by Karen Ferry
It’s a bit odd, but I haven’t minded sharing a few things about myself with Daniel, either. Even when we haven’t been together, he’s texted me a lot, asking me normal, everyday questions, and I’ve even caught myself grinning stupidly after having read his texts. He seems to enjoy stories about my Nan the most, actually, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about them meeting one day, either.
What’s that all about?
To top it all off, the tingling I always feel in my body whenever Daniel is close to me has intensified, and I think I’m close to reaching my breaking point. Every time he’s left my flat, I’ve been a hot, quivering mess, and I’ve had to use my vibrator to keep my lady bits happy each night, but I can just feel that a substitute for the real thing won’t be enough for me for much longer. But what to do about it? A random hook up would be my usual approach, but I don’t feel right about using another guy for sex when all I imagine is Daniel on me, in me, with me . . .
However, I have to do something about this, because if I don’t, I’ll be horrible to be around. Yes, women who are horny are worse than when they’re PMSing . . . at least, that’s my opinion.
Mr. Andersen has been acting rather strange this week, though. I’ve caught him staring at Daniel and me more than once, either grinning mischievously or with a speculative look in his eyes, and I honestly don’t understand why. Does he think there’s more to our relationship than that of work colleagues and neighbours? It’s made me rather uncomfortable, that’s for certain, but I can’t exactly ask him what’s on his mind. Maybe he’s just glad to see his nephew making a friend? I’m also a bit worried about him, because he’s been looking a bit pale lately. On one hand, I want to ask him if he’s alright, but on the other, I know that we don’t have that kind of relationship that makes me free to ask about his health.
It’s Friday afternoon and I’ve finally managed to persuade Daniel to go shopping for some new clothes after work. That should be fun. Or not. Seeing as he hasn’t stopped grumbling about it, I have a feeling it won’t be as enjoyable as I’d originally thought.
“I honestly can’t see why it matters so much what I’m wearing,” he complains, probably for the hundredth time today, as we walk to the train station after work, causing me to stop on the sidewalk.
“Because it’s important to make Steven believe that you truly are my boyfriend,” I huff, glaring at him. “Not an impostor.”
When he merely sighs and rubs his eyes, I take in his appearance. He looks flushed, but not in the usual, adorable way I’ve come to think of as his own, and his eyes are a bit puffy as well.
I take a step further, getting as close as I can, and reach up to his forehead, placing my wrist on it.
“Whoa, you’re burning up, Daniel. Why didn’t you say anything?” I shake my head at the stupidity, grab his hand and pull him with me to catch a taxi.
“What are you doing?” he asks me weakly, and I glance briefly at him.
“You’re clearly sick, so I’m getting us a taxi so we can get home more quickly,” I answer distractedly, still searching the traffic.
“I can’t afford that,” he protests feebly, and he’s starting to lean heavily on my right side.
Releasing his hand, I wrap my arm tightly around his waist, trying to catch the eye of a cabbie when luck finds me, and one pulls over. Giving him our address I push Daniel inside it and follow him quickly.
“Is he going to puke?” the driver asks me, and I frown when I catch his annoyed eyes in the rear view mirror.
“He’s not drunk, just sick,” I answer irritably.
The driver shrugs and we’re on our way. Daniel has leaned back in his seat, and it looks almost as if he’s sleeping, because his eyes are closed. All the way home, we keep silent, and I just hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with him.
The ride doesn’t take long, and after I’ve made sure that Daniel won’t fall flat on his face --I’ve pushed his body into the brick wall, right next to the main door of our apartment complex -- I pay the taxi driver and rummage through my clutch to find my keys. For a split second, I debate whether I should take Daniel to his own flat or mine, but as I feel his heavy body pressing in my back, my mind is made up.
After lots of pulling and cursing -- from my part, not Daniel’s -- we’re inside my flat. As soon as I’ve shut the door, Daniel moves sluggishly into my room and lies down on my bed. For once, I didn’t make it this morning, and I’m happy about that; it would’ve been a mess, trying to keep him conscious while getting it ready.
