Scott Nicholson - Chronic fear

“We just escaped into a bigger Monkey House.”

The ember went out in her belly before it could be fanned into a flame. She released his erection and gave it a friendly pat. “We’re both exhausted,” she said. “Let’s save this for later.”

He didn’t argue as she turned out the light. They lay there in silence, and it felt like hours to Alexis before she drifted into a restless sleep as Mark twitched beside her.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Wendy asked, propped up on pillows and flipping through a book of Gauguin prints.

Roland dropped the curtain. “It’s quiet outside.”

“We’re half a mile from the nearest neighbors and twenty miles from town,” she said. “We wanted quiet on purpose, remember?”

“Yeah, but it’s April. Where are all the crickets and night birds and critters? It’s like the pope’s funeral out there.”

“Everybody needs a break once in a while. Maybe God is taking the night off.”

“I don’t like it,” he said.

“You’ve been antsy since dinner. What’s wrong?”

He unbuttoned his shirt and stroked his belly. After he’d quit drinking, he’d lost about fifteen pounds, but lately a little fat had crept back. His dad had been chubby, a truck driver whose sedentary lifestyle led to a fatal heart attack on US-70 while hauling a trailer-load of culvert pipes. He’d steered to his right with his last breath, running off the road and avoiding a likely pileup that might have kept the coroner busy for weeks.

Or the last turn could have been a little of that infamous Doyle luck. Roland preferred the hero story, because it would have been the only positive act of Denny Doyle’s fear-ridden life. And fear was a chronic disease that people happily spread to others, especially their loved ones. For Roland, the infection had taken liquid form, a handy excuse to destroy himself and those around him. Especially Wendy.

But this new fear was a little unsettling, because it was one he didn’t think he could just pour down the sink or turn over to a higher power.

“Where do you go when it’s already as good as it gets?” he said. “You’re the hillbilly Bohemian and I’m the creative entrepreneur, and we’re here in the oldest pocket of dirt in the universe. But what’s the next level?”

“Maybe there’s no next level,” she said. “Maybe when you get to heaven, it’s okay to stay there.”

He finished undressing and climbed into bed. He didn’t think heaven could exist on the same planet that once contained the Monkey House, and where now the hellish past refused to leave them alone. But Wendy’s memory of those events was mercifully erased, and Roland had to carry that cross alone.

Well, with the help of his higher power. But the higher power was the one that had built the cross in the first place.

“Do you miss teaching at the university?” he asked.

She closed the art book and set it aside. “That was a different life, honey. I like this one better.”

He couldn’t help probing a little, though he didn’t really see any upside to jogging her memory. “Heard from Alexis lately?”

“She IMed me a few months back,” Wendy said. “Mark’s having some physical ailments but nothing serious.”

Yeah, I’ll bet. Getting your brains scrambled in a blender and then shoved back inside your skull is no big deal.

“Maybe we ought to invite them up for a few days,” he said. “I’m sure they’d love to get away from the big city for a while.”

“Chapel Hill isn’t that big. Besides, where would we put them? You got a one-bedroom cabin on purpose, to make sure children weren’t an option anytime soon.”

“A small cabin is something we can pay off in five years,” he said. “In this economy, I don’t want to be tied down to a redneck Taj Mahal.”

“So quit complaining about the silence,” she said, turning to him and shoving the pillows until their faces were inches apart.

“Yeah,” he said. “So shut up and kiss me.”

Their lips brushed, and the electricity went through Roland’s body. As much as the notion repulsed him, he’d come to accept that the Seethe had charged his libido. Wendy could send him from zero to sixty faster than a Maserati.

And he had a handy excuse whenever a new paranoia arose. When somebody else was in control, that made the consequences somebody else’s fault.

Every four hours or else. Sounds like a good prescription for a happy marriage.

Her breath teased across his cheek and she licked his neck, then blew on it, sending shivers down his spine. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt and peeled it up, brushing her belly with the back of his hand until he came to the valley between her small, pert breasts. He ran one thumb over to tease a nipple, pleased to feel it stiffen and push back.

“I love you, Roland,” she whispered.

Damn. I fall for that line every single time. But who doesn’t?

“So shut up and turn off the light,” he whispered back.

He didn’t mind doing it with the lights on, but he felt the need to hide a little. Honesty was not only the foundation of his sobriety, it was the foundation of a good relationship. But sometimes honesty just meant shutting up, especially when a mysterious e-mail hinted at a best-forgotten past.

Roland had her shirt off by the time she reached the lamp, and he curled behind her to pin his erection between her buns. He stroked there a moment, running his hands over her front, his face buried in her thick, luxuriant hair. He didn’t know whether her Tibetan genetics gave it that faintly musky aroma, but it always evoked strong memories of past pleasure.

Right now, all he cared about was the present, and pleasure yet to come.

He nuzzled the back of her neck in that special spot, then gave a playful nip to her earlobe. She pushed gently back against him, undulating so her vagina moved against his rigid length. He swept his hands underneath her breasts, gently, rubbing up to the nipples and circling in a soft rhythm.

Her body was like a warm instrument beneath his hands, and he worked his fingers in harmony, teasing her nipples. When he could stand it no longer, he rose and maneuvered over her until he could apply his tongue. She moaned and gave him her breast, and he sucked like he was drawing juice from a peach.

He resisted the urge to bite, as the sickness rode in with his lust. Their sex had darkened in the past year, becoming uncertain, explosive, and fraught with veiled violence. And part of him loved it. Loved it very goddamned much.

As she pinched his nipple, he went to full hardness, and in response he bit her nipple, careful to tuck his lip under his upper teeth. She grunted and pulled away, planting her tongue deep in his mouth, and they parried for a moment in a swap of hot saliva.

Wendy came up for air first, turning so that she was under him, then sucked hard on his nipple until it swelled to a painful point. When he could stand it no longer, she gave him teeth and he gasped, then she gave him more than he could stand.

His hand played down her hips and stroked the smooth insides of her thighs, moving into her downy thatch of hair, which was already moist. He cupped his palm over her heat, kneading gently for a moment before sliding a fingertip to her clitoris. He brought the juice to his lips and smeared, then she licked away the remnants, sharing her taste with him.

She rubbed the head of his penis, where a jewel of dew had already formed, and they repeated the fluid game on her lips before sharing a tender kiss, the calm before the storm.

“I love you,” he said, sliding his tongue down her neck and chest as his hands cupped her behind. He probed his tongue into her belly button and gave a few playful pokes before heading further down, where her scent was already consuming his senses. His nose rode the length of her cleft, and he marveled at the soft texture that was so much like a flower’s swollen and honeyed petals.