Page 36 of To Save Him

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

I WOULD HAVE thought that the intoxicating feeling of being completely infatuated with a younger man would make writing that day not necessarily easy but at least charged with tension, driven by the need to let something go.  Instead, my mind simply churned his image through my neural network over and over and over.

My veins were chugging, powered by thoughts obsessed, my heartbeat unsteady.  Sitting at my computer desk, I tapped my fingers on a few keys, only to sigh in frustration and bang on the backspace button and then sit in irritation as I watched that fucking black cursor line blink and blink and blink at me as if mocking my distraction.

I closed my eyes, forcing the air through my lips, wondering if I still had a vibrator sitting at the bottom of some neatly folded clothing somewhere.  I’d probably tossed it out in disgust a long time ago when it was apparent that I was no longer interested in sex.  Or orgasms.  Or romantic relationships.  Mel’s abandonment had made me lose faith first and then concern, and I’d been pretty sure my lady parts had withered in response.  No sense hanging onto unneeded tools.

Hah.  I’d been fooling myself all those years ago.  My lady parts hadn’t dried up, hadn’t rusted.  They’d merely gone to sleep, become dormant, but a new fire was reminding them what they’d been created for, and I’d begun the long slow climb to a steady ache, one that needed attention.  I now had a thirst that needed quenching, and there was no way I was going to subject that poor young man to my intense craving.

I knew now, though, that something had to give.  I was most definitely going to need to relieve myself at some point.  But the question now became how long I could go.  I knew that if I started satisfying myself if only to let off some steam, it would become a steady habit.  As long as Brandon was around and I found him attractive, he was going to be an unstoppable aphrodisiac.

Yes, I was destined to be in constant arousal.

Maybe a little wouldn’t hurt.  I glanced at the windows in my office.  Why I even worried, I wasn’t sure, because in all the years I’d lived here, I’d never had any strangers pop up at them all of a sudden.  My kids, when they used to play outside, or Mel, when he’d been my husband and did yard work, would appear at them or walk past them on occasion, but I’d never had some weirdo peeping Tom come watch me—whether I was working on a book or doing yoga or cleaning up.  The chances of someone appearing at just that moment were pretty slim.

So I closed my eyes and slithered a hand under the hem of my t-shirt, touching the skin on my belly, rolling my index finger in a circle…testing the waters, so to speak.  My mind had no problem conjuring up an image of Brandon’s lovely face, imagining what his lips on mine might feel like.  I could no longer recall how a man’s tongue inside my mouth might taste, so I couldn’t bring that sensation in to my fantasy, but I slid my hand up my belly, bringing first one finger and then another up my bra, blazing a slow trail over my rigid nipple.

I bit my lip.  Damn it.  This was so unproductive.

Ihadto find a way to channel this need into a book.

I gritted my teeth as I opened my eyes and pulled my hand out from under my shirt, being a little too rough with the mouse as I clicked the current document closed.

Want to save your changes?

Jesus.  I wanted to flip my fucking computer off.

I sighed again, realizing my jaw was locked, my teeth gnashing against each other in sheer frustration.  It wasn’t my poor computer’s fault.  I clicked theyesbutton, even though I was convinced the two paragraphs I’d written that afternoon were utter shit, and I opened a new document.

I had towriteout the sex scene.  I had to imagineon paperwhat my fantasy would be.  Then, later, if I had to live it out in my mind while my hands took me on the physical journey, so be it.  But Ihadto make this productive…had to make it fucking mean something.

I was a goddamned cougar, and as I started writing so furiously that my fingers were banging on the keyboard at likely over one hundred words per minute, I understood in the back of my mind how women like myself had earned that deprecating moniker.  It was because our youthful prey—lovely yet unsuspecting young men—would likely be torn apart by our overwhelming hunger, a need too impossible to restrain.

But the words began to flow onto the virtual paper like a raging river, one word, one sentence, one paragraph after another, and I clenched my legs together tightly.  My vagina didn’t drip at being aroused like it did in my youth, but it was still damp and begging to be touched.

Absolutely not.

I finished writing an entire page of sex, realizing I needed some dialogue, because right now it felt—well, it felt like fantasy.  It didn’t matter that that was what it really was—it needed tofeelreal to me, or my brain just wouldn’t buy it.

I let out a long breath, debating if I wanted to fill up my water glass or just slog along, forcing more onto the page…and that was when I heard a car door shut outside.

I lifted my head.  From where my office was, there was no way I could know who’d pulled up to the house.  I’d have to get up.  I glanced at the clock on my computer.  It was a little after three, and I realized that the vehicle could belong to anyone—it could be Annabel, bringing herself and JR home; it could be Brandon, because his shift was due to be over about this time today; or it could be the asshole Mel, ready to impose himself upon his poor children for one of his semi-annual attempts at becoming Father of the Year.

It was then that I panicked, worried what I might look like.  Did I look like the sex-starved raving lunatic I knew I was?  Did I seem distraught and frustrated?  Did I appear to be horny and ravenous?

I bolted up from the chair, rushing toward the door, and then I hurried back, closing and saving the document entitledI Can’t Get Nobefore heading out of the room.  I walked but almost ran to the bathroom, flipping on the light switch to examine my face.

Nope.  I looked completely normal.  There were no signs of having typed either an exhausting marathon or a rapid sprint across the page.  There was definitely no evidence that my burning pussy was fatigued from clenching against itself, begging for sweet release.  Nothing.  I looked like I often did, like the woman named Kimberly Cooper, writer and mother, looked just like she did any other day of the week.

Only I knew about the raging inferno inside.  And it was going to stay that way.