by Remy Rose
“The little one with the light-colored rocks...that’s your innocence, your vulnerability. I was drawn to that right off.”
He walks me from cairn to cairn, keeping my hand in his, until he’s told me about each connection: a cairn that appears to widen toward the top, for the trust I showed in him and for what he’s built toward me. A solid stack for my strength of character, a tower of “the prettiest rocks” he could find to represent how he’s attracted to me. There is even a small cairn for Murphy, with a curve of little rocks in a shallow S for the tail. And lastly, the biggest stack of all: his feelings for me—complete with a heart-shaped rock on top.
“So like I said, I’ve learned a lot about cairns, and I saw some posts on line from people pissed off about rocks being moved around and little creatures being disturbed, but since I’m freezing my ass off out here, I figured there wasn’t anything actually living under them. At least, I hope not. And we can definitely take them all down.” He looks so earnest, so genuinely concerned, I have all I can do not to throw my arms around him, hold him tight.
But there is more that Jack Decker needs to say. He takes my other hand so that he’s holding both, rubbing his gloved thumbs over my knuckles, warming my chilled skin.
I feel his touch everywhere within me.
He sighs shakily, that perfectly-sculpted mouth parting. “Jesus, this was a lot easier to say when only my truck could hear me. I’ve got to be honest, Callaway—the feelings I’m having scare me shitless—way beyond my spider phobia. And that’s why I kept pushing you away, until I finally got it through my head that you can’t escape something that’s in your heart. As much as I tried to deny what was happening, I kept taking you with me.”
His eyes don’t leave my face. They skim over my forehead, down the bridge of my nose and linger on my lips. I can’t stop trembling.
“When a female client would call me for a job, I’d make a game out of predicting what she would look like. I’m usually pretty accurate, but with you, I was totally wrong. In my defense, though...nothing could have prepared me for your reality. And I was wrong about thinking I could apply my usual rules to you. I couldn’t. Most of all, I was wrong to think I could leave you. Because I fucking can’t.”
My cheeks are wet, but it’s a warm wet, spilling out of my eyes and mingling with the light rain. I want to wipe them, but I don’t want to let go of his hands. Or him. Ever.
“I would have arrived at this conclusion at some point on my own, but I had some help from a very wise man who taught me about the importance of not wasting time.” His eyes are glistening.
I almost don’t dare to ask, but I have to. “What about Concord?”
Jack shakes his head. “I’m not going. I called my dad today and told him. He took the news way better than I expected. There’s even a good chance he’ll still have me take over for him and stay in Maine. I recommended my buddy Drew to run the store down there, and Dad liked the idea, so it’s a win-win. Drew gets to move up in the company, which he totally deserves, and I get to...stay.”
The sea breeze whips strands of hair into my mouth, and I reluctantly let go of Jack’s hand to brush them away. My heart soars into the November night, somewhere over the clouds that can’t hold on to the rain any longer, just as I can’t hold on to my tears, or my joy.
“Oh,” is all I can manage to say, although what I’m thinking is, oh. My. GOD. He’s going to stay. Jack is going to stay.
He puts a hand on each side of my face, brushing my cheekbones with his thumbs. “Don’t cry, my sweet girl,” he murmurs.
Which of course brings fresh tears. “I love...your truck,” I sob. “I really, really love your truck, and seeing it in my driveway.”
“I love my truck in your driveway, too, Callaway. And I love your house. Funny thing about houses...there’s a feeling that each one gives off. When I walked into yours, I was surprised that it felt so comforting and familiar. Now I know why.” His voice grows husky. “Because I felt like I’d come home.”
With a little choked cry, I stand up on my tiptoes, as high as I can, and wrap my arms around his neck. He bends toward me, making one of the sexiest half-groans, half-sighs that could ever be uttered and crushes my lips with his warm mouth. We kiss and gasp at how good it feels and kiss some more, until he breaks away. “Callaway...I want to kiss you forever, but can we do it inside? Because I can’t feel my ass. Literally, I can’t feel it.”
