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About the author:
A.S. Peavey is branching out from micro caption-based Erotica (which you can check out on Tumblr), to explore the world of longer form stories and novels, and is excited by the opportunities offered to expand on those shorter stories, and grasp what tugs at the libido. Peavey lives along the Rocky Mountains, going out to hike and bike when time and the weather allow.
What inspired you to write your book?
This book started with an image, with me wondering what was going inside the heads of two people. They were lovers, but something was between them. They relationship wasn’t perfect—but that imperfection put fire in their eyes.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Kelsey didn’t hear the moan the first time it reached her ears. Her mind was locked elsewhere, not on the evidence of sex in the house she shared with her husband—and no one else.
Her mind was outside, where she’d parked quickly and poorly; the front end stuck out into the street and the back end crunched up against the curb. Normally she would have taken time to re-park. Kelsey usually prided herself on her parallel parking—she certainly lorded it over her husband, Omar. But she was in a hurry to get inside and then back out, especially since for some reason the parking spots right in front of her house were all taken.
She and her husband really needed to buy a house in a neighborhood where they would have their own driveway. Of course, they weren’t willing to move outside the city, so they needed to save up for a nicer neighborhood.
Of course, they would want a driveway and a bigger house, when they had a kid. If they had a kid. That was why Kelsey was taking the afternoon off. She had an appointment at the fertility clinic, to find out if they were going to have kids anytime soon, and without paying through the nose to get her pregnant artificially.
That was the other reason Kelsey didn’t notice the moan. She was late for that appointment. She needed to get in and back out again, so she had neither reason to bother with a good parking job, nor the time to fix it.
Kelsey’s timetable didn’t include a stop at home. But then she forgot to pack up her notes when she left for work. And she needed to have those notes to share with the fertility doc. She had to keep dozens of details straight. Medications, diet, physical condition. And she had logged sexual details—details she couldn’t imagine telling even her closest friend, details she might be able to stammer through if she told her husband, details she even had trouble committing to ink and paper. And yet she planned to relay those details to a doctor.
She would reveal her secrets to that doctor because she wanted a kid.
Kelsey opened the door. She looked at mail table inside the entryway. Her notes weren’t there. Of course. Why would she leave the notebook somewhere smart, somewhere easy to find? Where else would she have left them?
The kitchen table, maybe? She moved slowly to the kitchen, in case she left it in the living room somewhere. Kelsey didn’t have time to wander back and forth, searching the whole house two, three times over. Kelsey was late as it was. And if she didn’t make it to her appointment at the fertility clinic, her husband was going to kill her. She’d already delayed making the appointment too many times, afraid of discussing her intimate details with Doctor Boutre.
Kelsey stopped in her tracks before she made it to the kitchen. She finally noticed the sounds running through her house, emanating from her bedroom.
Kelsey’s head shot up when she heard that. Was that really a woman’s voice? It couldn’t be. Why would a woman be moaning in her house, in the middle of the day? Kelsey would have laughed at the idea of her husband having a midday affair if anyone suggested the possibility. His new job kept him far too busy.
Kelsey must have misheard. It wasn’t a moan, it was…it was the wind. Or something falling.
If she didn’t get to that appointment her husband was going to kill her.
Another moan came, softer, but longer: “Oooooooh…”
Kelsey was going to kill her husband. There was no mistaking that for anything but a human voice—the voice of a younger woman. Not that Kelsey was old.
Kelsey closed her eyes, took a deep breath. She sought resolve.
She took one step forward, and then another. Slowly, she approached the hallway, walking on tiptoes. She didn’t want to disturb the sexual congress until she was ready to interrupt. As if she wanted to confront her husband with his cock in another woman. As if that would be satisfying, instead of disgusting.
Kelsey stopped, a few feet from the half-open bedroom door, the sound of fucking was loud, verging on the ridiculous—if Kelsey felt inclined to be amused.
She had no clue what she wanted to do. She had never imagined this. She’d never suspected this. Other women knew what they would do if they ever caught their husband cheating on them. Anyone who suspected it, or who lived in a love-hate relationship, had thought out what they would do, how they would make their philandering husband pay. And undoubtedly many husbands had fantasized about dealing with their cheating wives.
But Kelsey had no forewarning. Kelsey had a loving, exclusive relationship with Omar.
Or so she thought.
Everything had been going well. Not perfectly. What relationship ever went perfectly? But Kelsey always sat up a little straighter when any of her friends or coworkers talked about their relationship troubles, knowing her own relationship troubles were tiny by comparison.
Their quest for a child certainly wasn’t perfect. It had been half a year since Kelsey went off the pill and they started trying for a child. The closest she’d been to pregnant was when her usually constant menstrual cycle had delivered her a period three days late. They hadn’t even got their hopes up. That month Kelsey and Omar had only made love once while she was ovulating. First she, then Omar, had a nasty cold.
But if either of them had faltered in their desire for a child, for a family, when their attempts to conceive had turned into a slog, it was Kelsey, not Omar.
So that wasn’t perfect. And when it came to sex—and Kelsey couldn’t help thinking about sex, knowing that just across this wall, Omar had his hand on another woman’s breast, toying with another woman’s nipple.
