Audrey waved her hand and forced an embarrassed smile. Camper stopped and stood outside his driver’s side door. He smiled and motioned to Audrey.
Would she like some help there? He gestured and moved forward from his truck towards the house.
Oh, no. Audrey waved him away. He had better things to do with his time, but Audrey feared it came out more like an unappreciative dismissal. Camper shrugged, but he didn’t back away. His eyes took in the twisted bundle of Christmas lights and the heavy coils of orange extension cord, running in every direction. Meanwhile, Audrey stood on the ladder, helplessly tangled up in the middle of the mess, like a scarecrow unable to move her arms or legs. At first, Camper seemed to be taking in the scene and processing its solution. Then, his eyes focused on Audrey—her ponytail was sagging, frays of wild hair were falling into her face, and leaves from the gutter were stuck to her bulky sweater. She had been working for three, maybe four hours, without anything to show for it. And now, as Audrey felt his eyes on her, she feared looking foolish, so she turned back to the tree, more determined than ever to prove that she could do it—by herself.
After a moment of watching her, Camper simply shrugged and returned to his truck. When Audrey heard the engine start of his pickup truck and the crackling of her driveway gravel as he rolled away, she felt her shoulders drop with disappointment.
Yes, she had acted like she didn’t want his help, but deep down, she half-expected him to come closer and offer again. Audrey looked out past the edge of her property line and followed his maroon truck down the desolate country road until it faded into nothing. Audrey swallowed hard, feeling the bitter lump in her throat. Maybe Audrey was wrong. Maybe Camper was less perceptive than she had thought. Perhaps she had assigned more meaning to his deaf detachment than she should have. It wouldn’t be the first time that Audrey had projected her own feelings onto other people—especially men—only to find out later that those men never had any of those feelings for her in return.
Audrey climbed down the ladder, fighting a sudden wave of nausea and vertigo. Camper had left her alone, despite the fact that he had known that she was alone in that farmhouse—every day and every night. The Christmas lights suddenly fell into the grass with resignation. Audrey turned and looked up at the barren maple tree. It wasn’t the first time that she had tried to accomplish something that she had wanted so badly, and still failed. Audrey stood outside her porch, looking up at her gutted farmhouse, and suddenly realized that she would have to face every challenge in her life—just as she had always done in the past—completely alone. It was a familiar, empty realization, and one that made her want to skip dinner, crawl into bed early, and watch a sad movie on TV until she cried herself to sleep.
* * * *
There was a full moon that night. The stark light cut through the lace curtains. Audrey awoke to the sound of a soft knock against the pane, as if a sparrow had flown into the seamless void of black glass. Audrey forced herself to roll over towards the window, knowing there was little chance that the bird hadn’t broken its neck. It was a depressing thought, and it kept her buried under her blankets as she contemplated the moonless night and the unexpected, eerie illumination, just beyond her sheer lace curtains. She slowly slipped out of bed and approached the window. She heard the wind whistle through the gutters and saw the mysterious lights twinkle like fireflies. She slid open her window and shivered with the harvest breeze. They were not fireflies, Audrey realized. They were Christmas tree lights, decorating her sugar maple tree—the same Christmas lights that she had tried to string up earlier in the afternoon. Strings of crystal bulbs entwined its black branches like diamonds. It was exactly as she hoped it would be when she first set out that morning to accomplish the task herself.
She waited and watched the shadows. The breeze swept across the field. It murmured like a rural ocean. Then, she looked down at the familiar maroon pickup truck in her driveway, and she realized the noise against her windowpane wasn’t a sparrow.
“Camper?” she barely whispered, her voice quivering in the silence. It was a plea of hope that he might actually be there, watching her.
Audrey closed her eyes and listened for his footsteps on the gravel. But she only heard the breeze. She shivered again, clasping the neckline of her sheer nightgown. The Christmas lights—her own private constellation of stars—blinked against a canvas of black velvet. She didn’t expect a response; she knew Camper couldn’t hear her reaching out to him, and she wondered if he would simply disappear into the darkness, or if he would find his own way to reach out to her, and show her why he had come back.
