His nudge upwards had her gasping.
"I don't know darling," he drawled. "I think it has its merits."
Before she could respond, he was already moving inside her, and the atmosphere had changed considerably. "I want to be sensible and stop," he brought her down so that he could brush his lips over her nipple. "But commonsense has taken a backseat to intense desire."
"Thank God!" She arched her back and closed her eyes as she settled in for the slow and sensuous ride.
He was dreaming or hallucinating. His mother was beckoning to him, moving closer and closer, the eerie glow about her made her look like a demon from hell. His scream pierced the stillness of the night.
"Mother, I didn't mean to do it. A witch led me away." He blubbered. "Please believe me."
It was the pain, sharp and intense and stabbing that jarred him awake. His eyes flew open. Staring around, he wondered where he was for a moment. Then it all came back to him.
Blinking the last of the sleep from his eyes, he stumbled to his feet. He had fallen into a fitful sleep on the old, tattered rug by the empty fireplace. And he was bleeding again. Badly. And he had a fever.
He had no medical personnel, but he was smart enough to realize he had an infection and was dying.
The hysterical laughter bubbled up in his throat at the thought of it. He had spent a year chasing after a pipe dream, becoming more and more involved in that dream and now he was going to die for it. Sinking down on the side of the sagging sofa, he hung his head in despair. He had tried to be good, hadn't he?
Tried to be the kind of son his mother wanted and had failed.
He pressed a trembling hand against the wound, feeling the fever's heat radiate from his skin, every heartbeat sending a fresh wave of agony through his body. The darkness of the room pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the faint glow of the dying embers in the fireplace. For a moment, he wondered if he should try to seek help, but the weight of hopelessness kept him anchored to the spot.
He was cold, so cold. He had heard that when someone was about to die, that was one of the first signs. The icy cold. Or it could simply be that the fever was bringing on the chills.
They would be looking for him. Self-pitying tears coursed down his haggard cheeks. And then the anger came!
It was her fault! She had tempted him with her wicked beauty, smiling at him, charming at him from the back cover of her book. Looking seductive and deceitful. He should have killed her when had the chance. Should have abducted her while she was out on one of her runs, going about the place in those skimpy jogging shorts for men to pant after her.
She had never been worthy of his love. She wasn't pure. He should have known that when she hooked up with that Irish bastard.
Should have realized that she was no good. A whore, Solomon had warned about women like that in the Bible. He should have listened.
His spurt of anger brought on more pain that had him whimpering. He could smell his own stale sweat. He had been brought down to this. Living in his own stink.
With every ragged breath, memories flashed through his fevered mind. Fragments of laughter, regret, and longing. He tried to focus on something, anything that might bring him comfort, but the images slipped away like water through his fingers.
The silence mocked him, amplifying the ache in his body and heart, and each passing second pressed the weight of his isolation deeper into his soul.
Gritting his teeth, he rose, unsteadily and swayed from the dizziness. His shirt was soaked through with blood. The bandage he had wrapped around the wound had turned red. His stomach heaved at the sight of all that blood.
Stumbling towards the bathroom, he got the tap running and drank thirstily. He was going to have to change the bandage and the very thought of it had his stomach heaving even more.
Taking a deep breath, he sifted through the meager supplies in the old broken down medicine cabinet and found a packet of gauze and some alcohol that looked as if it had seen better days.
He was going to have to get help, if it got much worse. Clutching the items to his chest, he stumbled into the bedroom. The sight there had him stopping dead, eyes bulging. To his terrified eyes, the man looked like a giant from the pit of hell.
His red hair was tousled and bright in the darkened room.
He was hallucinating again, he thought feverishly. He was seeing things.
Suddenly the apparition smiled, showing white teeth. "Hello Ed Graeme, we've been looking everywhere for you." Eric's gaze landed on the bloody arm. "Seems you got into a bit of a trouble there." He bared his teeth and moved forward.
"Please. Don't kill me." His teeth were chattering, his bowels going loose. "Please."
"Oh, I really want to." Eric moved closer, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I really want to. You took a shot and grazed me, but most of all, you've been giving my friends some really bad moments. For that alone, I want to wrap my hands around your skinny neck and squeeze. A vermin like you doesn't deserve to live."
Terror flooded Ed's entire being and he wasn't even mortified to feel the pee running down his leg.
