Hotter Blood: More Tales of Erotic Horror

'Yeah?' Joyce heard his husky laugh. 'You sick?'

'I'm sure running a fever,' she said. 'I'm hot. I'm just so hot I had to strip myself stark naked. I don't know what could be the matter with me.'

'How high is your temperature?'

'I just don't know, Kenny. I don't have the strength to get up and fetch the thermometer. Why don't you come over and bring yours? That big one you've got between your legs.'

Silence for a moment. Then Ken asked, 'What about Harold?'

'Oh, don't you worry about him.'

'That's what you said the last time, and he almost caught us at it.'

'Well, it's absolutely safe tonight. I can guarantee it. He went off to New York, New York, and he won't be back till Sunday evening.'

'When did he leave?'

'You are a nervous nelly.'

'I just don't want any trouble.'

'Well, he left this morning. And you needn't worry that he missed his flight. He phoned me just a few minutes ago from his room at the Marriott. He's three thousand miles away, so I'm sure there's no danger whatsoever of him popping in on us.'

'How do you know he didn't call from a pay phone a mile away and say he's at the New York Marriott? Maybe he's at the Brentwood Chevron.'

'My, aren't we paranoid?'

'Why don't you phone the hotel? Just make sure he actually did check in, then call me back. If he's there, like he says, I'll come right over.'

Joyce sighed. 'Well, if I must, I must.'

'I'll wait right here.'

After hanging up, she rolled sideways, cradled the telephone, swung her legs off the bed and sat up.

What a nuisance.

Harold was in New York, just as he'd said. He had been nominated for a Bram Stoker award for that disgusting novel of his, and he certainly wouldn't miss his chance to bask in the glory. Tonight, he would be sopping up liquor in the hospitality suite with Joe and Gary and Chet and Rick and the others, yukking it up and having a ball. Joyce would be the farthest thing from his mind.

Even if he did have his suspicions about her — even if he didn't care a whit about chumming around with those other writers, even if he weren't nominated — he still wouldn't have the balls to pretend he'd gone to New York so that he could sneak back to the house and catch her with Ken.

Such a gutless wonder.

Such a wimp that even if he walked in on her by accident and caught her in full rut with Ken, he would probably do no more than blush, say nothing, and walk away.

Silly of Ken to worry about him at all.

What did he think, Harold might shoot him? Harold was terrified of guns. He probably wouldn't use one to save his own life, much less to blow away his wife's lover. And without a gun, Harold wouldn't stand a chance against Ken.

Ken, a 290-pound giant, all hard bulging muscles, could take care of little Harold without breaking a sweat.

She waited a while longer, then picked up the telephone and tapped Ken's number. He answered after the first ring.

'Hello?'

'Hello yourself, big man.'

'Is he there?'

'According to the front desk, he checked in at six o'clock this evening.'

'All right. I'm on my way.'

'I'll leave the front door unlocked. Just come right in and see if you can find me.'

'Ciao,' he said.

'Yuck. Don't say that. That's what Harold always says. It's so pretentious.'

'See you in ten minutes.'

'Much better. See you then.'

She hung up, stepped to the closet and reached for her satin robe. Then she decided not to bother with it. She was feeling hot. Though she would have to walk past windows to reach the front door, it was unlikely that anyone would see her. There were no other houses adjacent to their own, and hedges made it impossible for anyone to see her house from the road.

She left the bedroom, walking swiftly, enjoying the soft feel of the air stirring against her skin and the way her breasts jiggled just a little when she trotted down the stairs.

At the bottom, she saw her dark reflection in the window beside the front door.

She imagined a peeping Tom gazing in at her and felt a small tremor. Not a tremor of fear, she realized. For the benefit of the imaginary voyeur, she brushed her thumbs across the jutting tips of her nipples. The touch made her breath tremble.

She unlocked the door.

Her heart thumped and she trembled even more as she considered opening the door and stepping out onto the stoop. Waiting there for Ken. In the moonlight, in the open, the warm night breezes licking at her.

Some other time. Maybe later tonight, they could go outside together. But not now. She had already decided how to greet Ken, and she didn't have much time.

She hurried about, turning off all the downstairs lights before rushing upstairs again, where she shut off the hallway lights. Now the entire house was dark except for the master bedroom.

She entered, flicked a switch to kill the bedside lamps, then made her way carefully over the carpet to the bathroom. She put its lights on, but only for the moment she needed to find the matchbook and strike a match.

She shut the door and fingered the switch down. Then she touched the flame to the wick of the first candle. That was enough for now. She shook out the match. The single remaining flame was caught by the mirrors that covered every wall and the ceiling. The bathroom shimmered with fluttering, soft light.

Joyce smiled.

Harold has his damned tub, I have my lovely mirrors.

When they'd remodeled the bathroom, she had wanted a spacious sunken tub. Harold had insisted on his white elephant. It was a hideous ancient thing that stood on tiger feet in the middle of the floor. Like a showpiece. And he did enjoy showing it. He would bring his friends upstairs to the master bathroom so they could admire the monstrosity while he told them the whole long boring story of how he'd gotten it at an estate sale in Hollywood. Some bimbo actress from the silent-screen days had supposedly slit her wrists while she was in the thing. Cashed in her chips, Harold liked to say. In this very tub.

What a schmuck, Joyce thought as she bent over the tub and turned on its faucets. Water gushed from its spout. When it felt good and hot, she plugged the drain with the rubber stopper. She straightened up and wiped her wet hand on her thigh.

At least I got my mirrors out of the deal, she thought.

She had let him have the stupid haunted tub, and he'd let her have the mirrors.

She admired herself in them as she made her way around the bathroom, lighting more candles.

The wavering mellow glow made her eyes shine, her russet hair sparkle and gleam. Her skin looked dusky and golden. When the last candle was burning, she set down the matches and stretched, turning slowly, arms high.

She was surrounded by Joyces, all of them shimmering and mysterious. She gazed at their sleek, arched backs curving down to the perfect mounds of their buttocks. She gazed at the velvety backs of their thighs, legs tapering down to soft calves and delicate ankles. Still turning slowly, she lowered her arms and interlaced her fingers behind her head. All the Joyces did the same. They had such long, elegant necks. Shadows were pooled in the hollows of their throats and above the bows of their collar bones. Their breasts were high, the color of honey, tipped a deeper hue of gold. Below them, the rib cages were maybe a little too prominent. Harold certainly thought