Wicked Temptation

by Linda Verji

  His release seemed to go on and on. Even when she collapsed on top of him and buried her face in his throat, he kept thrusting rope after rope of his seed into her welcoming heat. It took a while but, finally, he was empty. His strokes gradually slowed to a halt. He inhaled what seemed like a gallon of air as he folded his arms over Misha's prone and still heaving body.

  Having a woman, possessing a woman had never felt so satisfying, so right.

  Finally, she was his.

  Angling his head downwards, he pushed an errant strand of short, wet hair from her face to the back of her ear, then whispered, "I love you, Michelle."

  His words seemed to trigger something in her. One second she was in his arms the next she jolted off him, stood up and grabbed the towel from the foot of the pool lounge. Danny was so surprised by the odd reaction, that he didn’t react as fast as he should've to her panicked, "Th- this was a mistake," before she fled into the house.

  What. The. Fuck?

  Danny was on his feet fast and chasing after her. "Misha. Misha. Misha." With long strides, he followed the sound of her bedroom door slamming. "Misha. Misha." But by the time he got to the door, she'd already turned the key in the lock and barricaded herself inside.

  What the hell was going on here?

  "Misha, open up." He pounded on the wood incessantly. "Misha? What's wrong?"

  He was totally confused. What was going on here? Wasn't he holding her right now? In fact he could still feel the warmth of her body atop his and his arms around her. What the hell? He rapped his knuckles on the door. "Misha, open up."

  Only silence met him. No answer came from her side of the door.

  Danny ran a trembling hand over his still damp hair as worry joined shock in his thoughts. Had he done something wrong? Pushed her too hard? His arms felt empty, his body hot and his insides knotted in tension as he tried to figure out was going on with Misha.

  "Michelle, open up." He knocked on the door again, to the same non-answer. But he kept knocking anyway. "Come out and talk to me."

  Clearly there was a hell of a lot more going on with her than he'd assumed. If she was so scared of losing him then shouldn't she be holding onto him now? Not caging herself away from him. He cussed his decision to take them all the way today. He should've pressed harder for her real reasons for resisting a relationship between them. He should've waited to talk it out before they made love.

  He should've. He should've. He should've.

  "Fuck." He slammed his open palm over the closed door, as anger seeped into the cocktail of emotions whirling inside him and his temper heated. "Misha, open up."

  Danny wasn't sure who he was more angry at. Her or himself. Her for not telling him what was wrong; himself for not being able to figure it out on his own. He knocked a few more times on the door. When her silence persisted he stalked away to his own bedroom. He sank down on the bed raising a shaking hand to his temple.

  "Damn it," he swore the low oath as his turmoil grew at an equal rate to his frustration with her. They shared everything, talked about everything. Why couldn't she talk to him about this? This one thing that was like a shadow standing in the way of their future? He lifted up from the bed to go and knock again.

  No. He sat back down. He'd give her a couple of hours to cool down. A couple of hours would be enough for her to woman up and talk to him.

  Only she didn't.

  She kept the locked door between them all night. In the morning when he woke up he tried again, but she was still locked away. Before he left for work, she was still silent behind the closed door. And when he came back home later in the afternoon, she was gone. House eerily silent, closets empty, clothes vanished kind of gone.

  Really gone.

  CHAPTER 24

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Danny. Again. Misha stared at the phone ringing in her hand. This was the tenth, thirtieth, thousandth time he was calling… she'd lost count. Ring. Ring. Ring.

  Misha knew she'd taken the coward's way out. In hindsight, maybe she should've- No, there was no maybe about it. She should've taken the time to give Danny an explanation before she'd packed her bags and ran back home; an explanation that wasn't quite as stupid-sounding as her real reason.

