She said that she and her aunt had already left the house. They’d gone to a movie that evening. The theater would be dark and cool.
He lied to her. Paul must have lied to her. She was angry because she trusted him. He’d told her he would protect her, and then he’d let her and her aunt die.
She tried to move, tried to get out of the fire by herself, without anyone's help. But now something was holding her back. There were hands on her, and she couldn’t get away. She couldn’t move. She screamed at them to let her go.
Paul had lied to her. She had trusted him. And he’d let her down.
Her aunt was lost in the fire. And now the fire had her too.
She told them this—anyone who was listening. She yelled it at them so they would hear. And she struggled to get out of the strong, imprisoning hands.
But she couldn’t get them off her. And then it was worse.
The hands were picking her up, carrying her deeper into the fire, away from the movie theater where she wanted to go. Whoever had her was just as hot as the fire, just as strong, just as unrelenting.
She screamed and writhed to get away, but she couldn’t.
And then something happened. Something changed. She was surrounded, submerged in something cool. It covered her body, up to her neck, and it washed the fire away.
The hands were still there. They were still strong and unrelenting. And they were still in control of her body.
But it was okay. She told them it was okay.
Because at least the fire was gone.
* * *
Emily’s body was one overwhelming ache, but it felt like her mind had pierced through a thick fog. Each thought pained her, but there was something significant about being able to think at all.
She tossed restlessly under the sheets because she was so hot and uncomfortable. In the process, she became aware of something strange.
She was naked for some reason.
Her hair was wet, and it was sticking to her neck and face. She didn’t like it. Even her pillow seemed hotly damp.
She heard a muffled voice, coming from outside the room.
She didn’t immediately know who it was or what it meant.
“There’s got to be something more I can do for her,” the voice said. It was rough in a way she didn’t understand. “The last time I checked it was 104.7⁰. She was delirious—I could barely control her.”
She kicked her legs and punched her pillow, hoping it would cool things down. The voice was grating on her, and she wished it would stop. The thickness in the tone made something inside her hurt even more.
“I did that. I did everything. I put her in a tepid bath, like you’d suggested, and it seemed to help settle her down for now. But it’s just a temporary fix. What if she becomes delirious again? I can’t believe we don’t have medication that can better bring a fever down.”
The voice stopped again, and she thought maybe it was gone for good.
But it wasn’t. “Okay. Okay. I’ll call you if her fever spikes again.”
Then something clicked in Emily’s mind.
Paul. His name was Paul.
It was Paul’s voice she heard.
Poor Paul. She wished he wasn’t so upset.
* * *
It was dark in the room when Emily opened her eyes.
And her body—blessedly—didn’t hurt.
She wasn’t hot. She was actually a little chilly, and she felt sore and exhausted. But she realized her fever must be gone because she felt so incredibly better.
She dared to move her head to the side, and her eyes landed on the clock. It said 3:47. It was dark in the room, so it must be the middle of the night.
She had no idea what day it was. She was so hungry it felt like her stomach was trying to gnaw its way out of her body.
Feeling even more daring, she rolled onto her side, and she realized for the first time that she wasn’t alone in the room.
Paul was slouched in the chair—that same chair where he’d been sitting the last time she’d been aware of seeing him. Except this time he wasn’t watching her.
He was asleep.
He was slumped down in the seat, his legs stretched out in front of him. He wore the same black trousers he’d been wearing before, but now he had on a gray t-shirt. His head was tilted to the side, resting against the back of the chair, and his chest rose and fell slowly with his breathing.
She wondered how long he’d been sitting there. It was so strange to see him asleep.
In addition to the hunger, Emily became aware of another major discomfort in her body.
She needed to get to the bathroom right away.
She tried to sit up and was thrilled when her head didn’t spin. She felt incredibly weak, but no hot flashes or bone-deep aches.
She drank a quick gulp of water because her mouth was so dry. Then she started to stand up.
She gasped when she realized she was naked.
She seemed to know vaguely that Paul had been forced to give her a bath, which must explain what happened to her clothes, but she was still horribly self-conscious about the idea of his seeing her naked, especially under such conditions, when she’d been so sick and so entirely helpless.
She pushed the self-consciousness aside, however. Peeing was more important. She found her tank, panties, and shorts on the floor near the bed, and she managed to grab them and pull them on.
She swayed a little when she first stood up, but it was from weakness, not from dizziness. After a moment, she was stable enough to walk to the bathroom.
She felt much better after she’d gone, and then she felt even better when she splashed water on her face.
Her hair was a wreck—the two ponytails were lopsided and half undone with tangles lining the sides of her face.
She pulled out the elastics and brushed her hair, and it felt incredibly good. She pulled it back into little low ponytails again, since her hair was kinked in horrible ways from water and perspiration.
Feeling almost revived, she started to leave the bathroom. Gave a gasp of shock when she collided with Paul.
