Aubrey Leatherwood - Emotional, Intellectual, Sexual

Imperfection

March 2009

Lyrical Press, Inc.

Imperfection is a novel about Candace and JB Russell, a seductive and charming couple nearing their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Candy works to meet deadlines, JB tries to find the perfect side gig, and they both try to weather the storm that is their daughter Shannon. Still, word on the street is that Candy and JB have the most fulfilling sex life of anyone in the neighborhood. And they do.

Often poignant and hilarious, Candace guides the reader on an intensely erotic, explicitly sexual odyssey infused with nuance, emotion, and palpable romance. These stories include frank discussions of first sexual encounters, the fight that nearly ended the relationship, and an incredibly sexy not-to-be-believed anniversary present. The title highlights that these characters are real, not perfect, yet they find an absolutely perfect love for each other.

In my writing and specifically in this novel, I explore an authentic, familiar side or eroticism. Imperfection illustrates the possibility and beauty of wild, incredible sex between people who know each other, like each other, who accept each others flaws, are not twenty-somethings (though we happily get to read about how they met a fell in love in their twenties), and who fall in love with each other over and over again. This novel will appeal to readers who like erotica as well as romance and truly want to fall in love with the characters.

Reviews:

See the Coffee Time Romance 5 Cup Review here: http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/Imperfection.html

See Whipped Cream Reviews� 4 Cherry Review here .

Manic Readers says �It�s just a plain good story�� read it here .

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An Erotic Excerpt and and emotional one can be found below.

Erotic:

My friend Ann tells me I like it too much. My admin thinks its awe-inspiring. My sister-in-law Organza thinks it is unnatural. My best friend Deborah wont even discuss it. But I ask: What's wrong with desperately wanting your own husband? That sex with him becomes a goal each time we are apart? That he is my favorite smell and color and food? It is not all-consuming all the time. Instead, it is something that comes to me like a new idea, unexpected, quick, and completely inescapable. I want to worship at his temple. Then I want lightning to strike it.

This is the way it happens. It may be dead in the middle of summer, which around here means hot. He is showering in scalding hot water. I'm standing, wrapped in a white towel and combing my hair. I'm thinking of a song but it is fleeting and I dont know what it is. I'm standing before the mirror even though I can't even see my hair to brush it right. The words and melody to this song elude me. I stand there anyway before the mirror. I'm not really brushing my hair. I am distracted by what I hear.

I am listening to the water streaming hot from its foggy nozzle, listening to him shift and move making that water splash and drizzle. I am sure the mirror is now opaque from condensation but Im not looking at it. I'm glancing out the corner of my eye (as if someone can see me watching, as if there's something wrong with me watching) and watching the way his silhouette moves behind the blurred glass. In one of his hands I can make out the outline of something bulky, he's using the loofa he laughed for hours about me buying. He turns and I can see the line of his but curving down to well-muscled thighs. I hold the comb harder against the instinct to push the door back and squeeze him. I run it through my hair once more, though this time I bring it down and let its smooth spine slide down and over the top of my towel. I bite my lip. I put the comb down. He shifts again and I can make out his broad back. Suds slip down his backbone, down his legs.

He speaks but I don't, I am in the zone, his zone. Slowly, I slip my hand beneath my towel--it's chafing against me. I let my fingertips move along the offended skin. Then I let my hand slide further until I am holding my own breast in my hand. I let the towel slip down my body.

Startled by silence as he turns the water off, I suck in a deep breath. He pushes the glass door open. He turns and I know what he sees. He sees me standing, one hand grasping a towel dangling against my thigh, the other stroking breasts I know he remembers kissing. I also know what I see. I see smooth bronze skin and fine black hair leading its wet way down to circle him, the way I would circle him. I see eyes, whose color is not nearly as important as their intensity as they watch my hand. First, he smiles, and then he watches my hand. I smell heat and heat and Irish Spring and heat. He is dripping.

I step closer to him and I can feel it. The heat is reaching out from his body to mine. I let the hand he can't stop watching slip to my belly then to my thigh, then between. I drop the towel. His lips part. The shape of his mouth is lost to me, I can only think of what it can do. I bring the hand--the fingers he can't stop watching up to those lips tracing them. I lean up and kiss him salty.

