The Moment Just Before Read online

  The Moment Just Before

  by

  Remy Rose

  Copyright © 2016 by Remy Rose

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference with no implied endorsement.

  Dedication:

  To all those in the animal rescue world: adopters, fosters, rescuers, volunteer transporters, networkers, cross-posters...thank you for your compassion - I am with you.

  And for women who dare to love again after loss - I am with you, too.

  Table of Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  thirty-nine

  forty

  Acknowledgments:

  one

  “So compared to other ones...you're saying it's like, normal-sized?” His face is earnest with a shade of uneasiness.

  I answer quickly, to reassure him. “Oh, yes! Definitely normal.”

  He puts his hands on his hips, and his tight t-shirt strains in protest. I can see very clearly-defined pecs through the white fabric. Nipples, too, and I feel a twinge of something akin to embarrassment. His bright expression fades. “Oh. Okay. I was thinkin' it might be above average, just 'cause it looked so huge. Not like I stare at it all the time or anything, but I was just gettin' kinda keyed up, thinking there was somethin' wrong. Y'know, those boners—I mean, erections—all the time.” He flashes me a crooked smile, color blooming in his cheeks.

  Christ. He is proud of this. What is he, thirteen?

  His teeth are very straight, very white. He has a dazzling smile—early Tom Cruise, before he got weird. I feel the familiar flutter in my belly. It is starting.

  Stop, I scold myself. He is a redneck. You don't do rednecks. Usually.

  “I got some pictures with my phone so you could...y'know, see what I'm talkin' about.” He walks over to stand next to me, his hip brushing against mine. He is standing much closer than he needs to, and I think he knows this. I can smell his cologne: Gio, one of my favorites. I silently applaud and curse Giorgio Armani.

  I tip my head down to look at the screen on his phone, and in doing so, a lock of my hair slips forward. I am just about to push it back when I feel his fingers grazing my cheekbone as he tucks the stray piece behind my ear. I catch my breath and instantly hope he didn't hear. All of this is unexpected—not only that he touched me, but how: lightly skimming the surface of my skin, curving around my ear, letting his fingers linger in my hair and then slide down my neck. He is surprisingly gentle for a redneck. And his fingertips: soft, not sandpapery, as one might have guessed.

  “Jesus, I'm sorry. I don't know why I just did that.” His wide-eyed, innocent gaze makes him look like a teenage boy. The result is both charming and disarming. I do not believe him for a second. But I forgive him.

  I give a half-smile and wave my hand at him to brush away his apology. I force myself to breathe normally, to make my face appear smooth, relaxed, as I look at the pictures on his phone. His index finger glides across the screen as he scrolls through the menu. I note that his nails are clean and neatly trimmed. Always a good thing. He continues to stroke the screen, and I swallow hard.

  “See?” He taps the phone. “There it is.”

  I look closer at the photo of the erection.

  “So that's normal? Because there’s no rhyme or reason when it happens...one time I was cooking a roast, so I thought he was excited about the smell of that, but it can happen at totally random times. like when my grandmother visits.”

  Relief. He is talking about grandmothers—sweet, spindly, shawl-clad, blue-haired old ladies. Absolutely non-sexual. I can breathe.

  “Given the results of my exam, the absence of any inflammation or discharge, and the fact that urination is normal, I think we can safely say there isn't any serious condition. The erections are frequent, but not persistent, so we can rule out priapism. It seems to be a behavioral issue.”

  The man who will now be known as Frequent Erection is nodding, as if he understands everything I am saying—even the big words. He reaches in his pocket, takes out a small tin of breath mints and shakes one into his hand. I feel a stirring in my belly. He holds out the container to me in an offering. I shake my head. He shrugs, smiles, pops the mint in his mouth and begins crunching methodically. “So...what do we do about this?”

  I look down at the dog, a Malamute, his almond eyes kind and warm. He wags his plumed tail at me, and I reach out to pet the dark grey fur between his ears. He is a majestic and beautiful creature, a perfect specimen of the breed—despite his overly-enthusiastic pink torpedo, which for now remains hidden. Perhaps all this talk has embarrassed him.

  “He's young, so this behavior may subside over time, although it may just be something you'll have to live with.”

  Frequent Erection grins. White, white teeth. “I guess there are worse things, right? Hard-ons aren't so bad.”

  No. Nooo, they are not. I feel the flutter in my belly head south. Grandmothers. Dentures. Orthopedic shoes. The smell of Ben Gay, not Gio.

  Humor. I will use humor. “You could try keeping the show dog magazines away from him.” There, that ought to lighten the texual sension in the room. Texual sension...my God, I can't even think straight. That word. Straight.

  His grin broadens, and oh, look...a dimple. I hadn't noticed that before. I give myself a mental shake and smile, stepping carefully around the dog and moving to the computer to type in my notes from the exam. The only sounds in the room are the steady thrumming of the keyboard (in particular, the delete key) and canine panting. And then a very prominent exhale, inches from my ear. Frequent Erection is standing directly behind me.

