and never peeked then; I'm not about to start now._
_I wore pyjamas when we shared a bed on the Enterprise,_ he reminded her.
_True,_ she conceded _although I can be very determined when I want to be; if I had wanted to peek, I would have found a way._
He nodded to himself – then felt a hint of his earlier playfulness return. _Then you decided it wasn't worth the effort?_ he teased.
_I was rather ill at the time, as you may remember,_ she said.
_What I remember,_ he thought as he slowly waded upstream toward the pool beneath the waterfall, _was that you managed to crawl from Ten Forward back to Sickbay – and without assistance – as well as to write and execute an elaborate holodeck program._
_I was attempting to kill myself, Jean-Luc,_ she reminded him. _It took priority. And in any case, that was before I started sleeping with you._
_My point exactly; you were able to do all that – but incapable of expending that tiny amount more to satisfy your curiosity?_
She sighed, a smart retort on the edge of her thoughts – then stopped herself.
_Jean-Luc, we were both in a position of being emotionally fragile. You and Beverly, me and Data... by the time I was strong enough to have found the wherewithal for 'peeking', I would have been strong enough to have let it go forward from there – but neither of us were ready for that._
He stopped for a moment, remembering one night – then chased that thought, that memory, that hurt, from his mind.
_Go swim,_ she told him softly. _These clothes are clean enough for now – but I'm going to need to put them in the sun to dry._
Her thoughts fell silent as she closed the path of communication between them, leaving him to memories he had thought long ago forgotten.
As they should be, he added, then pushed forward against the current until he felt the bottom of the stream fall away. Diving forward, he launched himself into the depths of the pool that had formed at the base of the waterfall.
It was not an idyllic place, he thought as he pushed his against the current that moved toward the streambed, seeking out the calmer waters in the center of the pool; there were lovelier ponds in lovelier locations, formed by waterfalls that were far higher and more beautiful; pools that were filled with waters that bubbled and frothed and foamed around the occupants in effervescent clouds, pools filled with fish that swam alongside the visitors, silky scales teasing innocently, while scents of flowers exotic and unfamiliar filled the air.
There were even pools of human and alien design that were far more refreshing, more invigorating, more exciting than this overgrown puddle in which he now swam – but at this moment, he wouldn't trade any of his experiences of the last eighty years for the moment he was enjoying now.
The water, which hadn't been overly cool to the tongue, proved to be cool enough to be both invigorating and refreshing to the rest of his body as he paddled about. Moving around, he felt a warm upwelling in one spot that suggested an underground thermal spring; moving toward the fall, he realized the water washing out from within the stone walls was indeed deliciously cool.
With a few easy strokes, he moved back to the center of the pool, knifed his body forward and dove for the depths.
Twenty meters? he guessed – maybe more, he amended as the water's pressure pushed against his body. Whatever it was, it was beyond his ability to reach; feeling a growing need to breathe, he kicked his way to the surface – then dove into the waters once again.
However deep it might be, the water was crystal clear. Even at his greatest depth he could reach, the sunlight that had filtered through the trees overhead was still quite visible; he could clearly see the boulders and depressions that marked where the pool had been eroded from the rock the made up the valley floor.
The pool had been some long years in the making, he thought – although it would take a geologist and a tricorder to give him an accurate idea of how long this fall had been here.
For a moment he considered returning to the surface, leaving the water, fishing his own tricorder, and working on the calculation – then let the idea float away. It didn't really matter.
A sense of mellow relaxation washed over him as he came to that realization – as did a slight tightening of his chest. Knowing it was time to surface, he glanced about, found the tell-tale schlieren of the thermal spring and moved to it, letting the rising warm water carry him aloft, using only the easiest of kicks to assist the pool in its works.
Breaking the surface, he drew in a deep breath, let his feet rise on the last of the spring's flow, and allowed himself the luxury of simply floating on the surface of this delightful pool.
"Hi."
It took Picard a moment to realize that the words were spoken this time rather than being projected into his mind; it took a moment longer to realize that he was still in the same state of undress – and a moment further to understand that, at this moment, he didn't care.
