Being Eloise (An Erotic Romance Collection, Books 1-3) by Eloise Spanks Page A

answer?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. “It’d be so much easier if he had some kind of injury and regular sex wasn’t an option.”
    “Well, I’m a little jealous. Drake’s not gifted in that oral department. He really doesn’t like doing it.”
    “But on Wednesday…you made him…”
    “Well, as a form of punishment, yes. But not on any other nights.”
    “Even with you reciprocating?”
    “Oh no. Wouldn’t mind, but I give as I get.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Terrance won’t even let me do that.” The snow had suddenly turned heavy and the room increased in brightness.
    Olivia stood. “Okay. Time to go before the driveway gets snowed in. Thanks for tea.”
    “Sure,” I said, and took the coffee mug she handed me.
    “If I were you,” she said, heading out the door, “I’d be thinking of his schlong all the time.”
    After she’d left the apartment I had the hardest time getting back into work. True enough, all I could think of was Terrance below the belt, and I stood there a full minute, coffee mugs in hand, half of my body leaning toward my work, the other to the bedroom and the dresser and the vibrator there. Thankfully the phone rang (my editor) and saved me from a half-hour derailment of my morning.
    After the call I returned to editing the post-professional career phase of Mr. Irldale’s book. I heard Olivia drive off and looked out the window and saw the rectangle of dark gravel where her car had been. By the time I was halfway through the chapter it had stopped snowing. And by the time my son came home from school the snow was slush. By morning all was wet and gray once more.
    If this book were fiction, I’d push through another scene here, in all likelihood a nap with a sexual dream in it, or maybe some phone sex, or that dildo in the drawer under the granny panties. But in reality not much happened for a few months. I lost a client who I’d done quite a bit of writing for, I sprained my foot on the stairs and was on crutches for a few weeks, my son gut punched one of his many bullies and got suspended for a week—which wasn’t fun. Turns out you still get homework even while suspended. Terrance came over every few days between his week-long disappearing acts to visit far-flung schools, but he still wouldn’t let me return his favors. Not even a hand job. Not even a dry rub. He responded to my questions with the same words. “Can we just drop it already.” I let him go down on me, just not with all the ties and restraints. Okay, not without the restrains
every
time. So my life basically consisted of cycles of enjoying Terrance and his tongue while he was here, and thinking of Terrance and his tongue while he was gone.
    It was sometime around this time, February or March I believe, that my ex came over. Quick note to readers: when your ex asks to come over, tell him that anything he wants to say can be said over the phone. Or through a lawyer. He said he wanted to talk about our son. I’ve called my ex Samuel since he needs a name, though I really don’t feel he deserves the protection of a pseudonym. Sam didn’t look good. He’d taken to wearing caps—not baseball but trucker. The kind worn only by real truckers, posers, or the listless. He was wearing his hair long. You can guess which group he fell into.
    “Hey Eloise,” he said, coming up the stairs.
    “Sam,” I said.
    “Nice place,” he muttered, a hollow thing to say because all he could see was the siding outside. No one says
nice place
about over-the-garage living quarters. He wanted something.
    I shrugged and walked inside. He followed.
    “There’s still some coffee in the pot,” I said.
    “I’m good,” he said.
    I watched him look around the room, his eyes probably fastening less on the things that we’d once both shared, and more on what had come after: the coat rack Terrance had made for me out of welded bicycle handlebars, the chandelier above the table in the kitchen (via Olivia), or the framed prints