TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
Geekus Interruptus
Copyright © 2013 Mickey J. Corrigan
ISBN (mobi): 978-0-9923147-9-8
This re-release is essentially the same as the original edition (Noble Romance © May 2013) but has had minor changes and corrections made to the text.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and for all other inquiries, contact Bottom Drawer Publications by email: [email protected]
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
To our geeks and nerds: you guys rule, and the rest of us know it.
CHAPTER ONE
Take Us to the Geeks
There’s love, and then there’s geek love. For many years, Marcy Buenaventure believed these were interchangeable aspects of the same wondrous state. A semiconscious blur of passionate devotion and one-on-one obsession, culminating in an uncontrollable, allover bodily thrill. By the time she realized she was wrong about love, it was too late.
Or so it seemed to Marcy. This is her story.
~~~
Marcy fell for a geek, and she married him. Only later did she begin to question geek love. After she’d adjusted to the dry hump of her till-death partnership with brilliant software magnate Jess Margate, Marcy suddenly discovered he was doing her wrong. Nerdy Jess with the myopic green-gray eyes, the skinny-jeans bod, the twelve-hour days spent in front of a computer screen. Against all odds, he’d gone and picked up a fuck buddy. Another girl, it seemed, was now the receptacle for Jess’s geeky love.
At the time of her discovery, Marcy and Jess Margate had been married for three and a half years. Signs he had been cheating on her had been there for some time, but she’d failed to notice them. Because she never thought he’d have any interest in scoring with other women. He barely made the time to score with her. And, when he did, she was always willing, always obliging. In fact, she was dying for his touch and made sure he knew it. One person carries the fire in any relationship, and Marcy figured she was the torchbearer in hers. But now it looked like she’d been wrong about that too. Maybe she just didn’t turn Jess on. Maybe he’d never really clicked with her. Whatever the reason, he’d found someone else.
Understandably, Marcy was devastated. She despised cheats, liars, and home wreckers of either sex. She’d had an unfortunate experience with a deceitful Don Juan only once in her life, and she’d learned from that experience. The man, a handsome older guy with a swanky bachelor pad in the city and a nice little family in the suburbs, had broken her heart with his lavish bullshit. Marcy still felt guilty over her role as the unwitting other woman. In her mind, all Don Juans deserved to be outed, scorned, and properly punished.
Maybe devastated is not the right word for Marcy’s condition. Let’s say Marcy was inspired. Inspired by her own experience and by the painful cognition of her own husband’s untrustworthy behavior. Was he lavishing some innocent girl with his personal brand of geek bullshit? She couldn’t imagine it. She would have to see for herself.
Up until this point, the Margates had enjoyed a nice life together. They still had the occasional night of passionate sex (although Jess made love the exact same way every time, and it was, Marcy had to admit, a lot like the instructions in a do-it-yourself construction manual—that is, tab A into slot B), and they never fought about money or travel, the house, or their social engagements. They were very rich. They got along well. Jess was a huge success as an entrepreneur and software engineer, and Marcy was beautiful and sexy. With no kids to act as emotional wedges, lots of income to prevent financial bickering, and a total of six years of dating, engagement, and matrimonial compatibility, their partnership was stable and secure.
Or so it had seemed. Until Marcy realized something was missing; something vital had gone wrong. What was it? At first she wasn’t sure. She just knew something had changed between them. And it wasn’t good. Not good at all.
For instance, Jess was more withdrawn than usual (which meant he was very withdrawn, since he was usually withdrawn anyway) and distracted. He wasn’t home much, which was to be expected because he was a major workaholic. But, when he was home, he now spent significantly more time in his downstairs office. With the door closed.
The other sign something was amiss was the sharp increase in the frequency of his business trips. He often traveled on the weekends now, and, when he came home, he acted strangely. Guilty and aloof. Plus, his shirts smelled bad. Like sweat and something else. Garlic pizza? Burnt rubber? She wasn’t sure.
Marcy didn’t know what to do about their growing estrangement, so she went shopping at Victoria’s Secret and took to prancing around the house in lacy thongs. When he noticed, which wasn’t often, Jess sometimes made love to her. But not with his usual intensity. Something about their lovemaking was perfunctory. Their relationship had obviously gone off track.
Once their sporadic sex life petered out entirely and she couldn’t get Jess’s attention no matter what kind of cheeky get-up she danced around in, the lights clicked on in Marcy’s brain. Suddenly, a neon sign behind her eyes began flashing. Affair, affair, he’s having an affair! But she couldn’t (or wouldn’t, she was so in love with Jess) drag that painful knowledge into conscious awareness. Several long, dry weeks of lying sleepless and untouched by her lover passed before she faced the truth she’d been hiding from herself.