  But in that moment - when he'd said he loved her - it'd felt like she was suffocating. His arms were bands of steel smothering her and his warmth like an unpleasant fire scarring her. It'd felt like her heart would explode if she didn't leave his presence, like her lungs would contract until she couldn't fit any more air inside her.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. His name flashed on her screen again. Maybe she should switch the phone off to let him know that she didn't want to talk to him. Her thumb moved toward the switch-off button but she didn't hit it. Ring. Ring. Ring.

  She'd always thought that panic attacks were for the weak and assumed that she was strong. After all she would never have gotten to where she was in her career if she was weak. But Danny’s words had weakened her. They'd weakened her not just because he'd said them but also because she'd wanted to say them right back to him. Her lips had parted to say the same words and in that moment she'd realized that she loved him. She really loved him. Not like a best-friend. Like a man. She was in love with him.

  Lust was one thing.

  Lust she could handle.

  But being in love. No, she couldn't.

  Love meant that he would die. That thought of Danny dying had filled her with fear, sent her rushing into her bedroom panic hot on her heels. Knowing their moments together would be a short poem and not an epic novel just because she couldn't control her libido was more than she could take. She couldn't bear the thought of him dying because of her curse.

  His knocks, his calling out, only increased the terror choking her. Every time he asked her to talk to him, a fresh bout of nausea and trembling hit her. She'd spent the night curled up on the floor with her back to the door; trying to shut out his voice, trying to keep a hold on the thin thread of sanity she still had. And when morning had come, she knew she had to leave.

  She felt like she was the only one who knew some basic, awful truth that had eluded everyone around her. That she was bad luck. Maybe her fear sounded irrational, stupid, even wrong. It was why she had never told anyone about it. She knew exactly what they'd say. That she was stupid or crazy.

  And maybe she was.

  But what if it turned out she was right all along? What if her curse wasn't a figment of her imagination? She couldn't take the chance. She had to protect him. If it meant denying herself the one thing she wanted most in the world, then so be it. Her happiness was nothing compared to his mortality.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. She stared at the ringing phone. Turning it off was the best solution to this situation. Her refusal to talk would irritate Danny, anger him, make him hate her enough to stop trying. It was too late for her. She'd already fallen for him and that was unlikely to change. But if she made him fall back out of love with her she could save him.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. She reached for the switch-off button again but hesitated, tried to press but her thumb seemed to have a mind of its own. It wouldn't do it. She couldn't bring herself to cut him off, to let him go. She curled fetal position on her bed and set the phone on the covers, watching him call. Ring. Ring. Ring.

  A tear trickled down her cheek to fall onto the arm she'd propped her head on. Why couldn't she be strong when it came to Danny? If she was stronger she wouldn't have jumped into that pool with him. She wouldn't have succumbed to his kisses and touches. She wanted to cuss Danny for pushing her so hard, for being in her life, for loving her, for making her love him. But the truth was that the finger was squarely pointed at her. She was to blame. If she'd only been stronger…

  Beep. Beep. Beep. The phone vibrated indicating a message. She quickly snatched the gadget off the bed and swiped her thumb over the screen. It was a message from Danny.

  I know you're home. I'm coming over.

  Her heart immediately started a wild throbbing. Watching his name flas
h on her screen was one thing, but seeing him face to face was too much. She was not strong enough for that. She sat up, brushed the tears from her cheeks, cleared her throat to get rid of the evidence of her tears then dialed his number.

  He picked up on the first ring but didn't say anything.

  It was so quiet on his end that she thought he hadn't picked up. She called out, "Danny?"

  "Yeah." His voice was chillier than she'd ever heard it. Hearing that coldness was like having a knife stabbed into her heart. Suddenly her tongue seemed frozen, unable to utter even one word. Tense silence stretched between them and in it she could hear his hurt and his anger. Finally, he spoke, "Are you okay?"

  Even angry with her, his first thought was of her welfare. Tears rushed to her eyes, and she had to take a moment before responding, "Yes. You?"

  Only silence met her.

  Sniffing, she whispered, "I'm sorry."

  Another long silence then his deep, frustrated sigh. "Michelle, what's going on?"