“Hey, big guy, don’t fall asleep on me just yet,” I scold him quietly and quickly walk towards the bed. Starting with his shoes, I untie the laces and remove them, before climbing up behind him, settling between his spread legs.
“I can’t believe you didn’t take off your backpack before you collapsed on my bed,” I mutter, but I don’t get a reply from the very affected guy on my bed. Well, nothing but a grunt, anyway.
“Shite, this is going to get awkward.” Sitting back, I plant my hands on my hips, blowing a stray lock of hair from my face; wondering how I’m going to get his backpack off, he suddenly raises his right arm, and I’m glad he isn’t that far off in dreamland just yet.
As quickly as possible, I pull off the annoying bag and slip off his back. “Roll over, Daniel,” I tell him as I try to wrestle the duvet from under his heavy body, and I stub my toe on the bedside table in the process.
“Fuck,” I curse quietly, hopping on one leg, and I catch Daniel looking at me, his head raised the tiniest bit and his glassy eyes trying to focus on me.
“Are you . . . hurt?” he asks me weakly.
“No, no, not at all. Just almost broke my toe, but nothing majorly alarming,” I reply, and even in his fever induced state, the sarcasm isn’t lost on him.
“Sorry,” he sighs, leaning back on my pillows briefly before he rolls over like I requested.
“God, I hurt everywhere,” he moans.
“How on earth were you able to work all day like this?” I ask him, astonished and, quite frankly, a bit angry with him. Clearly, he should’ve stayed in bed this morning instead of coming with me.
“It just . . . just snuck up . . . on me,” he groans, and I roll my eyes at his stupidity.
“Well, lie back, try to get comfortable, and I’ll just fetch my thermometer and some water for you. Don’t want you to dehydrate on me,” I tell him and hobble out to my kitchen to get the water before finding my thermometer in my small medicine cabinet. When I get back, I find him unbuttoning his shirt, and despite the fact that he’s obviously not making an attempt at being sexy, watching him doing it causes me to halt in my tracks. The last time I saw him without a shirt on was when he came knocking on my door after hearing my screams, and I would be lying if I said I haven’t missed seeing that smattering of chest hair . . . or his abs.
Stop drooling, Em, I scold myself and briskly resume walking.
“Here, let me help you with that,” I say quietly, and place the glass on the nightstand on the right side of the bed. He lets his arms fall and slumps over on a sigh, so I make quick work of the rest of the buttons and tug the shirt off.
“Drink the water and lie down, please,” I tell him and once he’s done as I’ve asked, I place a hand on his shoulder, nudging him down. A zing pangs through my entire arm when I feel his smooth skin, and I try to ignore it, not allowing him to see the reaction touching him emits in me.
He can’t seem to get comfortable, though, because he keeps twisting and turning, and I sit down on the side with a frown.
“What’s the matter?” I ask him, and he sighs.
“My pants are digging into my side,” he complains, and puts a hand under his head.
“Ah, I see . . . ” Taking the thermometer from the nightstand, I put it in his mouth. “I need to check your temperature.”
We sit in silence for the next few minutes, and I contemplate whether or not I should just tell him to lose the pants if they make him
so uncomfortable. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t seen my share of scantily clad guys before. Why should it be different now?
A small voice inside me whispers, Because it’s Daniel, and I can’t deny the fact that seeing him almost completely naked is a major turn-on -- even if he is sick as a dog at this very moment. I remove the thermometer from his mouth, and a small gasp escapes me when I see how high the fever is.
“Okay, Daniel, I think it’s safe to say that you won’t be leaving this bed for the rest of the day.”
He opens one eye to peek at me.
“Bad?” he asks me.
“Well, nothing too alarming, but you need to rest,” I reassure him, giving him a small smile. “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours and force some more fluids into you.” Standing from the bed, I take the glass and head towards the kitchen.
