Driving Her Crazy by Amy Andrews

five.
    A knock heralded the arrival of his food and he was grateful for something to do to fill up the long hours ahead.

    Kent was relieved when Sadie finally moved five hours later. He was beginning to wonder if she’d lapsed into a coma. If it weren’t for her regular deep breathing and the occasional soft, snuffly snore, he’d have checked her pulse hours ago.
    He, on the other hand, was still well and truly awake. He’d eaten his steak, drunk two more beers, ordered them some breakfast on a card he’d hung on the outside doorknob, gone through his camera gear again, fiddled with the air-conditioning thermostat several times trying to find a happy medium and consulted the map at least half a dozen times.
    He’d watched some B-grade movie and reruns of eighties sit-coms for hours. And now he was flicking between channels, avoiding the twenty-four-hour news stations in favour of twenty-four-hour infomercials.
    Sadie flopping onto her back was a welcome distraction. Her head had rolled his way, the light flickering from the television throwing her face into interesting relief. Her skin looked even paler in the glow and long shadows fell on her cheeks from her eyelashes. Her delectable full mouth also eerily pale in the ghostly television glow seemed pursed as if ready for action.
    His gaze drifted down. The sheet had ridden low exposing her T-shirt. Her perfectly plain, high-necked, nothing remotely provocative T-shirt. Hell, she was even wearing a bra! But that didn’t obscure the fascinating bloom of her breasts, large and round and perfect, tenting the shirt, stretching it across their expanse. His eyes followed the line of the shirt as it fell again towards the flat of her ribs and the slight rise of her belly and he could just make out a thin strip of creamy skin before the sheet covered the rest of her.
    His gaze drifted up again as he contemplated what she’d look like without the shirt. And the sheet. Would her nipples be pale too, like the rest of her, or would they be darker, closer to the colour of her mouth?
    What would they taste like?
    His groin stirred.
    Then she moved, murmured something unintelligible, flung an arm above her head.
    Kent looked away hurriedly.
    What the hell was the matter with him? Perving on a woman whilst she slept? Imagining her naked. Like some oversexed teenager? Like some perverted stalker.
    The number of things that were wrong with this scenario bought him to his feet. He rummaged through his bag, found some shorts and a T-shirt, dragged his shoes back on, grabbed the room key and headed out of the door.

    Unlike Sydney, which never seemed to sleep, Cunnamulla at one in the morning was deserted. Nothing was open, no lights were on, no traffic rattled by as Kent launched himself into the cool night air with vigour. He pounded the pavements of the sleepy little town for an hour with only the occasional bark from a dog for company.
    The physio had recommended he started light jogging as soon as the orthopod had cleared him five months ago and, like everything he did in life, Kent adopted it with gusto. It had helped to strengthen his right ankle significantly but it had also been a useful tool to cope with his insomnia. The accompanying exhaustion usually resulted in good quality sleep, unlike the other alternatives—alcohol and pills.
    Beer and sleeping tablets certainly got him off to sleep very effectively but it was fitful and haunted by the things he could keep at bay during the day. The cries of Dwayne Johnson begging for his mother. The smell of jet fuel. The searing heat of nearby flames.
    He seemed to wake more exhausted than he went to bed. And hung over to boot.
    Running was far, far preferable.
    Sadie was still sleeping soundly when he let himself back into the room. He barely looked at her as he headed for the bathroom. He shut the door, stripped off his clothes, turned the taps on and stepped into the spray. He closed his eyes, braced his outstretched arms against