  “You look like you're concentrating real good,” he says softly. “Are you thinking long and hard?”

  My fingers freeze and hover over the keys as the flutter in my pelvis turns into a steady throb. The thought of old ladies has done little to quell my burgeoning arousal, so I turn my attention to other things which might work: impacted canine anal glands. Oozing feline abscesses. Newt Gingrich.

  I feel Frequent Erection's breath on the back of my neck: cool, steady puffs of air that make my skin both tingle and burn. He removes my stethoscope and places it carefully on the exam table. The Malamute whines softly as he settles his bulk onto the floor. Frequent Erectio
n puts his hands on my waist, turns me around and guides me gently but firmly to the exam room's rear door. I can feel the flame in my cheeks as my breathing quickens. It is happening.

  I find myself pushed against the door, and it suddenly strikes me that what Frequent Erection might be lacking in couth, he more than makes up for in crafty, given how he is using me to block anyone from entering. He is a couple of inches shorter than I am, making stand-up sex perfect.

  Pressing himself against me, he puts his mouth to my ear. His voice is low, husky—husky as in the sound, not his dog. “Want me to go slow, or do you want it quick, like last time?”

  Now there is a question. I want it slow, but I need it fast.

  “Quick,” I whisper. “I have a watery eye scheduled in ten.”

  “God, it turns me on when you talk all medical like that,” he mutters.

  His lips are on my neck, warm and damp, as his arm reaches around my waist to pull me in close. My heart begins to pound as I feel Frequent Erection's erection poking at my thigh through his jeans. His free hand moves under my open lab coat to the top of my pants which he deftly unbuttons, and he covers my mouth with his. His kisses are forceful, insistent—I am only able to take quick, shallow breaths which sound like whimpers, and this further excites him. I smell Gio, I taste wintergreen, and I am lost.

  I bring my hands down from his chest to fumble with his belt buckle. His pants sufficiently loosened, I slip my hand inside to cup his sac, stroking it lightly until he groans against my mouth. His testicles feel smooth and firm, and I slide my hand up his shaft to the head of his penis—my favorite part. For a fleeting moment, I contemplate getting on my knees and taking him in my mouth, but there is not enough time. (Note to self: have Carol and Roxanne schedule his future appointments for a double slot.)

  He hooks his thumbs in the side of my pants and tugs them down. The cool air in the room nibbles at my bare legs and I shiver. Frequent Erection takes his mouth off me, chuckling softly. “Cold, baby? Let me warm you up.”

  “Hurry,” I whisper. He reaches into his pocket for a condom packet, tears it open and rolls the condom down his length while I step out of my pants and panties. Positioning himself to enter me, he crushes my mouth with his. His tongue probes mine just as the swollen head of his member rubs at my opening. This is one of my favorite moments in sex: the anticipation. If there were more time, I would make sure this moment lasted...the kisses would become longer, slower, deeper. Hands in each other's hair, gripping tightly. Hips inches apart, rigid penis tantalizingly close. Both of us wanting, aching.

  But there is very little time, so we need to just fuck.

  I brace myself as Frequent Erection jerks his hips forward. With each thrust, my spine is bumped against the door, and I cringe—both out of discomfort and uneasiness that others will hear. But the feeling below is so good (bonus: ribbed condom) that I ignore the pain in my back and give myself over to mesmerizing coital rhythm.

  He places his hands on the door above my head for better leverage, his breathing accelerated into hot, harsh panting. We are not kissing anymore; this is all business, and I am fine with it. Get 'er done...redneck style. I marvel at the two of us: virtual strangers in an intimate body lock—so in tune, so in sync—sharing, not caring. My style.

  I tilt my hips forward to heighten the sensation, my hands gripping his shoulders. He feels buff, taut...everything about him is hard and fit and sexy, and I can feel the beginnings of my release...the sweet, sweet seconds right before I climax.

  “Unnhh....Gahhhd,” he gasps. I feel him swell inside me as he ejaculates, and this, as always, pushes me over the edge. I bite my lip to keep from moaning his name at the same second I realize I don't know it. The Malamute whines impatiently. I open my eyes on the fringe of my climax to see, as expected, my husband—standing in the corner, arms folded, shaking his head at me, bemused.

  And the most amazing thing of all is not that my husband is standing in the corner of an exam room, watching me in the throes of my orgasm. It's that he's dead.

  two

  I know I should be waking her up to get ready for school, but I love to watch her sleep, and I haven't been able to do that since she started staying up obscenely late—much too late for me to wait till she falls asleep so I can sneak in. She'd call me a major creeper for doing this, but she'll understand when she's a mother—which hopefully won't be for another ten years or so.

  In sleep, she is much more little girl than woman. There is no teen attitude on her face, only the serene veneer of slumber. Her hair is a mass of long, dark spirals fanning across her pillow and curtaining part of her face, and I have to stop myself from brushing it away so I can really look at her: her perfect nose and fair complexion, her thick eyelashes and delicate mouth. Being sixteen, she of course hates how she looks—especially her hair—and hates me more for saying that I love it, even as she tries to conquer it each morning armed with conditioner, spray and straightener. I think I love her hair so much because it is symbolic of the person: at times resistant, defiant, untamed, but also fun-loving, spirited and zany.