“Are you all right?” he demanded, taking her shoulders gently in his hands to stabilize her.
She managed to smile at him. “Yeah. I’m better.”
Something tense in his expression relaxed in a rush of relief, and the sight of that relief touched Emily deeply.
So deeply she raised a hand to her chest, since it hurt so much.
“What day is it?” she asked, to distract herself and because she really wanted to know.
“It’s just early Monday morning. You were sick for about twenty hours. You really feel all right now?” He put a hand on her forehead to check.
She couldn’t begrudge the gesture. She couldn’t resent it like she normally did. And she returned his smile when he realized she was no longer feverish.
“I know it’s a bad time,” she said, “But I’m about to starve to death.”
He gave a huff of amusement and put an arm around her waist to help her back to the bed. She didn’t need his support, but she didn’t pull away. “Get back in bed, and I’ll go find you something. I actually haven’t had much to eat either.”
She wondered if he'd had anything to eat at all.
She crawled back into bed, and lying down actually felt really good. So did the soup, evidently warmed up in the microwave, and the sandwich Paul brought into the room for her.
He ate in his chair, and she ate propped on her bed. They didn’t talk much, but Emily enjoyed it.
As Paul was collecting the dishes, Emily said, “Now I’m going back to sleep. Please go take a shower and get some sleep yourself. You look terrible.”
He did look terrible. He was pale, his hair stuck out in all directions, and there were shadows under his eyes. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, and he smelled like he could really use a shower.
He promised he would, and he reached over one more time to feel her forehead.
�
��I’m really fine now, Paul. Thanks….” Her voice cracked on the word. She was suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and mortification both.
She hated to be helpless. And she particularly hated that it was Paul who had witnessed her so helpless.
But he must have been with her the whole time, trying so hard to take care of her.
“Thank you so much,” she managed to say, taking a breath and babbling a little from her weakness and self-consciousness. “I really appreciate all you did for me. I never expected it. I mean, it wasn’t something I would have thought of as your responsibility. I knew, when I got sicker, that I would need a nurse or something. But I never expected that you would do all of it yourself. So it means a lot. I mean, I didn’t know you would be…be here the whole time.”
She finally broke herself off, realizing with a flush of heat what an absolute ditz she’d sounded. Maybe she could blame it on the fever.
Paul had just been watching her quietly. She couldn’t really read his expression. Before he turned to leave the room, he said, “Where else would I be?”
Six
Paul woke up hard.
It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. He hadn’t had sex in a while, and his body didn’t appreciate the deprivation. He almost always woke up hard, but it was easy enough to just take care of it in the shower.
This morning was different, though. He didn’t wake up with the familiar dull ache in his groin.
He woke on the verge of climax.
He might have been dreaming, although no details of any erotic dream lingered as awareness slowly broke through the dark cloud of his mind. He wasn’t conscious of anything except the deep throbbing of arousal and the intense urgency of his need for release.
Still half-asleep, he realized his hips were already working in shallow pumps, trying instinctively to hump the mattress, and the only thing that seemed to matter was that he get some sort of relief for that raw, desperate, pulsing ache.
Without conscious volition, he slid his hand down and squeezed around his erection. He heard a soft groan that must have come from him as the pressure of his hand eased some of the painful tension. Still not fully awake, he squeezed rhythmically and rocked his hips, knowing exactly what his body needed.
In less than ten seconds, he came with another guttural sound.
He gasped a few times against the pillow as his body relaxed, having gotten what it demanded. Only then did he come to full consciousness.
He’d just jerked off in bed under the covers, coming all over his pants like a horny teenager.
Faintly disgusted with himself, Paul reached over and grabbed a couple of tissues to clean himself up. The bedside clock said it was 9:53, and he had no idea why he’d slept so late into the morning.
At least he hadn’t been dreaming about Emily or masturbating to mental images of her. That would have been truly appalling.
Emily.
All of the softening of his body from his climax clenched up again in a flare of panic. Emily. She’d been so sick yesterday. Desperately sick. And she might still need him now.
While he’d been sleeping unforgivably late and indulging in an adolescent grope session.
Acting on instinct, he jumped out of bed and hurried out of his room, quickly striding over to Emily’s bedroom.
Her door was open, and he stood staring blankly into her empty bedroom. Her bed was unmade, and everything else looked the way it had last night when he’d left her.
“Paul?” he heard a familiar voice call out from the other side of the suite. “Are you looking for me?”
He followed the voice and found Emily in the kitchen. She wore sweats and a loose t-shirt, and her hair was damp and pulled back at her neck. She was stirring some sort of batter in a large bowl.
She grinned at him as he stood like a moron in the entrance to the kitchen. “Hi! Did you catch up on your sleep?”
“Are you all right?” he asked, searching her face for signs of fever or pain. She looked so much better than she had yesterday, without the clammy whiteness of her skin and the agonizing pain in her eyes.
