Page 95 of Precious Hazard

The bed is unmade. Just as I left it. The sheets are tangled into a big mess. Both pillows have indents on them. Did she sleep next to me? The other side of the bed was empty when I woke up, so she must have gone to another room to sleep, fearful she’d “catch what I’ve got.” I reach over and grab the pillow. The pillow that I know I did not use. I turn it around. Study it carefully. Then, with a look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone, I bring it to my nose. It smells like her. That sugary strawberry scent. I bury my face in its softness and take a deep whiff.

Lips. Gentle and sensual, delicately trailing along the edge of my mouth. My hands slowly raking through wet, dark strands. Waterfall of silk over my fingertips. Whispered words and cold, cold water. Soothing promises and icy, biting pain. And then, the most delicious smoothness beneath my lips as they drag across the column of her neck. Hard spray pounding my shoulders. But in the echo of a shower, my name on a soft exhale of her breath.

I throw the pillow back on the bed. Definitely imagining things. Because I sure as fuck don’t remember any encounter with my wife being anything other than explosive. There’s neverbeen a tender moment between us. She only ever calls me Satan or DeVille. Unless I’m bleeding.

Jesus, I’m so goddamned tired. And cold. So fucking cold. I let myself fall forward onto the bed, burying my face in the pillow I just discarded.

***

“Shit. You’re burning up again…”

Hands. Stroking my face. Something wet and cool on my forehead. I swat it away.

“Damn it, Arturo.”

I’d rather feel those palms. They’re soft and warm. Jesus, it’s fucking freezing. I capture one of the hands and press it to my cheek. Ah, much better.

“Open your mouth. Drink.”

No. No, I just wanna sleep.

“Shit. If you don’t take the pill, we’ll need to have another cool shower, and I’m not sure I can get you in there by myself.” Velvety voice. Cajoling. But desperate at the same time. “Please, Arturo.”

I don’t want a pill, don’t want to drink, but I can’t resist that sensual voice. I couldn’t deny it anything it asks. So I cave. My throat feels raw as cold fluid rushes down.

“I’m going to soak more towels.”

No! Don’t go! I reach out blindly, grabbing the owner of that voice. Crushing the siren to my chest. Keeping her close. So close. So warm. So with me.

“Let me go. I have to—”

I shake my head. No! Not happening. Never letting you go. “You stay,” I rasp. “No arguments.”

“Your manners don’t change even when you’re delirious, DeVille.”

I hate that. Hate when she does it. Puts distance between us by using my last name. I won’t allow it. Want her close. Throwing my leg over, I drag her to me. Tangling our limbs together. Fusing us into one.

“I adore the way you smell,” I mumble into her hair, inhaling the fresh, berry scent. It’s sweet and tart, and so yummy. Sweet and tart like her.

“Yeah, you already said that. Please get your tentacles off me. I can’t breathe.”

“When I was little, strawberries were my favorite. They are fruity and sweet, and sometimes slightly sour. Perfectly balanced, which is what makes them great. Like you. Fucking perfect.”

“You called me a walking disaster.”

“You are. In an adorable, irresistible way. ” I squeeze her tighter and sigh. “I’m so sleepy. Promise me you won’t leave. Stay… with me.”

“Okay.”

“It’s just a stupid stove,” I grumble as I stare at the range. I’m a hair’s breadth from hysteria. “Just light the thing, set the pot down, and boil the damn water.”

Rationally, I know the chances of this contraption going up in flames out of the blue are next to zero. Gas or not, appliances don’t simply combust. But fear isn’t rational. What I know and what I feel are two different things. And that’s what isn’t letting my feet lift to move me forward. Keeping me from taking that final step. The chopped-up ingredients for the veggie noodle soup are on the counter, right next to the pot I’ve already filled up with water. Everything’s waiting on me to get a grip.

The health nut doesn’t have a microwave, of course. So my best option is nonexistent. And it figures the esteemed Chef DeVille would have something against electric kettles, too. Because I checked everywhere in this fucking kitchen, searched every cupboard. Twice. Nada. With that, the last of my hopes failed.

Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out my phone and dial Sienna.

“Tara! I’ve been calling you for hours. How’s Arturo?”