He opened his eyes, found his companion, and smiled. "And hello to you," he replied to the woman who was sitting on the edge of the pool, her feet and legs dangling in the water. "Coming in?"
"Not while you're in there," Andile answered. "I don't want to be accused of unsolicited peeking," she added with a smile.
"Then I'm afraid we're at a bit of an impasse, as I'll need to get out of here before you can enter – and I can't do so while you're sitting there."
"Which is why I'm going to leave; I just wanted to let you know that I put some of your clothes over there," she said, pointing toward where they had lefts their bags. "They aren't completely dry, but if we're going to set up camp and prepare some food before the day is out, you're going to have to make do with those," she added.
Picard stared at her, astounded that she had managed to do so much during such a brief time – then realized with a start that the time hadn't been so brief.
Although the trees blocked most of the intense sun, there was no mistaking that the light was substantially brighter than it had been when he first entered the water; somehow, some when, the late morning of their arrival had become the early afternoon.
"I didn't fall asleep," he protested to no one.
Andile grinned back. "No, you did something far more un-admiral-like: you relaxed. I'd like to as well – but one of us has to figure out where to set up the tent and what we're going to eat."
"That would be me," he replied.
"That would, indeed, be you," she agreed. "So I'm going to put these clothes in the sun to dry while you get dressed, then I'm going in for a swim." She rose to her feet. "Five minutes, Picard, then I'll be back, and if you're not dressed, any peeking that happens will be your fault."
From his position, below the edge of the water, she was out of his line of sight within seconds; still he gave her a full minute to remove herself before he pulled himself out of the water.
As it had so many years before, the ability to dress quickly paid off – though, he admitted, changing into slightly damp clothes was always more problematic than changing into dry ones. Garments stuck, refusing to be eased over his body smoothly, clinging damply against his still wet flesh... But they were clean.
Feeling far more human than he had in days, he followed Andile's path down the stream, spying the wet bank where she had stood while submerging the first load of their combined laundry, deciding from the amount of water that still remind on the shore that she, too, had found some degree of amusement in trying to keep the clothes weighed down under the water.
The wet bank, however, reminded him of the ambient humidity in this valley. It was refreshing now, but in the early hours of the morning, the dampness would prove chilling.
He continued downstream for a distance, turning to look back only once, as he heard a shriek of joy and a splash of water – clear evidence that Andile was taking her turn in the depths beneath the waterfall.
After some time, he found that the stream had begun to move away from one of the valleys walls, leaving a substantially dryer plain. The thick moss that covered the valley floor was still present, but thinner here: still thick enough to make a most comfortable mattress beneath them at night, but not so thick that they it wouldn't hold the tent supports.
If they needed the tent, Picard added; without the high humidity of the falls filling the air, the night should prove more than comfortable enough even without any additional protection.
That task disposed of, however, would mean that he would be obliged to provide them with a far more elaborate dinner, he told himself; pleased with his finds, he began to walk back toward the valley entrance, slowly examining the various flora that filled the rocky walls.
By the time he reached the waterfall's base, he had found more than enough of the local plants to turn their prepackaged meals into something far tastier. Delighted with his finds, he moved toward where his companion stood – and stopped.
She was... lovely. Standing to one side of the waterfall, she stood in the fine spray that filled the air, the sunlight catching on the droplets, and showering her in the light of a million diamonds.
He had seen her dressed that way once before, years ago, when she had attended Deanna and Will's engagement party, her gown a cascade of glitter, gems and jewels that had reminded him of the beauty she had been when they had first met.
Now, the finery was gone; dressed nothing but her Starfleet issue underwear, her apparel was a far cry from the gown she had worn that night – but she was, he thought, no less beautiful.
He watched her for a moment as she worked, letting the spray from the fountain's periphery pour over her as she combed her fingers through her long hair, apparently trying to free the raven locks from the tangles that filled it – and clearly having no luck.
Looking up, she looked at him plaintively. "Help."
For a moment, he hesitated – then set down his newly harvested groceries and moved to his friend's side.
