Page 93 of Dual
I’m halfway across the Stairway when a strong gust of wind hits, making the structure shudder beneath me. The vibration travels up through my legs, my spine, rattling my teeth. The horizon tilts again, more violently this time.
My foot slips, skidding off the metal rung.
For one heart-stopping moment, oh god, I’m falling! A primal scream tears from my throat.
My body drops like a stone before the safety harness catches, a brutal jerk that knocks the air from my lungs.
I’m dangling now, suspended by the harness, my feet swinging in empty air as I claw desperately for any grip.
The safety cable bites into my hands as I finally grasp it with the strength of pure terror. Far below, the desert floor seems to rush up to meet me and recede simultaneously, a dizzying optical illusion that makes my stomach heave.
Terror floods my system, a white-hot surge of adrenaline that makes my vision go dark at the edges. Every cell in my body is electrified with fear, my consciousness narrowing to a single, desperate plea.
Mads! MADS!
But as the initial shock passes, as I realize the harness has done its job and I’m still very much alive, I’m hit with crushing disappointment. Because I’m still me. Still just Anna, shaking and dangling from a safety harness four hundred feet above the desert floor.
Mads didn’t come.
“I’ve got you,” Mike’s calm voice breaks through my panic. He’s moved back to help, one strong hand gripping my harness, steadying me. “Just get your feet back on the rungs. That’s it. You’re doing great.”
With his help, I’m pulled up and manage to regain my footing, trembling but secure once more on the Stairway. Domhnall has closed the distance between us as well, his face pale.
His arms immediately close around me.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice tight. His whole body is shaking in fear for me.
I cling to his solid shape. “I’m sorry,” I whisper into his shirt. “I’m so sorry.”
And I am—sorry for scaring him, sorry for putting myself in danger.
But most of all, I’m sorry that none of it worked.
THIRTY
DOMHNALL
My once afraid-of-intimacyfiancé is now all but sex-starved. After the scare on the Stairway that day last week, unless she’s off in meditation, she’s quite literally throwing herself at me all day long. She crawls my body every moment we’re awake. Monday, when I was on a late-afternoon business call, she climbed beneath the desk and gave me a blowjob that nearly had my eyes crossing while I was trying to sort out the details of a contract with Beijing. I ended the call early and pounded her there on the floor for her naughtiness.
Don’t get me wrong. I can’t imagine a better way to spend a pre-honeymoon.
Except for the feeling I can’t shake that something’s going on with her. Something she’s not opening up about.
I thought we were done with secrets, so I’ve been giving her time to open up to me about it. But when I ask what’s wrong, she just blinks her eyes like she has no idea what I’m talking about and quickly squeaks out, “Nothing!”
Then, before I know it, she’s distracting me with sex again.
Like now, for instance.
I literally cannot remember what the hell we were just talking about when she sets down her napkin after our in-room dinner and stares me in the eye.
“What do you think about fucking me while I’m asleep?”
I choke on the sip of wine I’ve just taken, coughing. She can’t mean what I think she means.
I wipe my mouth with my own cloth napkin. “What do you mean?”
“Somnophilia,” she says. Fuck. That was what I thought she meant. “I want to try it. I want you to take me while I’m unconscious.”