“Oh, feel free to take off your pants, by the way,” I say in an offhanded tone of voice, not letting him see the blush in my cheeks.
“Are you sure it’s not . . . too weird?” he asks, raising his voice a bit so that I can hear him from the kitchen.
“Not at all,” I shout back. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen guys without their clothes on before,” I joke, more than glad that he can’t see me.
When I don’t hear an answer to my last remark, I quickly wash the thermometer and go back to my room. On the floor beside the bed lies Daniel’s slacks, and as I walk to pick them up, I can’t help but hear the faint snoring coming from the bed. As I bend down to pick up his clothes, I look at him, and almost giggle when I see him passed out, mouth open, and his glasses dangling from his left hand, followed by his arm hanging limply over the side of my bed.
Shaking my head, I tiptoe closer to him, take the glasses and put them gently on the bedside table. Picking up his shirt, I fold his clothes, all the while contemplating what I should get Daniel to eat later.
“The one time I need to cook, and I have no idea what to do,” I mumble. Sighing, I finish sorting out his clothes and place them on a chair in my small kitchen before searching for my clutch to get my phone.
Nan will know what to do.
I walk quietly through my room, phone in hand, and out on my balcony. I don’t shut the door completely, though, as I want to make sure I can hear Daniel if he wakes up.
I quickly find my Nan’s phone number, press the green button, and wait impatiently for her to answer. As soon as I hear her voice, I jump right in, “There’s an almost naked, sick man in my bed, and I don’t know what to cook for him. Help me, please?”
She’s silent for a few seconds, and then she laughs loudly. “Hello to you, too, Emma darling,” she chuckles. “That sounds very interesting. Poor chap. What’s the matter with him?”
“I think it’s the flu. Before he fell asleep, he complained about his body hurting all over, and he has a fever as well.”
“Do you know if he has a sore throat?” she asks me briskly.
“No, sorry, I don’t,” I reply, kicking myself for not asking Daniel some more questions about his symptoms.
“Well, the one thing that always seems to do the trick is some kind of soup, Emma,” she tells me. “Chicken soup would be my recommendation,” she continues. “May I ask who this man is?” The amusement in her voice isn’t lost on me.
“It’s my neighbour-slash-pupil-slash-colleague, Daniel,” I reply and turn to check on him through the window. He hasn’t moved at all.
“Nan, you know I can’t cook,” I whine. “How the devil am I supposed to cook chicken soup?”
“Well, isn’t there a restaurant nearby that does takeaways?” she asks me.
“Hmm, probably,” I mutter and sigh, annoyed that I didn’t think of this myself. This is not how I imagined my afternoon: taking care of a sick guy while keeping my libido in check.
“Remember to wake him up every few hours and get some water in his system, and be sure to keep an eye on the fever as well,” Nan tells me.
“I know, I know,” I reply.
“Now, best get back to him, then. But keep me posted, and don’t hesitate to ring me if you need more help,” she says matter-of-factly.
“I will. I’m sorry I can’t chat more today,” I apologise truthfully.
She clucks and it makes me smile. “Don’t you worry about that, my dear, we’ll talk another day. Or email,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.
“Okay, Nan, love you,” I tell her and we ring off.
I get up from my seat and walk back inside, though I don’t shut the door completely; the weather is still so warm and I don’t want it to become stifling in the flat, especially not now there’s a big, hunky guy in my bed.
Daniel still hasn’t moved and if it weren’t for the fact that he’s still snoring, I’d be a bit worried. His breathing seems laboured, and it concerns me a bit, so I walk closer and put a hand to his forehead again. I don’t think the fever has risen, however, but look at the clock on my phone and make a mental note of waking him up in an hour.
