Listed: Volumes I-VI

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Listed: Volumes I-VI Page 15

by Noelle Adams


  Paul nodded and put down the wet washcloth. “Okay. I’ll help you get there.”

  Emily hauled her legs over the side of the bed and sat for a minute, breathing deeply and getting her balance. Then she let Paul help her up with an arm around her waist, and she leaned on him as she hobbled across the room.

  His body was so warm that it made her feel even hotter, but at least he was strong and hard—good for leaning on. Her legs were working better by the time she got to the bathroom, and she told him, “I’ll be all right in here. Can you find me something cool to wear?” She gestured toward the packed luggage she’d intended to take to Egypt.

  Paul looked a little dubious about leaving her to her own devices, but she found enough energy to close the door in his face.

  She just wasn’t going to pee in front of Paul.

  After she’d gone to the bathroom, she leaned on the sink as another wave of heat flooded her body. She was sweating again, so she splashed cold water on her face. It felt good, but she got her loose hair wet, and it clung to her skin in an irritating way.

  Since the ponytail in the back of her head had driven her crazy, she fumbled in her makeup bag for two elastic bands and pulled her hair into two low, loose ponytails, which would hopefully keep it off her neck but not poke her so painfully in the head.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and realized she looked like an eight-year-old, but she felt too bad to even care.

  There was a tap on the door. “Can I come in?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was croaking again, and the effort she’d exerted caught up with her. She closed the toilet and sat on it, afraid she might fall over.

  Paul came in with her change of clothes—a white tank-top and pale blue cotton sleep shorts. “Do you need help?”

  She shook her head and groped for the clothes, wanting to give him some sort of thanks but not having the energy.

  He only shut the bathroom door partway on his way out, but she barely noticed. She dragged off her top and pants and was finally able to take off her damned bra. After she dropped the clothes on the floor in a heap, she pulled on the much cooler tank and shorts.

  She rallied herself enough to stand and then limped out to the bedroom.

  Paul was waiting, and he put his arm around her again to support her on her way back to the bed.

  He was hot—way too hot—and his arm at her waist was way too tight. She didn’t like it. She wanted it off her. But some vague awareness that he was trying to help made her bite her lip instead of snap at him to get away from her.

  “Try to drink some water,” Paul said gently, handing her a fresh, cool bottle after she’d sat down on the edge of the bed.

  She obediently took several cold swigs, although she choked on the last one and the coughing hurt her entire body.

  “And you can take some Tylenol now,” he said, handing her the pills. “It should help.”

  She didn’t want to swallow anything else, and she couldn’t seem to focus enough to coordinate her hand. One of the pills fell onto the floor, and she almost yelled at Paul since it felt like his fault for giving them to her.

  He leaned down to pick the pill up so at least she didn’t have to do that.

  She was flushed and perspiring from new waves of heat by the time she’d swallowed the pills and was able to lie down.

  Paul tried to cover her up, but she yanked the covers out of his hand and kicked them down to the bottom of the bed.

  She thought she’d made him mad—which was, for some reason, a satisfying thought—when he walked away from the bed. But he returned in just a moment and put a wonderfully cool washcloth on her forehead.

  Emily released a raspy sigh as he wiped at her hot face. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, thinking if she was perfectly still maybe everything wouldn’t hurt so much.

  It wasn’t long before the coolness became too cool. She mumbled out a wordless complaint as she felt the cold cloth on her neck, and her skin broke out in goose bumps. The wet cloth went away, and she groped blindly for the covers, but they were too far down the bed for her to reach. She writhed restlessly, her bare skin exposed to the cool of the room.

  Then Paul pulled up the blankets and she was warm again. She tried to thank him—not because she felt grateful but because she was fuzzily aware that it was something civilized people were supposed to do—but all she heard was a hoarse mumble come out of her mouth.

  Then he wasn’t standing next to the bed anymore, and it was a relief. She hoped he’d gone away.

  She peeked out from under her lashes and saw that he hadn’t left the room after all. He was sitting on a chair, not far from the bed, with a book opened on his lap.

  But he wasn’t reading the book. He was just watching her.

  He was full of heat. He was making it hot in the room. Even his eyes were making her hotter. She grumbled under her breath and turned over on her other side, with her back to him so she wouldn’t get the full-force of his heat.

  This was her room. He shouldn’t be sitting here. The chair must be uncomfortable, and he didn’t have anything to do but stare at her. He should go into another room where he could work or watch television.

  She didn’t want him here. He was making her hot.

  * * *

  Emily was smothering. She was smothering. She couldn’t breathe through the heat bearing down on her.

  She couldn’t breathe. She needed help. She needed help.

  “Help!” she gasped through parched lips. Her body arched up with the panic of awareness. It was dark. She was alone. And she was dying.

  “Paul, help!”

  “I’m here,” she heard. “It’s okay. I’m here.” Then something was cool on her forehead. On her cheeks. On her neck. And she could almost breathe.

  She heard drips of water, loud and grating, but then it was cool and wet again on her skin. She opened her mouth but it was dust dry, and she didn’t have breath enough to speak.

  Then something cool and wet was in her mouth, dribbling down her chin. She swallowed instinctively and felt the water as it made its way down her aching throat.

  She wanted more so she groped for it, but someone else’s hand was on the bottle, someone else’s hand was on the back of her head, tilting it up so she could drink.

  When she’d had as much as she could, she pushed the water away. Then the hand lowered her head back down, and she tossed her head frantically on the pillow because it was just too hot.

  Then she felt that coolness on her skin again. And fingers were pushing loose strands of hair off her face, making it cooler at her hairline too.

  And she could breathe.

  The world was a whirl of heat and pain, but at least she could breathe again.

  * * *

  She was on fire.

  She was surrounded by fire. Her house was on fire, and she was inside it.

  She wasn’t supposed to be inside it.

  The fire was hot, scorching her, killing her.

  Panic overwhelmed her—she wasn’t supposed to be in the house when it burned down—and she jerked up into a sitting position, trying to explain that the house burning down was just a warning. Vincent Marino had purposefully waited until there was no one home.

  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.

 

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