Page 22 of Fear No Hell

Sam

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. The day from hell isn’t what threw me off today, although it definitely didn’t help.

No, what knocked me off my game was the fitful night of sleep I got.

Normally, I sleep better on the sofa than I do in my own bed.

Last night was different. Sometime before dawn, I woke up to the sound of Lila crying out.

At first I thought she was having a nightmare and had leapt off the couch to wake her up.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten I had actually remembered to take off my prosthesis before I went to sleep and ended up clutching the edge of the coffee table, so my mostly-asleep self didn’t go tumbling to the floor.

Once I got myself pulled together and my leg on, I sprinted to her door, ready to pound on the wooden barrier until she woke up.

Even to wake her up from a nightmare, I won’t go into her room without her say-so.

But her cries had changed, becoming something throaty.

Sexual. And then she called my name. Not just once either and not in a way that sounded like she was talking to me at all.

No, she sobbed my name the way I imagined she would if I sank into her hard and fast and fucked her with every bit of strength in me.

I’m not proud of what I did after that, even though I know I would do it again every single time.

Instead of leaving her alone, stepping away from the door and going back to the couch, just me and my erection, I leaned against the wall and shoved my sweatpants down, pulling my cock out and stroking myself off as the woman of my fucking fantasies screamed herself hoarse with my name on her lips.

When I came—so hard I almost blacked out, so hard cum splattered up to my chest—I couldn’t keep myself from shouting her name and wishing I was coming deep inside her pussy rather than into my hand.

Fuck. I suck in a breath, remembering the throaty gasps and moans she made, my dick hardening as I sit parked on my street in broad daylight. Without thinking, I press my hand against it. A whimper slips from my mouth.

“Pull yourself together, Eaton,” I order myself, tugging my hand away and staring at the car roof.

“Think of flesh-eating bacteria. Sepsis. Compound fractures.” None of it works, so I whisper the silver bullet, the one that always rips me out of the desirous haze I find myself in whenever I’m around Lila.

“Think of what he did to her.” It works every time.

Except apparently tonight. Because instead of getting turned off, my body fills with rage, blood pulsing through my veins, and I go instantly, aggressively, fully hard.

At this point, a stiff breeze could probably make me come, and that’s without accounting for what seeing Lila in person does to me.

Silver lining: at least my street looks pretty empty. Small miracles. At least this way, there aren’t any witnesses to me being a creep sitting in his car, hand on his dick and talking to himself.

I grunt and, with a roll of my eyes, adjust myself, so my cock is trapped down my pant leg rather than obscenely tenting the fabric at the crotch.

Glancing down, I wince. It’s not much better, but it will have to do.

Short of staying out here for an indeterminate amount of time, there’s not much else I can do to solve this one.

I sigh again and unfold myself from the car, slamming the door behind me and heading slowly up the path. Maybe walking like a turtle will give me some extra time to calm down.

No dice.

By the time I get to the door, I’ve come to terms with the uncomfortable situation me and my runaway body are about to put us in.

“Dr. Eaton!” one of my neighbors shouts from the sidewalk as I slot my key into the lock.

Irritated, I growl low in my chest and half turn, my keys dangling from the doorknob. Oh god, it’s Mrs. Lindworth. “Hi, Mrs. Lindworth,” I grit out.

Wrong move because now the middle-aged woman, a mother to three daughters and one son, all of whom she has tried to set me up with at one point or another, is power-walking up my walkway.

A practiced smile that shows every single one of her teeth splits her face.

She looks like she's considering gobbling me up and feeding the chewed up pieces of me to her evil spawn.

Piranhas could learn something from this woman.

“How are you doing?” she asks, stopping just shy of the porch steps.

“I’m fine.” Maybe she’ll leave if I keep my answers short?

If the perfectly put together older woman dressed in head-to-toe Lululemon and a pair of running shoes so white they look like they’ve been bleached gets the message, she ignores it. “It’s been so long since I last saw you. What was it, Thanksgiving?”

“Something like that.”

“I hate that you had to spend the holidays working.” Her eyes dart over my back, taking in my keys hanging from the door. “A handsome man like you should be spending the day with your family.”