Laughing, I slide my hands around to the back side of him and squeeze. “No worries...it’s still there. Still firm, still grope-able, still amazing. But yes, let’s go in.”
I wrap my arms around myself as Jack races to the generator and shuts it off, then scoops me up in his arms and buries his cold nose in my neck, making me squirm and giggle. And even though there is a frigid wind coming off the water, a hard rain pelting my head, and there’s not a star to be seen in this black, black night, everything is color, everything is brightness, everything is warmth...and I love November, so much.
T H E E N D
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Sexy Mother Faker
by
Remy Rose
Prologue...1985
The dorm room smells faintly of male sweat, and spilled beer. All right, more than just faintly, but I don’t care, because I am with him.
I take a quick look around. It’s what I would have expected, except with more unwashed socks. There’s a neon PBR beer sign with a couple of bulbs missing, and there are posters—AC/DC on tour, Sybil Danning in a white string bikini, a topless Monique Gabrielle from “Bachelor Party,” a woman in a thong bending over to get beer on the bottom rack of the refrigerator.
I’ve detected two clear themes here.
There are two beds, one on either side of the room, and I silently hope that his is the neater, made one. I see a mini-fridge in the corner, a rugby uniform in a crumpled heap on the floor, an open notebook, stack of textbooks and a gooseneck lamp on one of the desks, red Solo cups (some scattered, some stacked) on the deep windowsill.
I feel the need to take in every little detail, because I want to remember everything about the night I lose my virginity.
He goes to the closet, takes out a striped necktie. I watch, my heart pounding, as he opens the door and drapes the tie over the knob, flashing me a slightly embarrassed, totally adorable grin.
He doesn’t have to tell me what that means.
“Want something to drink?”
I nod. I don’t even ask what he has, because it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I am here, with him.
He walks back to the closet, reaches up to the top shelf and takes down a bottle of Svedka, then gets a clean Solo cup from the stack on the windowsill and makes us both Screwdrivers with the orange juice from his mini-fridge. When he leads me over to the unmade bed to sit, I forgive him for not being the neat side because I’ve already fallen in love with him.
He’s looking at me steadily as he finishes his drink. He has the most beautiful eyes—they were what I noticed first when we were paired together a couple months ago in our Economic Theory class. His eyes are large, dark and expressive with lashes any girl would envy...the type of eyes you could fall into and never want to come out. I noticed his mouth second—how his lips looked perfectly moisturized and supremely kissable. And then all the rest of him received a fair share of stares from me as well—his thick brown hair that always seemed adorably unruly, his broad shoulders, trim waist and muscular build.
He takes my his empty cup and slips it inside his. I
t feels symbolic somehow, and I involuntarily shiver, thinking of what’s going to happen soon.
“We’ve got to be careful about this. About people finding out.”
“Yes, we do.” I’m well aware. Our parents would kill us.
He looks concerned, almost troubled, and I lay my hand on his arm. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “We’ll just be careful. And it’s kind of exciting, being secretive.”
I’ve said just the right thing. He lights up. I see a simmering in those dark eyes, and heated want slides into my belly.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the hair away from my face, letting the blonde strands slip through his fingers. He slides over closer, and then we are a tangle of arms and groping hands, of hot mouths and eager tongues. His lips are soft but insistent, and I am more turned on than I’ve ever been in my life, listening to him groan as we kiss.
My blouse is off, my bra unclasped, and he carefully lays me down on his bed, taking his shirt off while keeping his gaze on me. Impulsively, I reach out to grasp the bulge in his jeans, and he groans louder. “Fuck, I want you...so much.”
“Have me,” I whisper. “Have all of me.”
We each wriggle out of our pants. He is so beautiful in the neon light of the beer sign. I draw in my breath at the sight of his erect penis. He has me help him put on the condom—this seems to excite him even more—and then, the intense sensation of him pressing between my legs.
