Twice Between The Sheets (2 Nights A Week)

Chapter 9: Fork and Fiasco

Rafael awoke with a start, the shrill trill of his watch alarm cutting through the haze of his dreams like a blade through silk. His hand, heavy with sleep, fumbled for the off switch. He pressed it down, the sound finally ceasing, but the insistent beat of his pulse refused to follow suit. Blinking, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake off the last remnants of slumber. But as the fog lifted, he found himself locked in a gaze—no, too close—a face mere inches from his.

Arabella.

Her features were soft and relaxed in sleep, the delicate curve of her cheek bathed in the soft glow of morning light, her lips parted ever so slightly as though caught in a dream. Her hair was a wild tangle around her head, a cascade of dark waves tumbling in all directions. The sunlight streamed through the glass walls of the room, bathing her in a golden halo, and for a moment, Rafael felt as though the universe itself had paused to allow him this one, perfect snapshot of her.

She was, in the most maddening way, perfect. His breath caught in his throat. His gaze traced the gentle curve of her lips, so inviting, so full, so—he shook his head, trying to banish the thought. This was not the time for weakness.

But his body didn't listen to reason.

His heart was pounding, a furious beat echoing through his chest as though it were a drum summoning him closer. The bed, a soft, shifting sea beneath them, had conspired to bring them even closer during the night. They had unknowingly drifted toward one another, the subtle rocking of the waterbed inching their bodies together. It was as though fate itself had thrown a lifeline to his desires, making the space between them a mere suggestion.

His gaze lingered on her lips. Just one kiss, he thought, his mind unraveling. The ache in his chest throbbed, low and primal. A simple touch—just one taste of sweetness. Surely it wouldn't hurt.

Rafael leaned forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as though not to startle her from the dream world she inhabited. He brushed his lips gently against hers, a whisper of a kiss. Strawberries. The taste was faint, intoxicating. It lingered, pulling at him, urging him to taste more. His hand found her hair, his fingers threading through the strands as he leaned in, pressing his lips to hers with more insistence, the kiss deepening.

But before he could lose himself completely, the air was shattered by a sharp, enraged scream.

Arabella's scream seemed to reverberate off the walls, an operatic crescendo of outrage that would have done a soprano proud. Rafael, wide-eyed and suddenly very awake, scrambled backward like a man confronted by a charging bull—albeit one armed with a stainless steel fork.

The waterbed bucked beneath them, conspiring against his every move. His knees slipped, his hands flailed, and all the while, Arabella advanced like a tempest in silk pajamas. Her hair, wild from sleep, was a tangle of vengeance framing her face, and her eyes burned with unholy fire.

"Arabella, for the love of God, put the fork down!" Rafael's voice cracked as he dodged another jab. His usual charm, the swagger that had seduced countless women, was entirely useless against this pint-sized fury armed with cutlery.

"Stay still, you degenerate!" she hissed, her aim improving as adrenaline coursed through her.

The fork narrowly missed his shoulder, plunging instead into the waterbed with a squelching hiss. A tiny geyser erupted, spraying them both, and Rafael let out a strangled laugh, equal parts disbelief and panic.

"You're stabbing the bed now? What did the bed ever do to you?" he yelled, ducking as another stab sent a second stream of water into the air. The mattress heaved beneath them, more ocean than bed at this point, and Rafael made the mistake of looking down. His soaked robe clung to him, the floor beneath already pooling with water.