Here it comes.

She raises a hand adorned with oval-shaped, French tipped nails and thoughtfully taps a finger against her chin. “Maybe a pretty spouse, some babies?”

Whomp, there it is.

“If you're looking for someone, I think you and my Amanda would hit it off.”

Oh good, she has raced past hinting and is now blatantly trying to whore her—middle, I think—daughter out to me. Completely ignoring that she has already set me up with Amanda, and it didn’t go well. At all.

If I remember correctly, her precious daughter yelled at a waiter, asked to speak to a manager, told me I shouldn’t leave a tip because the server was "unprofessional," and shoved her hand down my pants while I was driving. Needless to say, we weren’t a good match.

Now that I’ve found Lila, we’re an even worse one.

“Mrs. Lindworth, I appreciate it, but—”

“I know, I know, you’re such a busy man.” She pauses delicately as she presses one perfectly manicured hand to her chest. “But you deserve to have someone in your life who loves you.”

The rage that came over me in the car rises again, and I’m twisting my key in the lock as I snap uncharacteristically harshly, “As it so happens—”

The door creaks open, which is when I notice two things. The fire alarm is screeching, and smoke is wafting into the living room. “What the fuck?”

“Is something wrong, Dr. Eaton?”

Thank god for her complete self involvement and shitty hearing. “I gotta go,” I bark, running through the door and slamming it behind me.

“Sam?”

“Lila!” Panic replaces the rage as I tear through the living room and into the kitchen where she’s standing, fire extinguisher in hand.

“Lila, what happened?” I’m ripping the fire extinguisher from her grip, dragging her into my arms before I know it, before I can ask if it’s okay, and tangling my hand in her hair to pull her head back, so I can see her face. “Are you okay, sweetness?”

She comes easily into my hold, resting her head against my shoulder with a laugh.

“I’m fine, I promise. I just forgot to set the oven timer and well—” Her hand flutters at something in a casserole dish that looks like it may have been food in another life.

Whether it’s food in this one, I can’t really tell, given the burned crust covering the top of it. “Our dinner is a little well done.”

“Was it actually on fire?” I ask into the silence as the smoke alarm suddenly stops squawking.

“Fire is a relative term.” She burrows further into me, her arms wrapping around my waist.

“Is it, though?” Instinctually, I brush a kiss over her hair. “I’m pretty sure something is either on fire or not. At least that’s what Smokey Bear taught me.”

“Not at all.” Tilting her head back, she smiles up at me.

Fuck me, she could ask me to rip out my heart and give it to her, and I would.

“There are a range of things that fall under the term, ‘fire,’” she continues, seemingly unaware of the way she holds my heart, my life, my entire damn self in her hands. “Heat, flames, smoke. All technically a part of fire. So, you see, it’s a relative term.”

“I stand corrected.” I bite at the inside of my cheek to keep myself from laughing. “Was this the kind of fire with flames?”

“Well.” She pauses and then delicately says, “Technically yes. But I put it out!”

“Can I look you over for burns?” At her nod, I set her away from me and lift her onto the counter, scanning her for any visual sign of injury. Nothing I can see, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing there. “Can I do a physical exam?”

She freezes.

“Nothing weird,” I promise her. “Sometimes I can’t see injuries, but I’m able to feel changes in the skin. I just want to make sure I’m not missing anything.”

She’s quiet for so long I have time to cycle through every emotion there is in the panic repertoire. Eventually, she inclines her head in consent.

“Okay, I’m going to take my hand over your arms.” I run my hands quickly down one arm then the other. “Alright, nothing there, which is good.” Together, we glance down at her bare legs, miles of them extending from beneath her t-shirt.

“Sam?”

Her trembling voice forces me past the lust-filled drum solo happening in my chest. Physical exam. Focus. I blink at her legs again. “Are you okay—”

“Just do it, Sam,” she orders, her breathy words reaching deep inside me to take over my cognitive functions. Making me want to obey her just to see her happy. To let her know that I'm hers to do with however she sees fit.

I’m resting on my left knee, my right leg bent with the foot flat on the floor with her centered in the cocoon of my body before I know what I’m doing.