What finally triggered her awareness was a dream. When Marcy woke up, it was after eight and her stomach hurt. Jess was gone; he’d already left for the office. She lay there on the cool, Egyptian-cotton sheets, recalling images from her strange dream. Bright morning sun peeked through the chiffon curtains. When the air conditioner clicked off, she could hear a bird trilling outside.
In the dream, which was starkly atmospheric and in black and white, Jess stood a great distance from her at the far end of a vast ballroom. A crush of unfamiliar people speaking an unfamiliar language prevented Marcy from walking across the room to join her husband. He had his hand placed firmly on the head of a pale woman with long, white hair. She moved under his hand, as if he were directing her every choice. Her face was classic in its snowy beauty—impassive, icy.
Perhaps the monochrome aspect of the dream was somewhat misleading, but the feeling Marcy got when she looked at the two of them was real. They were lovers. And she could do nothing about it.
Neon flashes she could no longer ignore finally lit up her consciousness. The truth of her situation stabbed her in the gut. Afflicted now with this new understanding about her husband, their life and love, she felt mentally and physically ill. She had to make herself get out of bed and face the day. The bizarre dream imagery haunted her as she dragged herself downstairs.
After a quick breakfast of a poached egg on a rice cake, Marcy wandered outside. Barefoot and grumpy, she sauntered to the end of her tree-lined driveway for the morning paper. She was still groggy from sleeping late and disturbed by the thoughts engendered by her dream. A warm wind rubbed up against her skin, soothing, soft. God, she needed to be touched.
The crunch of tires on gravel startled her. She jumped, droppi
ng the morning edition of the Herald.
“Hey, gorgeous. Where you been hiding?”
He’d pulled up behind her and parked next to the twelve-foot hedge that hid the house from their quiet residential street. He sat in the driveway like he belonged there. Typical of her neighborhood, which was chock full of entitled elitists. These were people who had taken what was not theirs yet felt damn good about it. Good enough to gloat and take more.
Peter smiled at her from the plush, almond interior of this year’s Porsche SUV. His oversized Rolex sparkled in the morning light. Marcy shielded her eyes with one hand. She really needed her shades.
A male cardinal swooped down over the front end of the car and up again, chirping a melodious greeting. The bird’s bright red finery dazzled against the pale blue sky. They watched him fly off toward a distant stand of leafy maple trees.
“He’s in a hurry,” Peter said.
Marcy responded before she could stop herself. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend waiting.”
What a thing to say! Her face felt hot.
“Lucky boy. That’s what I need. A chick who waits for me in the morning.”
Marcy smiled. How inane. Peter had flirted with her numerous times before, but she’d always brushed him off. Coldly. He was married, the father of adorable toddler twins. She wasn’t about to play games with him, no matter how handsome he was. And he was super-hot, with his thick mane of beach-boy hair and his deep golden tan and those pale blue eyes that looked at you like you were a biscuit on a stick. A soft snack in his campfire grip, one step away from melting in his laughing mouth.
What the hell was she thinking? Before Marcy could take control of herself, she began to simmer. She clicked on automatic, her body taking over. She licked her lips. Slowly, languidly. She caressed her flat belly with one hand, making suggestive swirling motions. Her nipples hardened, and she thrust herself forward in a fuck-me position.
She watched as his eyes wandered, first to her breasts, heavy underneath a short, silk half-shirt, then up and down her lanky legs clothed in a pair of extra-tight denim cutoffs. She moved her hips slightly when his eyes landed on her crotch, boldly outlined by the stretch material of her jeans.
Then, at just the right moment, she said, “Oh, is that what you need, Peter?”
He flashed one of his trademark grins. The kind of smile a shark gives a surfer’s meaty calf. Not surprisingly, Peter was well known around town as an aggressive ladies’ man. You might want to land him, but watch out because he would definitely bite.
Marcy felt something loosen inside her. Something that had been locked up tight. Locked up and forgotten during six years of by-the-book sex and hard-core fidelity. Something she’d almost forgotten she could feel: lust.
Not just any kind of lust, either. Her own favorite species of lust. Marcy had a deep and abiding lust for mindless sex. And not just any kind of mindless sex. Mindless sex with men who knew how to make her body scream for more.
In other words, Marcy had rediscovered her passion for non-geek love.
She smiled at Peter and left the paper behind her on the driveway. It fluttered in the slight breeze. Slowly, rolling her curves from side to side, she strolled over to the car. As she leaned in, pressing herself into his open window, she was acutely aware of his proximity, the smell of lime aftershave mixed with rich café au lait.
“Maybe I can help you there,” Marcy heard herself saying.
In a catlike purr. The kind of come-on voice she’d employed so successfully in her single years. It was all coming back to her, like jumping back on a horse or bicycle. She wanted to feel something big and hard in the clutch of her thighs.
Peter’s eyes roved her body and settled like excited fingers on her protruding nipples. She arched her long back and yawned, raising her arms above her head so her short shirt rode up even higher.