It feels odd to have him in my bed, but strangely pleasant at the same time. Watching him sleeping, I take in his appearance; he looks younger, more vulnerable, especially now that those hideous glasses aren’t covering the majority of his face. Gently, I sit down beside him, careful not to disturb him, and my eyes wander shamelessly across his features. The sun has given him a few freckles on his nose, and there are a few lines in the corner of his eyes, probably because he tends to squint a bit when he’s outside. His cheeks are flushed because of the fever, obviously, and there’s stubble on his chin again. Despite his preppy look, he obviously doesn’t like to shave much, and I wonder, as ever, if his facial hair is as soft as it appears, and I reach out my fingers to touch it lightly.
A bit soft, yes, but also prickly . . .
I wonder what they’d feel like running against my thighs . . .
As soon as that thought hits me, I jerk my hand back as if I’ve burnt my fingers, and I stand up faster than you’d be able to say Bob’s your uncle.
Thankful that he hasn’t woken up from my nosy perusal of his face, I turn back to the kitchen to find the takeaway brochures. I know I should learn to cook, but it doesn’t interest me, so I just can’t be bothered with it.
Leafing through them, I find one from a Chinese restaurant just around the corner, and I look at their soups. There aren’t exactly any with chicken, but maybe the Wonton soup will do the trick -- at least it’s not spicy or lumpy, something I very much doubt the poor guy will be able to swallow.
Satisfied with my choice, I put the brochure on the kitchen counter, walk to my nightstand to pick up my ereader, resolving to read for a while outside until it’s time to wake up my patient.
Reading is my escape. It allows me breathing room whenever I feel as if the outside world becomes too much. I have Nan, and my parents, to thank for my love of books and reading because they always encouraged me to read as much as possible. They never minded what kind of books I read, as long as they were age appropriate, of course, and something my Nan once told me has stuck by me: You’re never bored when you lose yourself in a great story.
She was right. I never have trouble finding out what to do with my time, and once a book catches my interest, I am able to stay in that other world for as long as I want. There are no ugly memories assaulting me when I read . . . There is no past and no future . . . only the present. And I take comfort in that.
The fact that I enjoy romance novels the most seems so very ironic when I am not a born and bred romantic, doesn’t it? Well, I may not believe in fairytales or the happy-ever-afters, but, for a time, I like to pretend that the story I am reading is the truth: that the girl gets the boy in the end, and that they ride off in the sunset together, ready to take on the world.
Very poetic, eh? True, the books I read now are a lot saucier than they used to be, but I like that many authors are not afraid to breathe life into their fantasies these days. There is a certain freedom in them that I appreciate, especially
given the fact that I enjoy sex so much. Or my body seems to, anyway.
Well, fantasies cost nothing. And I, for one, like to stay in the fantasy world from time to time, finding a reprieve from my past.
Is that such a bad thing?
I’ve been checking up on Daniel every hour as the afternoon wore on, and evening is setting in. It’s getting so dark that I won’t be able to stay outside reading my book for much longer. He didn’t eat much of the soup I ordered, but at least he’s been drinking a lot of water, and I can always try to force some more into him later.
After yet another hour has passed -- it’s eight pm now -- I go to wake up Daniel. He’s lying on his stomach now, his head on an arm, turned slightly on the side, and I become lost in the sight before me once again.
That sinful body of his can only be described as a work of art: the curve of his spine, the long, lean muscles in his arms . . . and who knew that the veins there would turn me on like that? I just want to lick them! A lock of his thick hair has fallen, almost concealing his eyes completely, and my fingers are itching to brush it aside, allowing me to see his face completely.
Suddenly, his eyes open, and I gasp; they are not as glassy anymore, and the intensity in them takes me by surprise. I can’t pull away from the heat in his gaze, nor do I wish to; the green colour pulls me in, and I take a few more steps closer until he has to shift back to keep his eyes locked on mine.
In order to keep my body in check, I place my hands in the back pockets of the jeans I’m wearing today, and I clear my throat that feels awfully dry now.
“How are you feeling?” I croak out, my breaths picking up speed.
“Awful,” he grumbles, and his surly reply breaks the heaviness in the air, and I chuckle.
“Well, that’s honest,” I say and move to sit beside him. He shifts a bit on the bed, making more room for me, and I appreciate the gesture.