A momentary bite of pain as he slides into me, but I am very wet, and the friction soon feels amazing. I’m not quite sure what to do, but I lift my hips as he thrusts, hooking my legs around him, and he seems to appreciate this. He says my name over and over...tells me he’s almost there...and then I feel him shudder. I haven’t come yet, but after he rolls off me, he fingers me expertly, and I cry out as I climax.
I am delirious, practically glowing. Being with him is even more wonderful than I’d fantasized.
“That was...amazing,” he grins, shaking his head. We kiss, deeply, and I make him laugh when I tell him I want to do it again.
“We will,” he promises. “This is only the beginning.”
The beginning of what I hope will be my forever.
Thirty one years later…
Chapter 1 / Damon
There are some interns that really go above and beyond at Cavanaugh Yacht. The kind you just know will go places. And right now, our newest intern is going...down.
Down, like on me, underneath my desk while I’m leaning back a little in my swivel chair, tilting my pelvis toward her because Jesus, her mouth. Eva’s taking it deep with absolutely no indication I’ve tripped her gag reflex. From the way she’s working it, it’s pretty obvious she’s been in this position a few times before.
I love watching a girl give head—seeing the way my cock slides in and out of her mouth, looking at the way her lips stretch to take it all in. She’s got just the right amount of suction, knows just how to lightly tickle my balls with her fingertips. Her college education has clearly involved more than just business classes.
I reach down to stroke her silky black hair, brushing strands of it away so I can get a better view of her face. Her eyes are closed, and there’s a blend of concentration and tranquility in her expression, like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
There is most definitely nowhere else I want her to be right now.
The friction of her wet, warm mouth is pushing me to the brink of coming. I give a low groan, close my eyes and let my head fall back as though I’m lying in my king-sized bed at home instead of sitting at my mahogany desk in my third floor office. The sound seems to excite her; I feel the pinch of her fingernails as she sinks them into my thighs. I’m on my way, sailing toward the sweet crescendo of the big O…
Only, no. The office door swings open, and in blows the CEO of Cavanaugh Yacht, while I’m getting blown by Eva.
The CEO, who also happens to be my mother.
I jerk upright in my chair, my hands beneath the desk and cupping Eva’s face as she panics and tries to sit up, letting out a small gasp of pain as the top of her head meets the hard wood. Hard wood as in desk, not as in dick, because that has gone as limp as a hose in the sun.
Can you say, boner kill?
“Damon. Why didn’t you answer when I called?”
Because I had the phone on silent while I was getting a BJ, Mother.
I somehow find my voice. “Oh, sorry...I, uh, stepped out for a bit.” Careful not to squish Eva, I slide my chair closer into my desk in an attempt to shield my naked lower half from the woman who gave birth to me.
She raises an eyebrow that’s been plucked into submission. This is a classic look for her—the I’m not buying that for one second look. It can also convey mild amusement, but don’t be fooled—most of the time, she’s really just masking major disdain. When she lifts both eyebrows in more of a how dare you defy me expression, you’re in serious, serious shit.
Believe me, I know...I’ve been there.
My mother is a force of nature. You have Category 4 hurricanes, and then you have Gloria Cavanaugh—a fifty-one-year-old barracuda in the business world with a fondness for Nordstorm cream-colored pantsuits, dirty martinis and hand-rolled Bolivar cigars. She’s tall for a woman—almost six feet—with chemically-coaxed blonde hair pulled back into a severe bun. As long as I’ve been alive, she’s had that bun. When I was a little kid, I used to tell her she needed to let her hair breathe.
But it isn’t just those things that make her intimidating; she’s...how do I put this delicately? Because I am, after all, her only son.
She’s a fucking bitch.
“You...stepped out for a bit?” She says it like I’ve committed a cardinal sin.
“Yes.”
