Awakened

Tall, dark, built like god-and absolutely naked when she first sees him through her bedroom window, Ryan not only fires Charly's imagination, he sets her blood on fire.


Published: 11/8/13
Length: Long Novella
Word Count: 53,492
Genre: Contemporary Erotica
Rating: Erotica.Contains explicit sex, graphic language, and some scenes of sex with multiple partners/ménage a trois.
Available formats: PDF, RTF, Epub, HTML, Mobipocket (.prc)

 

AWAKENED
By
Kimberly Zant


© Copyright by Kimberly Zant, January 2007
© Cover Art by Jenny Dixon, January 2007
ISBN 978-1-60394-547-9
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636


This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author's imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Maybe it was corny. It was definitely cliché. But ‘the bitter agony of defeat’ popped into my mind as I stared at the cursor on my computer screen, mesmerized by that tiny, blinking bar that reminded me of the ticking seconds, minutes, and hours I’d spent staring blankly, my mind devoid of inspiration. Necessity might be the mother of invention, but desperation wasn’t the motivation I needed to write.

I’d been writing and selling little articles and short stories, mostly for my own entertainment, for years. The money wasn’t much, but it was a thrill to see my work in print, to treat myself to a little shopping spree once in a great while.

Divorce had been a life altering experience. All the while I’d been wrapped up in my little fantasy world, my ex had been moving in for the kill shot and I’d been caught in his crosshairs like a deer shot by a hunter a half a mile away. I hadn’t seen or heard it coming, and it had been a pretty damned thorough wipeout.

I pounded away at the keyboard night after night now because I needed the money to supplement my pitiful wages and I was too ‘lazy’ to take on a second, ‘real’ job, mostly because it took every ounce of energy I could muster just to make it to the one job and back every day.

My friends in my writing group had been gently suggesting I take on a full length book, specifically a romance. Frankly, after what my ex had done to me, a murder mystery would probably have better fit into my frame of mind. The only reason I hadn’t tried it was because I had this hope that someone would grant my deepest, darkest wish and do my ex in, and I suffered from the paranoia that they’d decide to use my story as a blue print for the dastardly deed if I was stupid enough to give them ideas, and I’d end up in jail.

One kind soul had finally suggested erotica as a tremendously growing market that was in need of writers, which meant my chances of selling were better.

I’d vetoed that idea, as well--at first.

It occurred to me, though, that horny was an emotion I could relate to after a year and a half draught.

I’d thought so until I sat down and tried it anyway, but just as romance was beyond me, my mind failed to conjure ‘sexy’ male either. I could’ve used some visual imagery inspiration-a hunk next door sunning on the terrace, mowing the lawn--but the house was vacant and I couldn’t see anything from my office window anyway except the side of the house that faced mine and a couple of blank, curtainless windows.

Yawning, I decided to just rest my tired eyes for a few minutes. Frequently, all I had to do was try to sleep and my mind instantly began performing calisthenics.

It was pitch black in the room when I woke. My arms and lower legs were asleep from lack of circulation. I had no doubt that my face bore the imprint of the desk.

Groggily, I sat up and looked around, wondering how long I’d been out.

A flash of light outside my window caught my attention and my gaze moved automatically toward it.

It was the light going on in the room in the house across the way, the window almost directly across from my office window. I didn’t have time to assess my surprise at discovering that someone had moved in. (Big shock, that I hadn’t noticed! I went around in such a fog most of the time, I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I’d fallen over the boxes in the driveway!)

The naked man that stepped from the bathroom, scrubbing the towel he held in one hand over his wet hair totally annihilated any possibility of thought. I don’t think I even blinked. In an almost detached sort of way, I stared at the dampness glistening on his body. My gaze crawled over his broad chest and shoulders and down the perfect ‘six pack’ of his belly to the ‘beast’ nestled in the dark, curling thatch of hair at the apex of his thighs. His testicles were drawn up snugly to his body, probably from the chill in the room after a steaming shower--I could see faint, cloudy drifts of steam coming from the door. His cock, even at ease, was bigger than anything I’d ever seen at attention, almost as big around as my wrist and hanging damned near a quarter of the way down his muscular thigh. I hadn’t known they came in extra large.

If my ex’s five actually was five, this was definitely a ten, but then I’d always suspected my husband used metrics to measure, not inches, and he’d just left that little detail out.

I was vaguely aware of nicely shaped legs, muscular but not knotty, big hands, muscular arms, but most of my focus was on that perfectly lovely piece of meat--just lying there, currently untaken.

Awe probably most nearly described my state. It was a mixture of disbelief, fascination, and … ok … trepidation. Rambling around my stunned brain were various images of trying to mount that monolith and mental calculations of whether or not it was even actually possible for the average woman to take something like that on without risking serious injury. Jostling those thoughts and images was a sense of disbelief as to whether or not my eyes were actually seeing what I thought they were seeing or if it was possibly some sort of distortion from distance, shadows, the window glass, or a starving woman’s brain.

Lust canceled out whatever good sense I might otherwise have had and I realized that all of the doubts were immaterial as I allowed my gaze to soak in the whole package again, from the sculpted muscles on his chest, arms, and belly to Mount Everest. If there’d been any way in hell to get my hands on that beautiful piece of man meat, I would do or die trying.

