Note from the author: When I initially wrote the first part, I didn't anticipate making it into a series. But the feedback I got was not only positive but also looking for more! I can only hope you like where I end up taking these characters and their experiences get you as hot when you read them as they did me while I was writing them. I have to also give some credit to my boyfriend who helped me write from the male perspective.
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"The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round, 'round and 'round, 'round and 'round..."
Braden sat on the cushioned bus seat between his two sons, singing the children's song along with other parents who were trying to keep their own kids calm in light of the day's chaotic turn of events. If he heard the question, "Where's mommy?" one more time, he was liable to chuck himself out of the bus and hope he'd get caught under the wheels for a quick-ish death.
The parade had hardly gotten under way that morning before the town siren began to wail and all the attendees were ushered to the town square by officials. Emergency broadcast messages were sounding off left and right and every cellphone lit up like an Amber Alert rippling through the crowd. Upon checking their screens, they discovered no child had gone missing. The text carried one simple instruction: EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY. DIRECT TO NEAREST EMERGENCY SERVICES CENTER.
Almost immediately, Braden heard the sirens racing up the street towards the parade route. Accompanying the police cars and fire trucks were scores of school buses to carry persons to the nearest shelter. The men in uniforms directed folks onto the yellow buses, asking them to remain calm and "all questions will be answered shortly." As he huddled his children closer and made his way towards one of the buses, his thoughts turned to Jane.
Initially he was cranky at the thought of having to wake up early on a day that he was looking forward to sleeping in. He HAD to get the kids out of the house early so Jane wouldn't blow three gaskets before the sun was even up. Braden knew the woman he married, he knew she'd need her space so she could feel she had complete control over how the day would proceed. After being married for 6 years, he had become fully aware of her neuroses for the holidays, but Thanksgiving in particular had to be perfect for her. But it seemed to him, especially after the children were born, that Jane was more interested in making everything look perfect instead of actually working at making things better...like their marriage. More macrame and Mommy Vlogging and less intimacy towards her husband.
When he could steal moments with her, they were short and...perfunctory. He rarely felt passion from her and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what he was doing wrong. It certainly wasn't always this way. Her sex drive was almost a curse in as much as it was a blessing when they were dating and even when they had finally gotten married. They fucked like the world was ending and the last thing they wanted before checking out was to be in each other's arms.
Braden thought back to that morning, as he lay in bed, cursing his brain for waking him up long before his alarm was supposed to go off. He turned away from his clock, rolling onto his back, letting one hand rest just above his navel as the other arm lay extended alongside his head. He stared at the ceiling for a brief moment, contemplating whether he should close his eyes again or pull out his phone and check his email and other bullshit.
A weight shifted to his left and he glanced towards the foot of the bed just in time to see his wife's share of the sheets fall off the mattress. He smiled at the sight, knowing shortly she'd curl up tight because she was getting cold. He turned fully to his side to watch her sleep, her back to him as was her custom.
God she is beautiful, he thought. She'd go to the gym 4 to 5 days out of the week, not that she needed it. A thought crossed his mind that this was where she poured all her sex-kitten-energy, her workouts at the gym. Otherwise she'd be using him to break a sweat.
Her right leg shifted and then bent at the knee. His eyes, finally adjusted to the darkness noticed her nightgown had shifted in her sleep. He followed the trail of skin it left exposed all the way to her hip, unable to keep his thoughts away from the last time his hands had taken a hold of her from behind. They had gone away to the beach for a weekend. She had had a little too much to drink. The second night there, they were chasing each other on the sand and she took a fall. He reached out to help her up but instead of taking his hand, she stayed on the ground, shifting onto her hands and knees, using one free hand to lift her beach dress. Looking at him with eyes that said, "What the fuck are you waiting for?"
It bothered him that she only ever appeared to want him when she was drunk. He recalled how he used to be able to growl in her ear and she'd press herself against him and giggle. He could stroke her thigh and she would shiver and smile. These days he felt lucky if he could avoid an exasperated sigh or eye roll. He missed his wife. He missed the feel of her skin. He missed the touch of her hands and the softness of her lips.
The stiffness in his boxer briefs could no longer be attributed to morning wood. At the mere thought of her lips, he wanted to be with her, alongside her, on top of her, behind her...inside her. Without realizing he had moved, his hand was on her exposed hip, surprised by the heat of her skin on such a chilly night. He caressed her skin, intending only to savor the feeling of her body for a moment before moving to take care of his own needs...on his own. But something happened then he did not intend.
She moaned. The soft sound startled him and he almost jerked his hand back thinking he had disturbed her but instead he kept their connection, leaving his hand on the swell of her hips and feeling so tempted to move closer. When she stopped, he attempted to recreate the reaction. He allowed his hand to first move down her thigh, using his fingertips to trace a line from just above her knee all the way back to her waist, still hidden under her nightgown.
She moaned again. Not a "You're bothering me" moan. This moan was almost guttural. It came from a place inside not yet touched by whatever conscious aversion it was that kept her from him when she was awake and sober. He'd heard the same sound come from her that night on the beach and on countless nights before they'd had the children. It stirred a similar primal urge in him to join with her, to access the deep recesses of her body that still called to him, regardless of what her conscious self might otherwise say.
