Death of a King

Chapter 21

The next morning was ridiculously hot for early November, spoiled by the horrendous screeching of cicadas which I could hear through the walls of Dustin's room from where they resided outside. But it wasn't hot only because of the temperature outdoors, though that definitely was part of the problem.

    What made it hot ... truly scolding ... were the memories of what Dustin and I almost did last night.

    ... and the desperate desire to do it again.

    It was wrong to want such a thing, I knew it was wrong.

    But I couldn't get it out of my head. The image of him leaning over me, the memory of his weight pressing so wonderfully against my body, and the sight of those full lips nearing ever closer. I could still feel his heat, still feel the long, slow drag of his lips against my cheek as he pulled away and laughed down at the girl who was too naive to see a bluff.

    These thoughts overwhelmed me, taking over. They even drove away the underlying residue of my beastly nightmares.

    It was unbearable, mostly because I knew the only motivation for his actions was because of the alcohol in Dustin's system. If it weren't for the absurd amount of alcohol consumption, last night would have ended the same as it has every other night since my arrival at the compound. And now ... now I didn't know what to think.

    A groan sounded from Dustin's bed, followed by several curses that left the air hanging thicker than before. Eventually, a gruff voice called out, "Dimples, you awake?"

    My teeth gritted at the nickname, "What do you want?"

    "Can you bring me the bottle of painkillers under the sink?" He asked, now holding his palms to his eyes, "I've got a hangover like you wouldn't believe. I haven't gotten that drunk in a very long time." He finished with a slight laugh that left the conversation open for my additional joy, but my words came out frosted with irritation.

    "Why don't you get them yourself, your legs aren't broken."

    At the arctic bite in my tone, he sat up. From where I was laying, I could just barely see him staring down at me through the pain of a migraine, "What's with the attitude?"

    Without replying to him, I rolled over to face the inside of the couch, pulling up the blanket so that it now covered my face as well. I didn't want to talk to him, I didn't even want to look at him. Partly because every time he caught my gaze, I lost a piece of myself to that devilish grin and those alluring eyes.

    But also partly because my body craved his essence, and I hated that. I hated feeling this rush of heat every time he said my name or looked my way. I despised the way my heart stuttered when his skin made contact with my own or when he spoke so intimate that I felt as if we were the only two humans on the planet.

    And I loathed the way he made me want more of it all.

    The floorboard creaked right behind me, the only indication that Dustin had risen from his bed and was now kneeling at my back. His hand fell over my shoulder and that fire sparked once more, "What's your problem?"

    My anger grew at his impudence, "You know what my problem is."

    "I assure you I don't." He responded, waiting for my further explanation. But when I didn't answer, he tugged at my shoulder, "Can you look at me please, it's hard to have a conversation with the back of your head."

    "No." I stated flatly. Why give him the satisfaction?

    When he heard this, his next words were spoken in misplaced confusion, "Okay, then can you at least tell me what it is I've done to piss you off?"