“Did you see the latest numbers on the Sea Whisper? They’re tanking.”
“I’d hardly call a dip of eight percent tanking, Mother.” Her expression prompts me to modify my response. “But obviously, we don’t want that trend to continue.”
“No. We don’t. The good news is, we’re slightly above forecast in overall sales. But I’d like to see more. Rumor has it that Bellamy Marine is having some trouble. It’s no secret that I’ve wanted to explore expansion into Europe for a while now, and this could be the opportunity. I’m contacting the CEO this afternoon and calling a staff meeting for tomorrow morning—I don’t want to wait on this as I’m quite sure our competitors have gotten wind of it and are going to be circling Bellamy like hungry piranhas.”
My bare ass is sticking uncomfortably to the leather seat. I’m really hoping my mother will leave soon so our intern can finish what she started.
“So I’ll expect you to clear your calendar for the meeting, Damon.”
“Absolutely, Mother.”
Gloria gives me a frosty smile before turning and walking to my door. I’m sliding my chair back a bit to glance under my desk when my mother turns back around on her high heels.
“Oh, and one more thing...Eva, sweetheart, make sure you brush off your knees. My son’s been known to snack at his desk, and there might be crumbs under there.” She’s looking at me in steely triumph as Eva gives a gasp from down below. I don’t know how the fuck my mother knows, but she just knows. Everything. All the time.
And just before she heads out of my office, there’s the double-eyebrow lift.
I’m in serious, serious shit.
Chapter 2 / Delaney
In case anyone’s wondering, my job at Precision Machine is totally glamorous. Take today, for example. It’s not even 10 a.m., and already I’ve 1) opened the mail; 2) made a Dunkin Donuts run; 3) did the dishes in the break room sink; and 4) un-jammed the photocopier. And if that doesn’t sound convincing enough, Stu, one of my bosses, just asked me to go buy some more toilet paper.
“But don’t get the scratchy cheap shit, Laney,” he told me. “We like the cushy stuff. Don’t we, Lou?”
Lou wholeheartedly agreed. “Yeah. Definitely. I
have some with hearts on it at home. It sounds gay, but it’s soft on the ole tush. See if you can find that.”
So...gay toilet paper that’s soft and has hearts on it. Got it.
At Precision Machine, I’m on the front line. I get to answer the phone and deal with pissed-off customers who want to kill someone (namely, me) because their air jet valves didn’t ship on time, or because no one has visited a job site to figure out why the turbo-charger bracket they ordered didn’t fit properly. And I get to deal with my bosses, or what I call the “Stu and Lou Show.”
It’s quite a show, let me tell you. Stu and Lou are forty-five-year-old high school buddies who joined up as business partners to create what’s become one of the most successful machined parts companies in New England. Stu’s about six-three, two hundred and sixty pounds, bald as a cueball with a big nose and a perpetually red, perspiring face that he mops about twenty times a day with the handkerchief he drags out of his back pocket. He’s basically a heart attack waiting to happen—main food staples are burgers, fries and beer, all to excess—and I’m always cautioning him about eating less and exercising more, partly because I’m scared shitless he’ll collapse and I’ll have to give him mouth-to-mouth. His wife got him a Fitbit for Christmas a few months ago, and judging from his continuously-expanding waistline, it didn’t quite take.
Lou is shorter, around five-ten, and in better shape—he’s recently divorced and has been hitting the gym to both exercise and scope out women who are much younger and much more attractive than him. He’s not a bad-looking guy...clean-cut, thick hair, decent features—but he doesn’t seem to get that women might not appreciate his roving eyes and raunchy sense of humor. One of his major skills is maintaining eye contact with my nipples like a boss, and I mean that both ways. I’ve been tempted to draw little up arrows on my shirt, as in, hey, Lou, my eyeballs are up here. I’m always careful not to wear cleavage-y tops and will wear bulky clothes whenever weather permits, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows what lies beneath.