Audrey opened her mouth to call out his name again, but stopped when another draft shuttered her body. She suddenly felt foolish and desperate. She shut the window and returned to her bed, but the blurry glow of the lights persisted through her curtains. And it was those lights that drew her out of bed again when she heard the second tap against the pane.
She recognized his shadow and paused a moment before peeling back the curtain. Camper was there now, perched on her roof, protected from the cold midnight chill by his winter coat, gloves, overalls, and workman boots. Camper’s silent sensitive eyes stared at her. His jaw bone flinched with restraint. Camper stared at Audrey, admiring how the twinkling Christmas lights formed a scintillating pattern across her face. Audrey suddenly felt self-conscious and moved her hand to cover her neckline. Camper noticed her insecurities and signaled for her to be calm.
He wanted to come in. Without words or sounds, he was asking her if he could come inside. To Audrey, it felt like a dream, a young man of twenty, kneeling outside her bedroom window, yearning for her to grant him permission to come inside. But it wasn’t a dream. Their eyes were locked and Audrey controlled herself, her hands braced against the window’s wooded trim. She was staring at his young face and soulful eyes, her mind churning through the implications of the invitation. He had come back to tell her that he had been isolated and hurting in his world of silence for so long, just like Audrey had been isolated and hurting in her own world of silent pain. And they both recognized it in the other. Camper was responsible for helping Audrey complete her desire. Now, he had come back to complete his own.
Yes, she felt herself nod...
It was enough. Camper lifted up the pane and pushed himself through the window. He paused when he saw Audrey involuntarily back away. Audrey realized that she was only in her transparent nightgown while Camper’s winter coat and boots made him seem overpowering, even threatening. But his boyish bangs fell over his soft eyes, and they quickly told her that he was there—only if she would have him.
Audrey stared at him staring at her. The darkness within her bedroom kept them apart until Audrey found the confidence to move towards him through the shadows. She lifted up his hands and removed his gloves. He complied, offering no resistance or challenge. She motioned for his jacket, which she helped slip off his broad back and shoulders before lying it across her rocking chair. She reached for his tool belt, the same tool belt she had watched Camper strap over his denim overalls, from left to right—the same way, every time. He was wearing it now, as if it was an inseparable part of his being, and Audrey wanted to free him from it. Her fingers fumbled in the dark until she heard a clunk—the leather utility belt thumping against the wooden slats of her bedroom floor. Camper didn’t hear the sound, but he felt the weight drop from his waist. Audrey surveyed him, wondering what was next… But it was Camper who told her. He drew her slowly, gently towards his body, and brushed back her hair from her shoulders, admiring her beauty. Then, he pressed her chin between his fingers and smothered her lips with his own. Audrey closed her eyes, feeling his tongue slip deep inside her mouth. He was only a man of twenty, but it was she who gave into him.
Camper’s knuckles gripped the nylon edge of her nightgown, stretching it tight around the back of her thighs. He couldn’t hear her tiny exhale, but he felt her tailbone shift forward—the signal granting him permission for more. Camper tow
ed her onto the bed. With passion and determination, he buried his mouth down her neckline and across her collarbone. Audrey tracked their merging shadows on the ceiling. His kisses were so young, so fresh—as if he was discovering her for the first time—and yet, he felt familiar and intimate, a trusted lover who hadn’t abandoned her after all.
He lowered himself to his knees and ran his hand up the side of her inner thighs, pushing the nylon of her nightgown up past her cotton panties. He rested his ear against her stomach, listening to her body, feeling her breath rise and fall with increased desire. She ran her fingernails over the prickly stubble on the nape of his neck, massaging Camper’s scalp the way that she wanted him to massage her. Audrey arched her back and moaned; Camper’s fingers had slipped under her panties. She drew her bare feet up the bed’s mattress and tilted her pelvic bone upwards, granting him full access inside her. He was touching her with the same confidence he used when testing electrical wires for a live current, as if at any moment, he might stumble upon a spark that would shock them both. Stretching her arms overhead and clasping her hands around her cast-iron bedframe, Audrey suddenly relaxed, knees-parted, allowing Camper’s fingers to slip deep inside her, his palm cupping her crotch, stroking her rhythmically, sensually, progressively with repetition. It had been over a year since a man—her former husband—had touched her in this way, and even Jack had never touched her like this. Camper was fingering her now, building her up, watching her carefully as her hands gripped the loose bed sheets. Her nipples hardened with pleasure. The muscles in her thighs contracted, then relaxed. Audrey could feel his desires through his fingers. He was petitioning her for a second invitation—an invitation to come fully inside her.
