Nick Carter: The Living Death

When we sank down on the bed in the wonderful exhaustion of passion, we both knew that the unfinished symphony had been finished. But we also knew that it never really would be finished. It was a self-winding, self-perpetuating melody.

"Nick," she said, thoughtfully, laying her breasts across my chest, her hand holding me gently, softly. "I know now that there'll never be anyone but you."

I started to protest but she stopped me with her lips and then drew back. "Oh, I'll probably have to marry some terribly decent chap from some terribly good family someday, but you'll always know and I'll always know that it was because you can't be mine — your work is between us."

"Maybe you'll forget all about me someday," I said.

"It's more likely that I'll keep turning away terribly decent chaps because I'd rather have you whenever those rare times occur than anyone else anytime."

I looked at Denny Robertson. If she were still in circulation when the day came that I bowed out of the spy racket, I knew damn well what I'd do. I didn't tell her, though. It would only muddy things up more.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I'm thinking I've only just begun to make love to you, you gorgeous creature," I said.

"How yummy!" she said. "Prove it."

I did, and the world went on without us. It didn't really care and we didn't, either. We had our own world.