  "I- I-," she started, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't think of an excuse for her behavior that wouldn't make him think she was crazy. "I - I didn't- I-"

  "We can't do this on phone," Danny broke into her stuttered non-explanation. "I'm on my way."

  "No," she rushed in quickly. "Please, don't."

  "Why not?"

  "I- I need time," she tripped over her words. Her tears now in freefall, she sniffed, "Danny, I don't-"

  His voice much softer, Danny said, "Misha stop crying."

  "I just need a little time," she insisted, her eyes soaked in tears. "I - I promise we'll talk."

  Maybe given time she could find a way to talk to him without breaking, and the strength to tell him that they couldn't even be friends anymore. The thought of living without Danny, even as a friend, for the rest of her life shook Misha to her core. But did she have a choice? The bitter truth was that they were powerfully attracted to each other. No amount of proclaiming 'just friends' could change that. The only solution was to cut off all contact.

  She thought she wanted Danny to protest her request for more time, but she found herself keeping the phone to her ear, waiting for him to insist that he was coming over. He didn't. Instead he asked, "How much time?"

  She used the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe her tears. "I don't know."

  "We'll talk eventually. And you'll tell me exactly what's going on." It wasn't a request. Just a statement of intent.

  But how could she tell him what was really going on without sounding like a kook? But she nodded anyway. "Okay."

  "You shouldn't be alone there," he said. "Do you need me to send someone?"

  Her Danny. Always looking out for her. Despite herself a whisper of a smile lifted one side of her mouth. "No. Thank you. And I'm not alone. Geneva's just next door and she already knows I'm back so I should be okay."

  "That's good." She expected him to end the call right then, but after a long pause, he said, "We didn't use protection."

  Her heart lurched at his words. That little fact hadn't escaped her attention, and on her way home today she'd had every intention of taking care of it. Only she still hadn't. She glanced at the still unopened packet of pills on her bedside table. "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

  "I don't want you to take care of it." The words were so low that she almost didn't hear them.

  But she did and suddenly she couldn't breathe again. It was a wonder she managed to squeak, "Danny?"

  "I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I want," he said quietly. Then before she could say anything more he ended the call with, "Goodnight, Misha. Call me when you're ready to talk."

  She stared at the now silent phone already missing the sound of his voice. She wanted to call him back, tell him that she was being stupid and he could come over. It would be so easy to pick up the phone and do it. But as she reached for her phone again, the sense of doom hanging over her began to lower. It crushed her until all she could do was set the phone back on the bedside table, pull back the covers, enter her bed and try to get lost in sleep.

  She tried to sleep, but her mind kept circling back to Danny. When she wasn't thinking about Danny, she was obsessing over the security of the house. Sure, they'd installed a new security system, but what if an intruder was smarter than it. What if the same person who'd attacked her and killed Eric tried again?

  Feeling antsy, she tossed aside her covers and padded through the house double-checking to make sure all doors and windows were locked. They were. Even so she set a bat by her bedside before crawling back into bed. Somewhere between crying about Danny and fixating over the littlest creak of the admittedly house, she drifted into exhausted sleep. But she hadn't accounted for one thing when she'd left Danny's house.

  The nightmares.

  They clouded her sleep, haunting her with images of the dead Eric, her parents, her brother interspersed with images of Danny lying in a coffin. She awakened with a small cry, the sheets tangled around her and drenched with her sweat.

  "It's just a nightmare," Misha whispered to herself as tried to quiet her pounding heart, slow her racing breath and control her rough breaths. It took a while but, finally, her breath settled into even inhalations and exhalations. Nevertheless, she was left with an unsettled feeling. Almost as if the invisible attackers in her dreams had somehow clambered out of her nightmares and into the real world.

  She lay still in bed, listening intently to the quiet darkness.