She towed him closer and kissed him as deeply as he was fingering her, their tongues entwining in her mouth, mimicking the wet sensation between her legs. The pale moonlight glinted off his white T-shirt, stretching tight over his young, athletic chest. Audrey worked to unhinge the metal clasps of his overall straps while Camper seized the waist band of Audrey’s cotton white panties and stripped them down her legs. Audrey pulled down the rest of Camper’s overalls, tearing away the limitations of his workman’s identity and exposing a young man who was in his prime for exploring something better in his life.
She watched him in the dark as he peeled off his T-shirt and boxers and covered Audrey’s naked body with his own. His body was hard and heavy, warm and smothering. His tongue flowed all over her with the tingling sensation of static. Her whole body shivered with an electrical charge. He was showing her how much he wanted her. His whole life, he had learned to repress his feelings of anger and helplessness. Now, he couldn’t repress his need to be inside her. What had started as a curious attraction—the gentle touch of her hand during that first handshake—had turned into a need to consume her. Every time she tried to communicate with him, he was already watching her and listening in his own way, wondering why such a beautiful woman was choosing to spend all of her nights—alone.
Audrey spread open her legs, feeling the warm, slick tip of Camper’s erection, then the first penetration. She gasped, it had been so long. Then, her fingernails dug into his shoulder blades, his muscles expanding and contracting with his thrusting rhythm. His nose ran down her neck, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo and face lotion. He cradled her mouth in his neck, seeking out her hot breath, enveloped her whole being, and pressed his sleek chest against her bare breasts. She ground her pelvis against his own. She was telling him to drive deeper and deeper, but he was making her wait for it—the same way he made her wait for eye contact, whenever she greeted him on the porch in the morning, or when she needed help stringing up the Christmas lights. He was holding back, self-controlled and reserved, and yet, committed until the end. Audrey could feel the slow burn, quivering volts of arousal, pulsing and receding, pulsing and receding.... Camper’s restraint grounded the spark between her legs. A damp tingle filled her, like a tongue testing a battery, before Camper accelerated his penetrations. His thumb pushed against her mouth. Audrey sucked on it, hard. She suddenly raised up her arms; Camper held down her wrists as she seized with a profound need to release the single, most hateful belief about herself—that she would never be wanted by another man again, a belief that she had been holding onto for years, one that she had reinforced with every failure she had ever experienced in her life. Now, Audrey opened her mouth and released it with a scream—a vocal mixture of protest and exhilaration. And although Camper couldn’t hear it, he felt the vibrations of her voice against his neck, a sign from Audrey that he was setting her free from all the inhibitions the world had placed on her—and all the inhibitions that she had placed on herself.
Audrey suddenly relaxed and felt Camper’s body drop against her chest with an exhale. He spooned her body, his nose and mouth nestled close to her ear as he muttered his first—and only—inaudible word to her. Then, his body fell away from her, but his hand enveloped her own. Audrey could feel the beating of his heart through his pulsing palm as they lay together in silence, watching the Christmas lights flicker like rain drops across the bedroom window and slipping away into the liberating sensation of a new beginning.
