Page 15 of Lethal Bliss

Now he’s gone.

Angst builds up within me, and with its rise, the drowsiness that had wrapped itself around me quickly wears off. I lie in bed all night, turning and tossing. At some point, Flora rolls over and somehow finds her way into my arms.

I hold her tenderly and marvel at how comfortable I feel next to this stranger whose name and blog are the only things I know about her. Female investigative journalists are not the kind of women men like me end up in bed with.

I’m still thinking about the strangeness of our association when exhaustion drags me into the wispy arms of sleep. Sadly, sleep doesn’t last longer than an hour or two. I wake up when I feel Flora withdrawing from my arms.

She stops when I stir. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her. It’s morning already. The bedside clock on the nightstand reads 6 a.m. “Did you sleep well?” I ask.

“Better than I have in a long time.”

“Good because there’s a lot to do today,” I tell her.

She nods in agreement and rolls off the bed. “I’ll go shower.”

“Alright,” I say and turn on the bedside lamp.

Flora’s naked body comes into view, and I’m transfixed. In the calming glow of the light, it’s stunning.

“About last night…” she says. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, right?”

The curve of her hips holds me captive. My eyes move inwards to the paradise between her legs.

“Right?” she says again.

I drag my gaze up from her groin, up her toned belly, and then over her breasts. I can still recall their softness in my mouth.

“Right?” Now the question is laced with mirth.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I tell her. “Of course. And this morning as well.”

She raises an eyebrow. “This morning?”

I hold out my hand. “Come here for a second.”

She obliges me and climbs back into the bed.

“Have I told you how beautiful you are yet?” I ask.

She bites her lips. “Not yet.”

I take a moment to find the right words. “Well, you are… the most beautiful piece of art I’ve ever seen.”

“Is that what you tell women to get in their pants?”

I grin. “No. I only tell them that after I’ve gotten in their pants.”

She starts to laugh, throwing back her head as she does so. I like the way her eyes light up just before she gives in to her mirth. It’s something I want to see again and again and again. An irrational need to always be the reason for it gnaws at me.

I wait till she stops laughing and cup her chin.

Our eyes meet and lock. Like last night, it’s as if we have an invisible hold on each other, one that doesn’t need words to establish. Her eyes, big and blue, draw me in, while mine seem to pin her to the spot.

“Where did you get that scar?” she asks and gestures at my forehead.

“In some street fight,” I reply. “I was a kid then. It was four against one.” The memory is faint now, eroded by the years.