  Then she heard it. It was just a small creak, but it was enough to spike her heart rate. Could it be her attacker again? Or had she imagined the sound? She flipped on her lights, swung her legs out of bed, slowly stood up and tied her white robe over her plaid boxer-shorts and tank top. Grabbing her bat, she crept toward the door.

  "Hello?" she called out as she pushed her bedroom door wider and peered out into the dark hallway. "I've got a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."

  She listened for an answer but the only sounds she heard were the raised voices of her neighbors, the Millers, coming from outside the house.

  Clinging tightly to her bat, Misha flipped a switch on the wall to light the hallway. Still no one emerged to attack her and the front door looked securely locked. She walked across the hardwood floor to the archway that led into the living room. She peered into the semi-darkness but saw no strange shadows there. Either way she flipped the switch there too plunging it into light.

  Surely if there was an intruder, he or she would've already made a move by now. But to be sure she entered the kitchen, switched on the lights and checked every crevice including the pantry and back door to make sure she was alone. Her tight hold on the bat eased as she slowly accepted that it was probably her imagination working overtime.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound startled her almost senseless, and she nearly jumped through the ceiling before she realized that it was someone knocking on the kitchen door. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Gripping her bat threateningly, Misha moved through the pantry hallway toward the backdoor. She yelled, "Who's there?"

  A muffled voice said with a bit of exasperation, "It’s me. Geneva."

  "Mrs. Geneva?" Misha propped the bat on the wall to yank the door open. Sure enough Geneva was on her doorstep. The octogenarian was wearing a flowery bonnet that bulged over her rolled hair, a blue nightgown that seemed to swallow her petite frame, a ratty brown bathrobe hastily tied over the nightgown, and a shotgun propped on her shoulder.

  "Mrs. Geneva," said Misha weakly. "What are you doing here at this time of the night?"

  " I saw all the lights blazing over here and came to make sure you were all right."

  "I'm okay," Misha reassured the older woman. "I thought I heard something but it was nothing."

  Geneva gave her a sympathetic wince. "You must've heard Collette and Marcus." She motioned in the general direction of the Millers' home. "They've been at it all night." Her voice took on a confidante tone as she leaned forward to whisper, "She found ou
t that Marcus and Hulda's granddaughter… that one… what's her name?"

  "Tina?"

  "Yes. Yes. Tina." Perhaps noting that Misha was in no hurry to invite her in, Geneva bulldozed her way into the house. Squeezing past Misha, she added, "Apparently Casper saw Marcus talking to Tina. The shame. She's not even half his age. Can you believe it?"

  "Really?" Misha tried to inject as much interest into her wary voice as she could as she resignedly filed after Geneva past the kitchen into the living room.

  "Collette attacked that poor girl when she came to her shop this morning. Shoot! You know Collette has them Mike Tyson hands. She beat Tina like she'd stolen her weave." Geneva set her shotgun on the wooden coffee table, plopped down on the couch, then comfortable as she pleased asked, "You have any coffee?"

  Right! Because people just kept a jug of coffee brewing in case of wee-hour-of-the-morning visitors. Resisting the urge to shake her head, Misha said, "Why don't I brew you a cup?"

  "Thank you. You're a good girl, Misha," Geneva said, already reaching for the remote controller. "And see if you have any cookies in there."

  Sighing deeply, Misha padded off to the kitchen. After setting a pot to brew, she set to searching the cupboards for cookies. Considering her long she'd been gone, she wasn't surprised to find the pantry practically empty. Fortunately the tin of biscuits she kept in one of the cupboards was still there and still good for consumption.

  By the time she finished setting several biscuits on a plate and placed them on a tray along with two cups, the coffee was done. She totted everything to the living room where an African-American drama was playing on screen. Geneva appeared completely tuned into the show so after serving the older lady Misha went back to her room grabbed her laptop and brought it to the living room. She settled on the armchair browsing the internet.

  Misha was engrossed in an online entry about the world's most prolific serial killers when Geneva suddenly asked, "So what happened between you and your young man?"