"It's a mess," she grumbled as he reached her. "Tiron was right; I make a lousy Romulan; my hair's always a disaster..."
"At least you have hair," he reminded her. "Turn around," he ordered, then began to try to rake his fingers through the knotted locks, letting the flowing water help ease the tresses apart.
It was lovely hair, he thought; thick, black tresses that reached to just below her shoulders... He remembered the first time he had seen her, at the Academy marathon, when she had been serving water – and advice – to the runners; he remembered her face, her smile, her admonishments – and her hair, long and thick, reaching then to well below her very attractive and shapely hips.
He had had more than a few intensely erotic dreams about that hair and those hips – though when he learned she was one of the Academy's professors and not a fellow student, the dreams had been quickly repressed.
For a time, he added, smiling to himself.
Despite himself, he took a moment to glance down at those same hips. It was amazing, he mused as he studied her backside, how the generic, short-like underpants she wore were anything but generic on her; the ribbed fabric clung tightly to her skin, hugging to every curve, every cleft...
Lovely, he thought. Quite lovely.
"Jean-Luc?"
Startled, he looked up, suddenly realizing that she had turned her head to look at him, probably curious as to why he had stopped helping her untangle her hair – and had caught him looking at her.
Appalled at his behavior, he opened his mouth to apologize - but she stopped him before he could begin.
"Don't apologize," she said softly. "Please. It's been a long time – longer than you could know or understand – since anyone thought I was... lovely."
He opened his mouth to explain, to tell her that she was lovely, that so many people who knew her thought she was lovely, that many more, who had only seen her in passing would have agreed with that sentiment... but he stopped himself before he could utter a word.
A obvious platitude was not what she wanted, he knew, nor was the affirmation of the nameless and faceless masses; what she wanted was both simple and complex: reassurance from the one person who had been a constant in the last sixty years of her life.
Someone she knew, someone she trusted... someone she loved.
As he loved her.
Sometimes, he thought, sometimes... Sometimes we all need so desperately to be loved.
He studied her for a long moment, uncertain – then took her shoulders and slowly turned her to face him.
With unabashed openness, he studied her, his eyes taking in every curve, starting from her delicate feet, up her long legs... He smiled wondering how someone so short could have such long legs – then let his smile fade as he took in the curves of her hips, hinted at yet hidden by the generic underwear that insisted on clinging so deliciously. The undershirt she wore clung with equal tenacity, revealing a belly that was hard and flat yet soft and curving, flaring out as it reached her breasts.
He drew in a sharp breath as he studied the rounded globes that were barely concealed by the thin fabric of her shirt. Intellectually, he knew they weren't very large; if he were to reach out and touch one, it would not even fill his hand – but against the background of her delicate frame, they were...
Magnificent.
His eyes continued to move higher, savoring the breadth of her shoulders, the soft indentation at the base of her throat, the curve of her chin, the angle of her high cheekbones, the slant of her dark brown eyes, shining with intelligence and wisdom, until he returned to where he had begun, with her long, raven hair.
She was beautiful, he thought.
Andile trembled.
"Cold?" he asked, knowing, as she did, that her trembling had a far different source – but knowing that the game had certain rules by which it must be played.
"I'm standing in a waterfall," she pointed out.
Taking her hand, he pulled her away from the spray – but even out of the water's way, she still trembled.
"It's these clothes," she told him. "They're all wet."
"Then perhaps you should take them off," he suggested softly.
She looked up, studying him, trying to confirm what she had suspected.
"Perhaps I should," she agreed.
"Would you like some help?" he asked, his baritone voice soft and low.
She looked at him for a long time, then nodded slowly. "If you wouldn't mind?"
"It would be my pleasure," he assured her.
Picard studied her, considering what he was about to, what they were both about to do, then pulled her close to him.
Reaching beneath her chin, he raised her face to his, a little startled by seeing her eyes open, staring at him – then lowered his lips to hers.
The kiss was warm, sweet, deep – delicious, he thought, as delicious as the first kiss they had shared years before on the floor of Dixon Hill's office. And now, as then, he felt the heat of the kiss rapidly building, his need for her growing, his desire building – a feeling he had thought he had forsaken so long ago; he felt her press herself to him, equally hungry, needing, willing – then felt her push herself away.