Heat washed over me, and then a wave of cold as it occurred to me that I was staring and he might see me, and then a heated wave of embarrassment as he glanced toward the window briefly.

Instead of looking startled, he merely looked away again and I realized even as I flinched all over in an instinctive urge to dive for cover that I was sitting in the dark.

He couldn’t see me.

I could look as much as I wanted and he’d never know.

It wasn’t right. I should just leave the room, close the drapes.

I got up and moved a little closer as a thrill of excitement moved through me.

He was beautiful. I couldn’t really get a good look at his face, but from this distance even his face was handsome and his body--whoa!

Tossing the towel aside finally, he moved to a mirror and began combing his hair.

“Nice profile,” I murmured, staring at his tight, rounded ass for several moments before my gaze was drawn once more to the pretty thing sprouting from his belly. As cocks went, his was a definite ten. Even from this distance, I could see the head was fractionally bigger than the shaft and wondered if that would make it feel differently. My heart fluttered at the thought.

My husband’s penis had tapered from root to tip, the head being smaller than the root. I’d never really considered whether the shape might have any effect on the overall experience. Size, of course, mattered, regardless of the little myth, but technique, I suspected, had a good deal to do with it, too. My husband hadn’t been a terribly considerate lover. He’d figured his penis was above average in size and just being allowed to look at it ought to be enough to make me cum. If I wanted anything out of the experience besides the clean up job, I had to work at it.

This guy, though--just the way he moved excited me. I didn’t have any trouble at all imagining his moves in bed and I had a feeling ‘thorough’ more nearly described his credo.

I wanted to think so anyway.

I was really disappointed when he dragged a T-shirt out of a drawer and struggled into it, but the way it hugged his body was a thrill right by itself. I liked the shorts he wore, too--not the silly looking tidy whiteys or the boxers that fell to the knees and didn’t touch anywhere between besides the waist, but trim knit boxers that hugged his nice ass and cupped his package.

Sighing with regret when the show ended, I tiptoed out of the room and leaned shakily against the wall of the hallway for a few minutes, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to gather my scattered wits.

I’d spent ten minutes trying to think of some reasonable excuse to knock on his door before it occurred to me that there was nothing I could come up with that wouldn’t immediately smell like a put up job.

My conscience might have deserted me, but my damnable pride stood firm. No way was I going over there looking needy.

I was pretty sure I couldn’t meet him face to face without looking desperately needy.

Finally, I wandered downstairs and stared at my kitchen cabinets for a while, fighting the temptation to make up a ‘welcome’ basket for my new neighbor. Slowly, my brain kicked into a more or less functional mode and I went into action. I was well into preparation before it dawned on me that I was trying to entice my neighbor over with the smell of cooking food.

The realization made me giggle like an idiot, but my mind was still on lust mode and food immediately became sexual toys in my imagination.

Either the wind wasn’t blowing in his direction, the smell wasn’t enticing enough, or he just had a lot of resistance. He didn’t show up at my door with an excuse that sounded like something I’d manufactured. I wasn’t exactly hungry, not for food anyway. My entire body was a buzz.

My mind went into overdrive while I nibbled at the food, producing an entire plot line for a story I hadn’t even thought of. It would be bondage, naturally, not that I could imagine a guy that looked like him having to tie a woman up to get anything he wanted, but the idea of being completely at his mercy made me breathless. I was so excited about it, I wanted to leap up immediately and head for my keyboard. It hit me, though, that entering my ‘writing cave’ might scare the wild life off and I might not get another peep show.

A sense of possessiveness moved over me. I needed him. My muse needed him. I thought his image was printed indelibly on my mind, but what if I didn’t get another peek? Would it fade from my memory? Would I be able to recall every wonderful inch of him?

I couldn’t contain my inspiration, however. I feared if I didn’t get it down on paper I’d forget something really important. Finally, I grabbed the notebook I carried around with me to jot down ideas in and headed for my room. I wrote until my back and neck ached from the strain of hunching over the notebook in my lap, until my fingers were so cramped I could hardly grip the pen, then flexed my fingers and changed positions.

Finally, I reached a point of exhaustion and decided to ‘think’ with my eyes closed again. I woke to the sound of my alarm. Lifting my head, I stared at the clock bleary eyed and discovered I had one of the pages of my notebook glued to my cheek. I peeled it loose, fell out of bed and staggered toward the bathroom.

When I was finally able to open my eyes, I discovered I had ink stains on my face from sleeping with my cheek on my notebook. By the time I’d managed to scrub it off, dab on a little makeup and dress, I was running late. Grabbing the notebook, just in case inspiration hit me again at work, I dashed downstairs, grabbed a bottle of water and a donut and headed out the door.

I raced the clock all the way to work and still arrived in the parking lot almost ten minutes late. Brushing donut crumbs off my face and my clothes, I grabbed my pocket book and my notebook and dashed toward the employee entrance. I was so frantic to get to the time clock before the fifteen minute ‘you’re dead’ mark that I plowed into a man in the hallway and almost sent both of us sprawling. He recovered first, grabbing me to steady me.

I sent him an embarrassed, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry! I’m running la….” I completely forgot the thread of my thought. It was my neighbor--long dong hunk! I felt my jaw drop.

“You OK?”