Bed of Lies (ON HOLD)

XV

I am surprised I don't pass out. I'm rocking on the rim doing so, but I force myself to stand upright, ignoring my shaky, noodle-knees. How will I save myself if I faint? The answer is, I won't.

There is no one to save me or be my knight in shining armour. I did not believe in such bullshit on a normal basis either way—that a beautiful man would appear out of nowhere and change my fate. It would be nice if one could, I muse inconsequentially. Preferably the man that I married.

As I watch the dark figure move back into the house, the headache that plagued me before returns as if it had never once withdrawn. I double over in pain, terror leaking out of me at the same time. I'm not sure what to do. Whether to go forward or not.

Maybe I should turn back to the supermarket. I consider the idea again for a protracted second but decide against doing so when I conjecture that I'd be exposing myself to the risk of encountering the same situation I'd fled from. There's a greater chance of meeting whoever it is after me at the store than here. Moreover, it could be only Tony. I left him here at home, didn't I?

Who's to say that's not him? As I ponder even further, on the point of blowing into a panic, my suspect steps out of the shadows sourced by the roofing over the porch. I lease out a huge sigh of relief, dropping my bags to the ground. It's only my husband.

"Isi?"

"Hm..."

"Oh. You're home. I thought you got lost. I was on my way to get you." He saunters up to me, and I notice his long-sleeved shirt is actually a muddy, dark-brown and not black. His jean trousers, on the other hand, are jet-black, as I'd surmised. "Remembered I didn't even show you around and let you leave only 'cos of our petty argument." He adds with a sheepish and painfully adorable look on his face.

Proffering a word or two in reply is obviously expected of me, but my lips can't form a single sound. My tongue is thick and heavy, refusing to budge at the pressure I place on it to push off into patterns that will make sense as speech. I can't speak.

"Are you okay? You're sort of...pale." I shake my head softly, a negative. I'm not okay at all. The situation I've found myself in does not warrant me being okay.

As of now, I want to forget everything that has happened. I wish to quiet this quivering from my insides. "Isi? Did...did someone disturb you? Are you hurt? Did something happen?" He grabs both my arms and shifts his weight about as he inspects most of my body.

There is no detail out of place from my physical appearance, and he finds exactly that—nothing. But that doesn't stop his roaming hands from stroking up and down my waist. To my utmost disbelief, they gently slope down my hips. I hiss in surprise as his palms press hard against my skin.

It is as if my dress no longer exists or is now made of the thinnest threads in the world, as my flesh begins to heat up in the trail his fingers leave. My honeypot moistens, dampening my undies when he lifts my long-forgotten scarf and tentatively touches my breasts.

What is going on?

When he skims over the hardness of my nipples, it is as if his senses are finally knocked back into his head by some unknown force as he immediately drops his hands like dead weight, flicks his gaze far above me then swivels his head away from my outing eyes before asking, "Is there something wrong?" I cannot catch the emotions playing on his face, and I so desperately want to. I want to know how touching me makes him feel.

Does it send sparks up his body, erupting in flares at the moment of contact? Does feeling me cause him to react in ways his mouth would never be able to carry word of? Does leaving his firm hands on my body just about drives him insane as it does me? I frantically want to know.