Shane
Angela Castello was the managing editor of CHIC magazine, a glamour glossy for stylish, upwardly-mobile women with stylish, upwardly-mobile salaries. Angela loved her job. And she loved CHIC magazine—with its hundreds of photos of gorgeous and glamorous women— because Angela’s own life was less than glamorous. Angela was intelligent and successful, but unlike the fantasy fashionista models who were photographed in CHIC magazine, her life was not fun and frivolous. She had never run barefoot down the Champs-Elysées in a couture wedding gown, nor sipped champagne while sitting on a bench in Central Park next to a man in a tuxedo with enviable cheek bones, nor delivered a corporate presentation wearing a high-powered business suit and red stiletto heels. In fact, as managing editor of CHIC magazine, Angela was keenly aware that these images were unobtainable fantasies—or, at least—unobtainable for professional career women like her.
Angela was smart and sensible, and she knew her limitations. She wore funky retro glasses to pull attention away from her crooked nose, and she dressed in snazzy patterned pants and loose poet blouses to distract from her short torso and heavy cleavage. She never went out for drinks with her staff because there was always a deadline to be met, and she rarely went out with her friends on the weekend because she was always too exhausted. Her corporate schedule was booked up with editorial meetings, business management meetings, budgetary meetings, assignment meetings, layout and design meetings, photo review meetings, and more editorial meetings followed by assignment emails, fact-checking emails, printing press emails, advertiser emails, and corporate bureaucracy emails. And before Angela would have a chance to finish writing all her corporate emails or telephoning contributors who were late with their assignments, it was already dinner time. She barely even noticed the sun setting in a blur from her corner office, nor did she ever consider that she had passed through another day without stepping foot outside for some fresh air. In fact, it wasn’t until Angela heard the whirling of the cleaning crew’s vacuum that she finally shut off her computer, packed up her things, and headed home on the commuter train, rushing through the evening in darkness.
When she arrived home, Angela always dropped her briefcase and business coat like chains near her doorway and headed straight for the kitchen. Famished from skipping lunch, she tore open her freezer, pulled out her favorite TV dinner—chicken teriyaki with sugar snap peas and water chestnuts—and flung the entire package into her microwave for one QUICKCOOK minute. Angela never ate out of the plastic tray. Instead, she always emptied the meal onto a porcelain plate, freshly cleaned by her dishwasher the night before, and sliced the chicken breast with her finest silverware and savored the civilized moment. Some people went to the gym after work. Others zoned out in front of the TV. For Angela, relaxation came from eating dinner in leisure silence. Af
ter a twelve-hour work day, Angela barely had the energy to launder her dirty clothes or open her mail, but she did always manage to clean her dirty dishes by religiously loading up her dishwasher. Then, Angela changed into her pajamas, crawled into bed with her mystery novel, and hunkered down under her covers while listening to the soothing purr of her dishwasher, which almost always put her right to sleep. In fact, the only thing quieter than her dishwasher was her sex life.
Angela could barely keep her goldfish alive, much less maintain an active love life. And, unlike the fantasy fashionista models in CHIC magazine, Angela certainly wasn’t the type to have quickies in the corporate storage closet. But that didn’t mean she was a prude. Like most single, thirty-something professional women, she had thoroughly considered the dating potential of all her male co-workers. Unfortunately, her options were limited. There was Tom Foresythe, Director of Advertising and Development, who was happily married with three kids and two dogs. David Guttman, Chief Revenue Officer, who was handsome, sophisticated, and completely obsessed with fantasy football and internet gambling. Rupert Sizemore, Art Director, who everyone knew was really gay—except Rupert. Marshall Black, Freelance Photographer, who Angela had developed a crush on until she found out that he had already slept with half the marketing department. Carl Boyle, Accounts Payable, who was overweight and overly nice—in that sad, pathetic sort of way. And Walker Hamilton, IT consultant, who had both his nose and eyebrow pierced and often connected them with a silver chain. Walker Hamilton was energetic, edgy, and cute; and yet, he was young enough to be Angela’s little brother and lacked the ability to discuss topics that didn’t involve RAM, bandwidth, or connectivity. Indeed, there was zero connectivity in Angela’s love life, and with every month that passed, she simply grew accustomed to being a stylish, upwardly-mobile woman—by herself.
Blue-Collar Boys - Repairs & Maintenance (Book 2: Steamy Erotic Romance Stories) Page 2