Kelsey caught herself, removed her hand from her own breast, where she’d been slowly kneading herself.
When it came to sex, the passion—the passion she was hearing from another woman—had waned. But there was plenty left. She and Omar had the occasional fight, but nothing they didn’t make up for with passionate sex—but never as passionate as she heard from the other side of the wall.
Kelsey drew her hand down her face in frustration, unsure how to proceed. As her fingertips moved down from her eyes, over her mouth, she sucked one in, flicking her tongue across the top and bottom of her fingertip, until she forced herself to remove her hand, to hold it still at her side.
Kelsey looked toward the door. Towards the origin of the slow, steady moaning, the gently creaking bed.
She wondered who this other woman, this slut, was. She’d decided the voice was young, though a few moans, a few words mid-fuck, were hardly enough to be certain. But if her husband had a mistress, Kelsey was sure that woman was young. And beautiful. Not that Kelsey had ever before thought about the type of woman Omar would chase. He’d never made her jealous, or given her cause to wonder what his type was. She’d never felt the need to watch out for sexual rivals.
Not that Omar had any problem with Kelsey’s looks.
He liked to tell her that she was as beautiful as the day he married her. She knew that wasn’t true, because her wedding picture was close to the mirror. So she knew that age displayed new signs on her face. And that picture couldn’t even show the signs of age on her body.
But his tendency to lie didn’t matter. Especially not because half the time he told her how beautiful she was, it was to get her clothes off—if he wasn’t already fucking her (if less passionately than this).
He never seemed like he needed a prettier woman. Maybe he was just looking for another hole for his cock.
Maybe this mistress was just a woman he could settle for, though. How hard was it to find a mistress? One willing to overlook that Omar was married, to overlook the happy couple photos in the bedroom and throughout the rest of the house.
Maybe Omar’s mistress was ugly. Maybe she didn’t have larger breasts for Kelsey to be jealous of, or a firmer butt.
Kelsey didn’t want to step inside to confront her husband. Or to check out her rival.
There was a rustling from inside the bedroom. Kelsey couldn’t even imagine what action caused it. She doubted her sex life ever produced such sounds.
Then she heard the mistress speak. “Fuck yeah!” Yell was more like it. Every corner of the house rang with that sound. Kelsey couldn’t imagine being that loud, for fear the neighbor’s would hear her. Maybe that was why she didn’t get passionate sex. Was Omar just looking for a more vocal woman?
“Fuck me. Harder! Harder!”
Kelsey took a step back. She decided she didn’t want to see the other woman. It was enough to hear her. She could only imagine how her husband was enjoying this. The images that flashed through her head, images of the mistress on hands and knees as Omar pounded into her, were more than Kelsey thought she could handle.
Kelsey took another step back. But she couldn’t pry her eyes away from the cracked bedroom door, she could make herself deaf to the sounds emanating from her bed, sounds were sending her head spinning.
Maybe she could still get to the fertility clinic in time that the doc could see her, even if her tardiness annoyed the staff and the next patient.
But was she sure she still wanted to have a child with Omar?
Kelsey backed around the corner, out of the hallway, into the living room. She backed all the way until she bumped into the refrigerator, and she had to halt.
And Kelsey just listened. Unable to breathe. She heard the shaking bed. The panting. The moans. The faint sound of her husband talking with his mistress, too softly for Kelsey to hear.
She couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe her husband would do it. Half her brain wanted to throw him out a window (unfortunately the house only had a single story), the other half wanted to swap herself out for the mistress, to just snap her fingers and then forget the mistress had ever existed.
She couldn’t believe her husband could make love like that. If their relationship had slowed down, Kelsey was sure that it had also never been that bed-shaking. Omar had never expressed disappointment with their love making. If he wanted something more from her, he only needed to ask.
Okay, maybe Omar hadn’t married the most sexually adventurous woman, which is why, looking down, she couldn’t believe something else. Her right hand was on her pants, on the crotch of her pants. Moving back and forth, up and down.
She jerked her hand away. Disgusted with herself.
And she heard another moan. And she knew she couldn’t keep her hand away from her crotch. She unbuttoned her pants, stuck her hand in between the khaki fabric and her panties. She didn’t concentrate on pleasuring herself. She just let it happened. She looked back towards the hallway, eyes half closed, just listening in, trying to hear, and trying to guess what was happening.
She heard the woman giggling and imagined Omar kissing up and down her body, licking, nibbling, from ear to knees with frequent stops in between.
She imagined that the brief pause in the sound of the shaking bed was the two lovers changing positions. Maybe they rolled over, from the mistress riding Omar, to Omar on top, letting out a gentle laugh, never losing contact, the mistress never letting Omar’s cock slip from her.
Kelsey had dated a guy in college who tried to switch positions at least twice each time they fucked. She hadn’t liked it then (though he’d never been graceful doing it), but she wanted to be in there, with Omar, literally rolling around fucking.
She imagined Omar’s smiling face as he rode her, kissing her as he came.
And Kelsey exploded, unaware that she was listening to someone else’s orgasm. The orgasm made her forget herself, forget that there were other people who might hear her moans.