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She rolls off me, and I kiss her forehead.
“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” I whisper.
“Is that what you dream about during those boring meetings? Me, riding your cock?” She pops the k in cock and shoots me a devilish grin.
I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a librarian! I never knew you could be so vulgar!”
Eleanor kisses me again. “That’s the joke; librarians are always the biggest sluts.”
She nips at my neck and rakes her fingers down my shoulders. It’s tantalizing.
“Is it now? So, you’ve all got Kama Sutras hidden in your cardigans?”
“I mean, I keep my copy in my work locker, but it comes with the welcome packet,” she teases.
“Shit, in that case, I should’ve gotten a library card years ago.”
Eleanor stops. “You don’t have a library card?”
“It never came up!”
“Well, get one! I can’t date anyone who doesn’t have a library card!”
“Is that what we are? Are we dating?” I ask. It seems so childish when I say it.
Eleanor nods. “Well, yeah. I’d like to think so.” She kisses me again, biting my bottom lip. I groan and reach down again. She grabs my wrist. “But only if you get a library card.”
“Fine,” I relent.
Eleanor swats my shoulder as I roll my eyes.
Eleanor and I have developed a bit of a ritual. She claims she doesn’t like to sleep anywhere but in her bed, which I respect. So usually, after we sleep together, she’ll slip out from beneath my arms and return to her room.
But tonight, she falls asleep cocooned around me, and I must admit I like it. Our bodies fit like puzzle pieces. For the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without incident.
I can feel Eleanor in my arms in the hazy space between asleep and awake. Her skin is to the touch. She presses an icy foot against my leg, and I almost jolt away, but I need her. She presses her lips to my neck, and it’s like someone put an ice cube there. It’s so cold it hurts.
“Hey, Ele, stop,” I mumble, still half-asleep.
She tightens her grip around my waist, squeezing my ribs until they hurt. My stomach contracts. There’s too much pressure. I feel like I’m being smothered.
“Eleanor, STOP!” I command. But she’s not listening. She’s panting. She digs her nails into my cheek and scratches hard, raking the flesh in a jagged line. My nostrils fill with the scent of decay, nothing like Eleanor’s earthy perfume.
“Eleanor! Eleano—" The sound dies as she wraps her hand around my windpipe and squeezes. I can’t breathe.
Impulsively, my elbow connects with the hollow of her rib cage. I roll over to ask but the bed is empty. No one is there. The covers are rumpled and tossed to the side. There’s not even an indent on the pillow.
But I know someone was there. My ribcage is still throbbing. I tell myself it was a dream and try to go back to sleep.
The door opens, and Eleanor pops her head in. “Joseph, are you alright? I thought I heard yelling.”
Eleanor stands before me, wearing another of my old dress shirts as a nightgown. She reaches out and touches my neck.
Her hands are soft and warm. She presses the tip of her finger against my throat, and it feels like a gentle breeze, nothing like the harsh chill of before.
“You’ve got a bruise,” she says gently.
“What?” I ask.