She could hardly believe she was acting like this, like the neighborhood tramp. What the heck was she doing? She didn’t do this kind of thing anymore. This was the old Marcy, the single girl who went out of her way to have sex with everybody available. Not Jess’s straight-laced wife, the cool, distant woman who barely spoke to the neighbors. Not the woman who hated the kind of woman who flirted with (or fucked, actually slept with) another person’s husband.
She sighed in defeat and recovered her runaway senses. Time to pick up the newspaper and save herself from becoming as detestable as the rest of the cheaters, liars, and home wreckers ruining the state of modern romance. But, before she could withdraw, Peter reached out a salon-tanned, professionally manicured hand. He pressed gently on her right nipple until, under the tender pressure of his thumb and forefinger, she soaked the crotch of her panties.
Oh my God. How many weeks had it been since Jess had touched her? Had he ever made her this wet this fast, this easily?
“You have beautiful breasts,” Peter said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the day you moved in.”
In slow motion, she lifted her shirt all the way up and moved her body forward until her bare breasts were right in his face. Without a word, he ducked his head so he could nuzzle her nipples. His face was smooth, recently shaved, his mouth warm, fresh. The sun massaged her back while his uncalloused hands massaged her breasts. Confidently, with an arousing sense of ownership.
She closed her eyes and listened to the shrill call of the cardinal. That bird could sing.
Peter stopped his suckling, emitting a low growl. She stepped away, and they stared at one another, both squinting in the summer sun. His eyes were the kind of iceberg blue that comes from tinted lenses.
When he asked, “Is anybody home at your place? I mean, can we take this inside?” he sounded out of breath.
Marcy wondered if he was asthmatic. Or maybe just old. He had some serious wrinkles around his mouth and a couple of pretty deep furrows in his broad brow. He still had the chiseled good looks that come with upper-class breeding and decades of personal care with no expenses spared, but he was, she decided, kind of old. Middle-aged. Decades older than them, her and Jess.
Her and Jess.
Marcy was emerging from her arousal-induced daze.
“Don’t you have somewhere you have to be, Peter?”
He shrugged and rolled his eyes. Like a guilty child ready to play hooky from school if she said the word. So, would she say the word? Her thighs pulsed, and her vagina dripped. A tiny droplet of sweat rolled between her breasts, tickling her goosebumped skin.
She’d been so good for so long. Ever since she’d hooked up with Jess, she’d been true to him. Any time a man approached her, she gave him the haughty shoulder. Peter had received no encouragement from her. Nor had any of the other guys in their development. None of the neighbors thought of her as a possible lay, she was sure of it. She’d been a hundred percent unavailable.
And now? Was she about to invite Peter inside her husband’s home, his wife’s body, her deepest, most pleasurable crevices? Was it time to throw away the last six years of fidelity for a wildly sinful fuck? And what about Jess? One strange dream and her commitment to him was over? One dream about her husband, just a subconscious hint he was possibly unfaithful, and she was ready to do the nasty with another man? A married man? She had no concrete evidence Jess had ever touched another woman. Yet here she was, on the tight edge of sucking off their snobby neighbor.
Peter was married to an heiress, a scary-thin ex-model. The wife was younger, blonder, and richer than Marcy would ever be. Marcy, on the other hand, would make his head spin in bed. Like she was exorcising all his poltergeists. Men knew this about her just by looking. For years, she’d really enjoyed her innate ability to rock a guy’s world. But that was before Jess.
Jess and her.
“I can make it worth your while, baby,” Peter said now, his voice low, throaty.
She wasn’t sure, but she figured he was hard as a rock. A rivulet formed between her breasts, and her knees shook. She felt like she was on the verge of coming.
Yes, she certainly should. Especially if she expected to get a decent settlement. If that was where this was heading.
Which, Marcy suddenly realized, was where she did not want things to head. And Peter was married. He was not even in contention for the role of serious boyfriend or throw-it-all-away lover. Besides, what was good for the goose was not necessarily good for the gander. Or vice versa, Marcy wasn’t sure. What she was sure of was this: Peter needed to stop tempting her with his bedroom eyes and lusty come-on voice, or she would come right there in the driveway and forever hate herself.
She backed away, shaking her head. This wasn’t going to be easy. Doing the right thing never was.
“Aw, come on, Marcy. Please? Don’t be like that, baby.”
He was begging now. Marcy had always loved it when they begged. All those years when she was single, she’d made guys get down on their knees. They’d plead with her, and she’d happily relent. Indulge their fantasies by wearing some bizarre French maid outfit, crotchless panties, a Rastafarian wig. They’d look at her with wide eyes as they handed her a brown paper bag containing contraband like ben wa balls, a spiky harness, silk scarves, extra-large dildos. Whatever they needed from her, the kinds of things girlfriends wouldn’t do. She’d loved mindless sex with men who wanted her for her body, men who appreciated what her body could do to them.
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