Feather light touch on his wrist first, then a slow trail over his soft skin and hard curves all the way up over his shoulder all the way up to his neck. Caressing, holding there for a moment. His skin looking like buttered bread smells deep Good Lord. I don't dare glance at his face that would be too, too much. My lips now findingnohaving to find that same pleasure, more pleasure than can be sated with just my hands. He tastes good. Sweet and salty and good. Kissing barely satisfies me. My teeth sink slow into his skin that surrenders and his muscle that resists. Steam is still rolling over his hot shoulders and chest. I spy a droplet licking down his chest. Like a jealous guardian, my tongue is forced to capture it. Feeling electric hands on my back I shake, then shake them; electricity is distracting me from my purpose.

I want to devour him, I want to take him into me, make him part, make us whole. My tongue and teeth and hands are sucking him, biting him, touching him. Trying to get through his flesh to his soul. I slip my arms all the way around him, holding him close as I struggle to take him. I slip up and down, my arms rubbing him, my nipples gliding against the ridges of his abdomen. He tries to touch me again, but I bite his nipple softly and shake my head. I go lower, biting into his solid abdomen, watching fascinated at the muscles squeezing there, lower, until I flick my tongue against his navel. Lower until my cheek rubs against his swollen, hot penis, what I have been after all along. It is soft. It is hard. It is a darker bronze than rest of him. I am worshipping it and what it does to me. It slips in and slips out. It does it slow at first to make sure that I am open, then fast because I always am. It circles and pushes and when I know that he's fucking me, no longer making love to me, it makes me come.

I run my tongue down the length of him on one side then the other. I come from beneath and lick to the tip, fill my mouth and suck him in. I can feel his thighs swell, strong against my breasts as he clinches tight, trying to fortify himself against what I'm doing, but I am relentless, my jaw and tongue working. I let him go but dip below to take one testicle into my mouth, then the other I am always amazed at how the elephant skin there tightens. I tip my head up again to let his penis flip across my lips. I open my mouth wide and let it in again. It's loose between my lips and I let my tongue vibrate against it. Then I close my lips and suck in earnest. He draws in a rush of breath that sounds equal parts tenor and snort. My hand moves up over his strong thigh, then around to squeeze him tightly at the base as I work my head back and forth. His hand comes down to fix in my hair. He wants me to stop so he can take control. He doesn't want me to stop.

Kneeling before my husband, both of my knees to the cold, wet, slippery linoleum, I slide them open and slide my free hand into my moist heat. I dip inside then out, flicking a finger against the throbbing flesh budding out of me. Its thick, swollen and sensitive. A shock goes through me as I flick it again and suck him in. I can hear his breathing and his heart beating, punctuated by alternating grunts and whimpers. His thick veins pulse against my tongue and take him as deep as I can in my mouth and throat, in and out, the way my body wants. Then I relax my lips and let moisture pool in my mouth as I rapidly move my head back and forth. He moans. I strum, and pluck, and pierce myself in time. I become a study of ragged breathing, heart pounding, and soft mewls. I am engorged and throbbing as I rub furiously, trying to come and to make him come with me. He tries to pull away but I am on a mission and I know what he's trying to stop. His hand is pulling my hair too tight. His muscles are squeezing too tight. My mouth is clamped too tight around him until he jerks, and spurts heat into my throat.

My thighs are pressed against two drawer knobs. The edge of the counter is digging into my hip. My ribs press against the rim of the sink. My breasts lay inside against the cool porcelain. He does not enter me slow. He doesn't care that the water's still running or that it's too soon now. His dick is still hard. My head is in the sink. And he loves me, but he's going to fuck me now.

Emotional:

I stumble into the house with exhaustion weighing me down.

Did you eat? JB asks. Hes always making sure that Ive eaten because when Im stressed, sometimes I forget.

I start to answer but hesitate. I think maybe I had a sandwich, maybe a salad. No, that was Tuesday. Hell, I dont know.

You havent eaten anything, JB answers for me.

I love to eat. I am not a woman who takes missing a meal lightly, but I am so tired and I am so frustrated. I want to scream or break something. Shannon has been home for two weeks and Ive been leaving early and working late for a full week. Seven days, not five. I even went in over the weekend. Today has been especially bad because

Is Danny speaking to you now? The man is certainly perceptive.