Before he could protest, she took his hands in hers, guiding them to the bottom of her shirt; understanding the wordless command, he followed her instructions, easing the sodden shirt up with excruciating slowness, watching the fabric slowly peel back, revealing a body of golden brown skin and exquisitely full breasts adorned by pink nipples that tightened as they were brushed by the cool breeze.
He reached a hand beneath one of the globes, savoring the feel of its weight, then lowered his mouth to taste her, feel her gasp as he suckled softly, then moved to greet the other breast in the same manner. Hearing her soft groan, he straightened again, moving back to her lips, pressing the kiss once more.
This time, he was the first to break away, pulling away from her mouth, then placing a line of gentle kisses down the center of her body: her chin, her throat, the hollow at its base, a stop to caress each breast once again, then a kiss in the cleft between them, the top of her belly, her navel...
He sank to his knees, his fingers reaching to the band that marked the top the shorts she wore, then slowly eased them down her long legs, then pressed a kiss into their juncture, earning a soft cry of pleasure in reward for his actions.
The cry grew louder as the kiss deepened until she called out as he began to slowly taste her; she pulled away, almost tripping as she stumbled against the garments that tangled at her feet.
He caught her, then eased her down until she was kneeling before him, pulling him against her as they kissed – then felt her pull away, looking down at his chest and trousers.
"Oh, now _you're_ all wet," she sighed sorrowfully.
"Indeed."
"You really should get out of those clothes," she added.
"I should," he agreed.
"Would you like some help?"
"Indeed."
As before, she pulled him close to her for a kiss, feeling his hands run over her body, feeling her own respond hungrily – then felt him grasp her waist, pulling her to him...
And suddenly releasing her.
Startled, she looked at him, stricken by the expression on his face.
"Dee... Maybe this isn't a good idea..."
Stunned, she shook her head, shocked, hurt.
"Jean-Luc..."
"I... I mean..."
By God, he thought to himself, how do I say this?
Humiliated, he looked down, shaking his head. This had never been a problem before; indeed, it had been a joy, a delight, even a matter of surprise and astonishment... but never a problem.
But, he thought, remembering the feeling of his hands around Andile's so very narrow waist, he had never been with someone who was so... tiny... before.
And he...
Was not.
"Dee..." he managed at long last, "I... don't want to hurt you."
She frowned, confused. "You're not going to hurt me, Jean-Luc; this is just a holiday fling, no holds on one another, no obligation, just a little sex between two friends," she said.
"That's not what I mean," he said, embarrassed.
"Then... what?" she pressed.
Chagrined beyond words, he took her hand, guiding it to the front of his trousers and allowed her to discover the source of his concern.
But rather than pulling back in horror or shock, she let her hand rest there for a moment – then began to caress him slowly, her hand feeling out the length and width of her would-be adversary.
It was his opportunity to give a soft groan of pleasure as she touched him – but even so, he knew this was still an ill-advised idea.
"I don't want to hurt you," he repeated miserably.
"Don't give yourself airs, Picard. Women manage to give birth to infants all the time; you're nowhere near that big," she informed him, although, she admitted to herself, he was big enough to make his concern at least somewhat justified. But if they went slowly for a while...
Somehow, she added, feeling him stiffen further beneath her grasp, going slow might just be his forte. Long, slow foreplay...
She purred at the thought, then removed her hand, anxious to help him to undress – then reached for him once again, feeling him pull her into his embrace once again.
When he finally released her, she fell against him, dazed and short of breath.
"Oh, my," she whispered. "You do that rather well, you know."
"Of course. I'm French," he reminded her proudly – then lowered his mouth to hers, his hand reaching between her legs, his fingers caressing her, teasing her until she cried out again, then gently escorted her to the ground.
Leaning over her body, he continued the kiss, then began to move his lips down her body once more, only to feel her pull away.
"I thought you said you don't do this anymore," she teased.
"Apparently I was wrong," he replied, then lowered his lips back to hers.