“Yeah, I feel great! I slept late too. I just woke up a little while ago, actually. It’s so nice to feel better that I thought I’d make you pancakes. I called down and they brought me everything I needed.”
Paul blinked. “You’re making me pancakes?”
“Well,” she explained, lowering her eyes, “I was going to have some too.”
It hurt Paul, even now, to think about how she’d suffered yesterday. And yet she was standing here this morning and telling him that she was doing something nice for him. He stared at her speechlessly.
“You don’t have to eat them, if you don’t want. I can't claim to be the best chef in the world.” She stirred her batter busily and wasn’t looking in his direction.
“Thank you,” he managed to say.
It must have been the right thing to say because she turned back to him with a glowing smile.
She’d suffered so much yesterday, and she had to know that her next two months would be filled with even more suffering, even worse suffering.
He had no idea how she was capable of smiling like that today.
Then he noticed that her eyes shifted down from his face. Her gaze lingered briefly on his chest before it slanted down to his bare feet and then up again.
Suddenly, Paul was washed with a wave of hot self-consciousness. What if she could somehow tell what he’d just been doing in bed?
And he was still wearing nothing but pajama pants.
“I’m going to put something else on,” he mumbled, “I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t you dare take the time to get all the way dressed,” she called after him. “Pancakes will be ready in five minutes!”
Paul took a one-minute shower to rid himself of the lingering feeling of having just come. Then he pulled on clean clothes—a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans.
He felt weirdly disoriented when he tried to think about the previous day. The whole experience loomed at the edges of his consciousness like a dark, agonizing void. Something lurched with panic inside him when he tried to pinpoint any specific memories or feelings.
Twenty hours of worry, fear, discomfort, and helpless attempts to make Emily better blurred over into one gaping hole that threatened to swallow him up.
So he forced it into a back corner of his mind—the same corner where he hid all thoughts about his father—so he could return to the kitchen where Emily was waiting for him.
The only positive thing to come from yesterday’s experience was that Paul’s wretchedly inappropriate sexual feelings about Emily—which had been spiraling far out of control in the previous days—had evidently been snuffed out completely.
Paul’s thoughts of Emily had been so far from sexual yesterday that he didn’t think the two could possibly exist simultaneously in his mind. She’d been so small and so sick and so completely helpless. Even when he’d taken her clothes off and carried her writhing and naked to the tub, nothing remotely sexual had even crossed his mind. And now, the vague memory of doing that hurt him, but the visual of her naked body in such a context didn’t arouse him even in the smallest way.
He looked at her as he walked into the kitchen and carefully assessed his body’s reaction. She looked young with her baggy clothes and damp hair as she puttered at the stove with her pancakes. He couldn't help but think about her yesterday and didn’t feel even the faintest stirrings of physical interest.
It was such a relief that he released a thick sigh. He was going to take care of Emily—he cared about her a lot now and she was his responsibility. But it would be so much easier to do so if he could keep remembering her helplessness and her vulnerability rather than be bombarded with guilty, erotic thoughts that should always be forbidden.
“Sit down,” she instructed, frowning at him when he just stood in the middle of the kitchen. “The pancakes are ready.”
Paul sat down at the kitchen table, automatic
ally obeying her instructions. She put a plate of three slightly lopsided pancakes in front of him and then gave him the butter, syrup, and utensils.
“What about yours?” he asked, when she didn’t put a plate down for herself.
“Mine are coming, but you have to eat yours now or they’ll be cold.” She poured him a cup of coffee, which he’d somehow forgotten about getting. Then she gave him a glass of orange juice too. When he just looked at her blankly, she frowned indignantly. “Eat!”
Paul ate.
“You’re really feeling all right?” he asked, as he quickly buttered his pancakes.
Emily was standing over the skillet again, waiting for her pancakes to brown. “Yes. I woke up with all this energy—although it’s probably just because it’s so nice not to have a fever. I’m already getting kind of tired now, so I’m sure I’ll crash eventually.”
He nodded, taking his first bite of pancakes. “You should try to rest a lot today. These are really good!” The pancakes were good and—despite the meal he’d had in the middle of the night—Paul was absolutely ravenous.
Emily flushed with pleasure as she flipped the pancakes on the skillet. “Thank you,” she told him. “And how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m fine,” he said automatically.
“Are you sure? I know you stayed up the whole time with me. You’ve got to be exhausted.”
He did feel kind of exhausted, even after sleeping so late. He just shrugged, though. “I slept well. If you rest today, do you think you’ll be up to traveling tomorrow? I can reschedule our trip for tomorrow if—”
“Yes!” Emily burst in, grinning at him. She was piling pancakes into a plate, but he could see the excitement vibrating off her. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much!”
“Of course.”
He watched as she brought the stack of four pancakes over to the table. His were almost gone now, but she put two of the fresh ones into his plate and took the remaining two over to her place at the table.
Listed: Volume II Page 7
