"Bradley Denton - We Love Lydia Love" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denton Bradley)

back before the sweat from our last round of lovemaking has dried. It makes perfect
sense.

But Lydia shoves me away and gets out of bed. She stands over me
wild-eyed, her neck and arm muscles popped out hard as marble.

“You just got back, and now you want to leave?” Her voice is like the cry of a
hawk. She is enraged, and I’m stunned. This has come on like storm clouds on
fast-forward.

She’s waiting for an answer, so I listen for a prompt from the Christopher
chip. But there isn’t one.

“Just for groceries,” I say. My voice is limp.

Lydia spins away. She goes to her mahogany dresser, pulls it out from the
wall, and shoves it over. The crash makes me jump. Then she flings a crystal vase
against the wall. Her hair whips like fire in a tornado. All the while she rants, “I
thought you were dead, and you’re going out to die again. I thought you were dead,
and you’re going out to die again. I thought —”

I start up from the bed. I want to grab her and hold her before she hurts
herself. She’s naked, and there are slivers of crystal sticking up from the thick gray
carpet.

Stay put. We never try to stop her.

But she already has a cut on her arm. It’s small, but there’s some blood —

She always quits before she does serious damage. So let her throw her
tantrum. It’s a turn-on for her. She expects it to have the same effect on us.
 Lydia looks down and sees herself in the dresser mirror on the floor. She
screams and stamps her feet on it. The mirror doesn’t crack, but she’s still
stamping, and when it breaks she’ll gash her feet. I have to stop her.

No.

This isn’t right. But if Christopher would let her rage, then I must do likewise
if I want her to believe I’m him. Even now, as she attacks the mirror, she’s looking
at me with suspicion inside her fury.

She expects arousal.

Having trouble getting aroused in the presence of a naked Lydia Love was not
a problem I anticipated.

She stops screaming and stamping as if a switch in her brain has been flipped
to OFF. The mirror has cracked, but it hasn’t cut her feet. She leaves it and comes
toward me, moving with tentative steps, avoiding the broken pieces of crystal.
Except for the nick on her arm, she seems to be all right. The rage has drained from