  Grace grew inside me, nutrients flowed from my body to hers, she drank milk from my breasts and is being raised by me, yet the two of us are strikingly dissimilar, both in structure and in spirit. Whereas she is petite and fine-boned, I am more muscular and broad-shouldered, with lighter hair that's as smooth and straight as hers is coarse and curly. My eyes are hazel, while hers are dark brown. Truly, the only things Grace and I have in common are flat feet, an aversion to green peppers, and a love for her father. I do not know if she inherited my sex drive. And I'd like to keep it that way.

  She does have a serious boyfriend, and although she may be too young to date someone exclusively, I am secretly proud of her selection. Jake is tall and attractive with a quick, easy smile. He's a likable jock—confident without being conceited. She started dating him shortly after her father died two years ago. Probably not a coincidence, but I've never questioned her. She would rather eat her weight in green peppers than talk about her grief. Grace has always been a don't-look-back, in-the-present-moment type of person, a girl in perpetual motion whether it's wielding a field hockey stick, thundering down the stairs to go out for the night, or breezing into the house with a gaggle of gigglers. To the casual observer, she appears a well-blended concoction of smooth, sassy, bold and brassy. But there's another girl beneath the surface. What people don't know is that the sight of roadkill makes her cry, elevators send her into panic mode, she stresses for days if she has to speak publicly, and ever since her father died, she's insisted on sleeping with 10,000 pillows and with Milton, her never-washed, tattered set of pink strings which in another life was a baby blanket.

  I may be her mother, but I'll be the first to admit she's far from perfect. She's terrible about helping me with chores, procrastinates on homework, has a fierce temper and swears too much. In a heated argument last year over my not allowing her to go on an overnight co-ed camping trip, she flipped a plate of spaghetti on the floor and called me an overprotective bitch. So part of the reason I love to watch her sleep is to reassure myself that the sweet, sensitive, wonderful part of her is still in there.

  I look at the clock. 6:41. Grace is going to be furious with me for not waking her up earlier so she can fight with her hair. I've been her alarm clock since Aaron died. He was always an early riser, never wanting to waste any moment of any day (the perpetual motion thing...I used to have to beg him to sleep in with me on weekends). His job as a builder required the sunrise start, but I suspect he'd have gotten up early regardless. I would lay in bed, deliciously drowsy from the heat of the dogs snuggled next to me, and I'd watch Aaron begin his morning routine: pulling aside the curtain to check the weather. Stepping out of his plaid boxers, tossing them in the hamper. A few morning scratches, followed by what I deemed unnecessarily noisy yawning. Yanking open his stubborn bureau drawers to get his work jeans and flannel shirt, and once dressed, coming over to kiss me and the dog
s (was it any wonder I loved him?) before going into Grace's room to wake her. This went on from when she started kindergarten until she entered middle school when she decided she was too old to have her father wake her up. During Grace's eighth grade year, her friends grew to adore him, so Aaron became cool again. Grace decided she preferred him to an alarm clock, and the waking resumed.

  He said the same thing to her every time. Rise and shine, girl of mine. I would get out of bed and go into the hallway to listen to him, because the tender feeling this gave me warmed me more than the dogs ever could. While Grace yawned, stretched and protested, Aaron would go downstairs to make coffee, set out her bowl and box of Cap'n Crunch, and put English muffins in the toaster. The cozy aroma of the coffee brewing always perked me up and made my stomach growl. Aaron would come back upstairs to make sure Grace was getting ready. From our bedroom, I could usually hear her soft grumbles punctuated by his gentle coaxing. He would ask her what she had going for the day, and sometimes he'd tell her about the project he was working on. I'd lay there until Aaron came in our room to roust me out of bed (I'm thinking I know where Grace got that reluctant-riser gene—guess we have something else in common). Riley, our yellow Lab mix, would thump her tail and flatten her ears in anticipation of her dad petting her, and Joey, our Chihuahua-poodle-spaniel combo, his tongue darting out of his mouth, would roll over onto his back as Aaron approached the bed.

  I would sometimes get petted, too: Aaron would brush the hair from my forehead, slide his hand across my cheek and usually down to my breast to squeeze it gently. Equal time, I'd remind him, and he'd grin and slide his hand over to the other one. On many occasions, he'd get this sly look, and I'd know I was in for it. After closing our bedroom door, he'd scoot the dogs over to the other side of the bed, climb on top of me, and unzip his jeans. Even though it was early and I most definitely was not a morning person, I would get instantly aroused when I'd hear his breathing quicken and feel him hard against my leg. I'd give my token protest about being too tired, but I always loved when he did this, and he knew it—the urgency, his pants pulled down just enough, my hands on his chest, filling them with the softness of his flannel shirt—and even for morning quickies, he would always hesitate before entering me, because he knew it drove me wild.