| OCR Text |
Show -253 of tree-bark. "Think nothing of it," said Woody McKinley. "You were moaning," Morgan said. I opened my eyes. The room was already light; sunshine and leaf-shadows played on the white plaster, up and down the angles. "Bad dreams?" she said. One creamy-coral breast peered out from under the blanket; I touched it for comfort. My heart pumped erratically, my knees ached, my feet felt as heavy and hot as flatirons. "They haven't got me yet," I said. "Who hasn't got you?" "Anybody," I said vaguely. But I was thinking fast again. I held onto Morgan's breast and calmed myself by watching the leaf-shadows dance on the ceiling. It could be that everything's going to be fine, I thought. "To hell with Laszlo Brady," I said. Morgan shook off my hand and sat up; the covers slipped down and I looked with pleasure at that perfect line from collar-bone to the tip of her breast. "Beautiful," I said. Too beautiful for me, maybe, I thought. But the implications of that could wait. Morgan's face stayed serious but I knew she was pleased, She stretched out a leg and began to rub her foot up and down mine. |