If by speaking to me you mean that my daughter was willing to come down to my office today to pick up the checks for her tuition and the mortgage on the condo, then yes, shes speaking to me. We owned a condominium in the same city as Shannons law school. Before she moved there, we used it for game weekends and quick getaways. Now, she lived in it free of charge until graduation.

Thats not what I mean and you know it.

I do know it, but I dont care. God willing, shell be staying in the condo tonight. It wasnt a pretty sentiment, but after twenty-some-odd years, my husband does not bat an eye.

My twenty-three-year-old daughter and I have had a tumultuous relationship since the onset of puberty. Hers, not mine. Thats when she stopped talking to me. When she was eleven and needed her first bra, she didnt come to me and tell me. She sent me an email. A formal email with Dear Mother as a greeting. She indicated in the letter that sheand I quotehad no desire to speak about this in person.

We were silent on the way to the department store. She stood by closemouthed as I sorted through brassieres and handed them to her. I followed her into the dressing room and she glared at me as I squeezed in with her. When I tried to explain to her how to put on the bra without having to reach behind her, she growled at me in the way only teenage daughters can growl at their mothers. I left the dressing room feeling it was better for the both of us if my participation was left at handing her different items over the door and putting back things she didnt like. And she didnt like a single satin or lace or pink or floral bra I sent her way. She didnt even want a bra that fastened. She opted forgaspserviceable white sports bras. As far as I know, she still does.

When Shannon got her first period, she did not come to me. She left a note for JB in his laptop case. I never saw the note. He just told me a week later that her period had come and gone and he had taken care of it. I was stuck between baffled and angry. Normal teenage girls didnt go to their daddies with their first periods, and he should have told me immediately. I switched to full-on anger when he told me that he had taken that opportunity to explain the birds and the bees to her. I was furious. I was inconsolable. Im pretty sure I hit him. JB tried to explain that he knew I wouldnt feel comfortable talking about it. I explained that that didnt matter, it was my job. It was my rite of passage as a mother, an experience that I could never, ever get back. I refused him sex for the one and only time in our marriage that night, and I am still bitter and angry about it to this day.

My husband treads lightly on the subject of Shannon now because he doesnt want me to feel hurt that the two of them are closer than she and I. I do not begrudge JB the relationship he has with her, but I have to admit I am jealous of it. Back then, Shannon was silent and surly; she hated me, but never expressed that emotion in more than grunts, sighs and slammed doors.

Now that she is older and spending a good deal of our money on law school, my daughter can articulate just what it is about me she did and does not like.

Early on, she lived in fear that I would embarrass her. I suppose many daughters feel this about their mothers and frequently for good reason. My own mother, when I was in the seventh grade, told an eighth-grade boy who liked me not to touch me because I had ringworm behind my ear. I did, but she didnt have to broadcast it to the populace.

My daughter didnt fear that sort of embarrassment. She was more concerned that I would try to be cool with her girlfriends or flirt with her teachers, and her friends fathers, and her boyfriends. She was afraid most people would not get my subtle jokes or that those who did would see me as some sort of pathetic, middle-aged succubus. My daughter had seen her father and I kiss. She had seen us exchange heated looks. Shed seen us retire to bed early, and she has never been either stupid or naive. Shannon believed wholeheartedly everything I said those days was a sexual innuendo or double entendre. Somehow, she had relegated me into the category of dirty old nymphomaniac.

I am a poised woman. People commented well before she was even born about my mastery of finesse and subtlety. I speak well. I dress with my buttons done up, my shirts pinned, my skirts knee length. I do not make public sexual jokes, though I am certainly free with my husband and friends. I have gone far in my chosen career by being well put together and making people comfortable. I have cultivated an image that has helped pay for private grade school, an undergraduate degree and now law school. I reiterated to Shannon many times when she engaged in hysterics and yelled that I was ruining her life, that I would never put her in an awkward situation, and I never have.

She is well aware of this. Her discord with me has changed since she became an adult. She no longer worries about the humiliation at the hands of her sex addict (yes, she called me that once) mother. Her discord with me has evolved.

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