Shiver : 13 Sexy Tales of Humor and Horror - Aurora Belle - Страница 8
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He has a dark, intense stare in his eyes as he slides my panties over my thighs, across my knees, and past my calves. He twists them around his wrist as he tugs, tighter and tighter. Without breaking eye contact, he twists until his wrist, and the knot of pink lace, rests at my ankles.
I look up at him, at his dark eyes and hair, and the neatly-trimmed beard he’s been sporting this fall. He looks more like a man than I’ve ever seen him. He’s not the teenager I remember — which is good, or I’d end up on Nancy Grace. He’s grown up and sexier than ever.
I take in the sight of my stiletto-ed feet on his shoulder and I’m glad I decided to walk Lucie to school this morning in heels. There’s something seriously hot about lace panties and stilettos. This image wouldn’t be nearly as nice if I’d worn my Skechers today.
He closes his eyes before he runs his panty-covered wrist under his nose and inhales. I think he just smelled my underwear. Is that creepy or sexy? I decide on sexy because creepy would be a mood killer, and I’m not letting anything ruin this moment for me. Not even that Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed toy on the couch. I swear that thing is staring at me.
I don’t have time to worry about Winnie because the man who just tied my legs together gives me a cocky grin. Without breaking his stare, he slowly unwinds the panties from his wrist. When he pulls his hand free, he places the lace between his teeth to keep my ankles tightly together. Then he unbuttons his pants.
“Go-od morn-ing,” I heard, in a woman’s singsong voice.
“I hate you,” I muttered, as I leaned over and grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand. I hurried to swipe my finger across the snooze button before the annoying troll could say another word. What a rude awakening.
I set my phone back on the nightstand, closed my eyes, and snuggled closer into my pillow. I wanted that dream back. I wanted to see him again. I had nine more minutes to finally see what he had in his pants. We could get a lot done in nine minutes.
I didn’t usually snooze on Friday mornings. Don’t get me wrong. I was a devoted snoozer. On Mondays through Thursdays I hit snooze at least three times before I dragged myself out of bed to get Lucie ready for school. I then walked her there in the same yoga pants and t-shirt I slept in the night before, my face greasy with night cream, and my hair looking like it hadn’t seen a comb since Prince was referred to by a symbol. And I was totally okay being a mess — on Mondays through Thursdays.
Today was Friday. Fridays were different. Fridays were the days Ben Ogea walked his daughter to school. Ben Ogea was the reason I didn’t snooze on Fridays. He was also the reason I’d woken up with my panties in a twist this morning.
Oh shit. I sat up in bed when I remembered. This wasn’t an ordinary Friday. It was Halloween. I needed extra time to get Lucie into her Frozen costume and braid her hair like a princess. There was no chance of finishing that dream this morning.
I sighed and reached into the drawer of my nightstand for my bullet. Thanks to a brand new set of batteries in my boy-toy, I was ready to start my day in approximately twenty seconds.
7:32 A.M.
I had spent the last five nights watching blog tutorials and playing with Lucie’s American Girl doll trying to master the princess crown braid. I wanted to surprise her with my newfound hair skills, and maybe earn the Best Mom of the Week award. Turned out this wasn’t my week. (Last week wasn’t either.)
After a few failed attempts and tangles, we ran out of time. Lucie had to settle for an ordinary French braid pulled across her shoulder. Sometimes, when I thought too much about it, I felt like Lucie had to settle for a lot.
I realized that most of the girls in Lucie’s class would be dressed as Elsa from Frozen. I’d tried to talk her out of the costume. I’d tried to get her to choose something more unique. One thing I should note about my six-year-old is that she didn’t mind being like everyone else. Another thing I should note is that she didn’t mind being different either, when she wanted to be. She hadn’t yet learned to care what other people thought, and that made me feel like I’d gotten at least one thing right with her. Me, I was still trying to unlearn this — a revelation that grew clearer to me every day.
There was a competition that took place every morning outside Lucie’s elementary school by a group of moms I’d dubbed The Fucker Mothers. You’ve seen the movie Mean Girls, right? Imagine those girls growing up, having children, and spending a little too much time on Pinterest. Then imagine their kids going to school with yours.
Here, let me introduce you: There’s Shauna— blonde, shapely, goes to (insert some kind of exercise class) four times a week, married to a (insert occupation of a person who works a lot), drives a (insert designer car), and is the mother of the smartest, brightest, most athletic student in the school, who also happens to be a (insert word for a child who has been raised to believe he/she can do no wrong).
I’d introduce you to Melissa, Tabitha, and Vanessa, too, but I’d only be repeating myself. You’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. Just fill in the blanks with an appropriate word, and you’ve got the picture.
Last year, on Lucie’s first day of kindergarten, they’d tried to befriend me with their morning chitchat. It went something like this: Omigod! She’s got that baby forward-facing already? Doesn’t she know the dangers? I heard she uses a leash on her kid. Where’d she get that skirt? The Family Dollar? You know her son had to have a cavity filled. A cavity at five years old? And don’t even get me started on that kid’s name. I feel like we’re living in a trailer park every time I hear it. And did you hear her husband finally got a new job after being laid off? He’s only making five figures. She might have to get a job herself, though I don’t know how she will. I mean, she clearly has no skills of any kind. Is that little girl really wearing that shirt again? What is this? The third time this week? You know, I heard she uses boxed hair color. NO! Yes! And guess what her daughter brought for snack time yesterday — Goldfish crackers. How can anyone let their child eat such poison? Doesn’t she read anything she sees on the internet? Doesn’t she pay attention in her Weight Watchers class? I mean, assuming she is in Weight Watchers. If she’s not, she should be. So … who wants to get a margarita for breakfast? It’s noon somewhere, right, girls? (Insert evil giggle.)
I was not able to join them for margaritas before their Pilates class, because I was one of those poor schmucks who had to work. Because my husband died young. My husband died two years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, in a fork-lift accident at work. He left behind a four-year-old daughter who loved Goldfish crackers, and sometimes asked to wear the same shirt three times in one week. He also left behind a wife who didn’t know how to live without him, and had a hard enough time getting out of bed in the morning, let alone listening to this bullshit before nine A.M. And guess what else, bitches? This is boxed color on my hair. (Gasp.)
I didn’t say any of that out loud though. I smiled and politely declined the invite instead. I didn’t usually tell people what I really thought about them. That kind of shit would just get me into trouble. And without Will, I wouldn’t know how to get out of it.
Will had been my partner-in-crime since junior year of high school. Both introverts, the two of us — plus Lucie once she was born — had lived happily and quietly in our own private cocoon. Until death did us part.
You know how you’re supposed to make every moment count because you never knew when it would be your last? I can’t say we made every moment count. I would bet most people didn’t live that way. If we said goodbye every day as if it were the last time we’d ever see each other, imagine how tragic and intense life would be. Sometimes we just had to have faith that the person we loved would be coming home from work that day, and that we would get a lot more chances to perfect our goodbyes.
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