Satisfied yet depleted, Harris throws himself back onto the pillow bastions they have rebuilt a couple of times. His eyelids grow heavy. He slings his arm over his eyes when she clicks the switch of the bedside lamp on.
"Give me a few minutes to catch my breath and I'll get moving," he says.
The jewelry jingles against the wood of the nightstand as Desiree finally takes it off. Her hand pats his chest afterward. There isn't an inch of them that isn't drenched in sweat. Even her palm is moist, but cooling quickly against his chest. She taps it. "Harris, you can shower and sleep here."
"Thanks," he murmurs sincerely. He's not sure he can drive his truck all the way home, alone. He's too empty to keep moving. The sound of another person breathing is what he needs.
After a couple of moments he forces himself to a seating position, then pitter-patters to the bathroom. The plushiness of the carpet on the soles of his bare feet is bee's knees. It's a faint caress after the rigors he put his body through just now. He scoops the used condoms off to fit to toss into the trash can in the corner. And carries her thong, still lodging in the middle of the room, where she tossed it, to an artisan basket hiding her laundry. What? It's a darn good carpet!
She flips over on her belly, twists hundred-and-eighty degrees. Her feet telegraph something from Ginger Rogers' collection on the headboard as she watches him move. Her chin rests on her folded arms. "Have you been married, Harris?"
Ah, his housekeeping got to her. Marriage isn't the only thing that makes a guy house-broken. Solitary existence does too. "No. And, no, I'm not secretly married currently either. Just... I like everything orderly."
When he's back to bed, steaming from the scalding-hot shower, hoping it would stave off soreness tomorrow—the price to pay for being creative all night long—the pillows are stacked into a leaning tower in the corner by the closet.
And Desiree's jewels are piled on the nightstand by 'his' side of the bed. He stirs the pretty things with his finger to make them glitter.
"I wish I could double this pile for you first thing in the morning... never seen a woman who makes gold look prettier." He sighs as the fantasy pops like a soap bubble. He won't be throwing around pigeon-egg-sized diamonds like Oliver any time soon.
Desiree slips from under the blanket and saunters to the bathroom, dragging some translucent night garment behind her. At the door, she stops.
"I've been married," she says softly. "Never again."
"Why?" he asks curiously. Instinctively, he searches for a courtship undercurrent, a probe into his intentions. Maybe even a reverse psychology trick.
She lifts, then lowers her right shoulder in a slo-mo shrug. It's so seductive, his breath hitches. "Because I don't want to spend my life wrestling for control with the same damn man. In fact, I never want a hookup to get to the point when control is an issue. You understand it, right?"
"Sort of," he mutters.
"I thought you would. I get the same vibe from you, but you never know with men. Some primordial shit tends to kick in. It's uncanny." She shrugs again, with the same gyrating quality, but this time his breathing remains even. The door to the bathroom closes behind her with a soft click.
Harris burrows himself into the blanket and a few pillows that she kept on the bed. He's practically dozed off, when the water stops running and Desiree nestles next to him. The smell of her hair and soap tickles his nostrils. He thinks about putting his arms around her, but he's too lazy and who knows? Maybe it's the primordial shit she's been talking about. Reptilian brain, right?
YOU ARE READING
Ablaze
Mystery / Thriller||Love Triangle between a Firefighter, an Arsonist and an Heiress ♡|| Deeply wounded by his mother's betrayal, Harris, a Milwaukee firefighter, doesn't accept human failings, including his own. That's until he saves a redhead from a burning hotel...
