Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) đź“•
That this was my first attempt at writing a novel goes a long way toward explaining the earliest rejections of the work, then titled "Silicon Dreams," by editors unlucky enough to have had it land with a thud on their desks. Somehow I'd lost sight of Mr. Wolfe's excellent illustration and found myself mimicking, all at once, the likes of Sidney Sheldon, Arthur Hailey, Jackie Collins, and, believe it or not, Stephen King (who happens to be my favorite mainstream read). With so many influences at play in the already befuddled head of an aspiring young writer with dreams of hitting the number one spot on all of t
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“Matthew, you’ve done wonderful things for Wallaby and for me. I want it to keep going this way for you. Is this wrong, what we’re doing?” she said, fingertips touching along the edge of his belt.
“No,” he said, and closed his eyes with anticipation. Her fingertips slipped down an inch into his slacks. “I mean yes. Oh, yes.”
“It’s yours for the taking, Matthew. All of it. There’s no stopping you now.”
Her words drove him into a frenzy. He gripped the back of her head and pulled her in close, his tongue darting in her mouth, over her eyes and around her ears. He coursed his fingers through her hair, everything coming to him in rushing waves of passion.
Yes, she was correct. There was no stopping him, them. He thought now only of the bed. He pulled back from her. His trousers were undone and her blouse was open. He gripped her wrist and led her, walking backward as he did so, to the bedroom. She grabbed the bottle of sauterne and raised it to her lips, following with no resistance. At bedside, she passed the bottle to him. He took a large swallow of wine, then set the bottle on the night table. He held the liquid in his mouth and kissed her, then reached for more, but she beat him to it.
“Wait,” she said. She lifted the bottle, and with her free hand, pulled down her bra and brought the bottle close. Staring into his eyes, she poured some of the sweet wine over her erect nipples.
Never before had he felt so avid. In his urgency, he pushed her back on the bed and crossed his leg over her smooth firm belly. He hungrily licked her breasts, sucking wine from one, then the other, struggling to work off her bra and blouse.
He raised her farther up on the bed, her head settling into the soft, feather pillows. This was the part he had envisioned from the moment he had laid eyes on the striking bed.
He led her hands to the steel head bar, and she understood at once how he wanted her. She gripped tightly, her knuckles turning pale. She lunged for his lips with her own. He met them and forced her down with his head, urgently reaching between her legs.
He worked his erect penis out of his pants. Gripping his hands beside hers on the bar, he entered her. He tuned into her every response, licking her eyelids, feeling the movement of her eyes beneath. He felt her teeth with his tongue, at the same moment aware of her ankles against his calves, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to hold back very long. The feeling of the cold steel in his hands welded in his mind the image of their position, both gripping tightly to this linen-draped frame. He drove into her forcefully, with unfamiliar awkwardness. It was better than he remembered, he thought, gnawing at her neck ravenously as he quickened.
He climaxed almost immediately, shouting hoarsely with each burst. Once his tremors stopped he felt drained of all energy. He was so, so tired. Barely pressing off the bed with his arms as her hips thrust upward, he tried to help her finish. She managed to lift much of his weight, but not without effort. Her moans were coming in quick, strained gasps. For one trembling instant, before succumbing to his weight, she moaned. He collapsed on her, forcing her breath away.
He rolled away, onto his back, his legs twisted around hers, too tired to move them. Almost instantly, his breathing slackened and he lay there depleted. He became oblivious to her, to them, to where they were, and to what they had done. He felt pleasantly used up, yet at the same time, in another part of his being, he felt very full, larger than life.
Far away now, a dreamy smile alighting his face, he heard Laurence’s words once more in his mind as he dozed off.
No stopping you now…
“Hey, you ready yet?” Kate said, appearing in the bathroom doorway.
Peter stood leaning over the sink, cautiously dragging a razor across his face.
“Hallelujah!” Kate shouted, watching as the beard that had grown long and scraggy over the past few months disappear into the sink. Peter paused for a moment and winked at her in the mirror, his face white and foamy, then returned his concentration to the razor.
She leaned a shoulder against the edge of the door frame and stood watching him. “I like your face smooth, it feels better on me.”
“Ouch!” Peter said, jerking the razor from his face. A dot of red instantly formed on his chin.
“So, Lancelot,” Kate said, hanging her robe on the door hook, “what do I wear?”
“Whatever you want , it’s just a neighborly thing.” Peter rinsed his face, then pulled the skin on his neck taut and inspected his work. He saw that she was still watching him, and he took in her full naked reflection before turning to face her.
“I think it’s more than that,” she said.
“What’s more?”
“The dinner. I think this Mr. Holmes is probably excited that he’s met you, and wants to get to know your better.”
“Well, me too. I could use a friend here. I only see you for two or three days at a time.” He crossed his arms, resting his rear against the sink, and studied her up and down with a playful, approving grin. “You know, for a forty-year-old lady, you’re still quite a knockout.”
“Oh yeah? Well for a thirty-something boy, you’re not so bad yourself.” She came over to him and slid her fingertips beneath the waistband of his jockey shorts at the small of his back, rubbed her cheek softly against his. “Mmm, this does feel better.” They stood there for a while, holding one another.
He pulled away from her a little so he could look into her eyes. “What is it about us?” he said. “What makes it work?”
She considered for a moment. “Well, we’re a lot alike,” she said, lightly kissing his nose. “And a lot unalike.”
He nodded and bowed his head, focusing on their touching hips. “Do you think maybe we should be together more?”
“Maybe.”
“More permanently?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” His eyes widened a little as they sought hers.
“Petey, we work because we both have things in our lives that we believe in.”
“Had,” he mumbled.
“Have,” she said, lifting his chin with her hand. “You’re just a little dry right now. You have to give yourself some time to let things happen inside here.” She knocked his head lightly with her knuckles. “It doesn’t all just suddenly change overnight, Petey.”
“I know. But I’ve been thinking.” He hesitated for an instant. “What about maybe if I were to settle down a little, split some time between here and California, take it easy.”
Her expression was full of attention and love, but not without a small and knowing frown. They had had the conversation before, usually when he was feeling depressed, and they both knew that neither was fully ready to settle down.
“And what if you and I, you know…” he said, his voice trailing off, his hands brushing her shoulders.
“No.”
“But - “
“Petey,” she said, pressing her fingertips to his lips. “You know that once you get something zipping around in that carnival-quick head of yours, you’re going to be flying at a million miles an hour.”
He smirked. “Okay, maybe not marriage, but how about…I don’t know. I’ve been thinking more and more about the feeling I get when I remember back to the first time I saw a kid use a Mate computer.” His voice became a whisper. “Maybe a child in my life, a baby, our baby.” He stressed his grip on her waist and pulled her closer.
“You know I can’t have a baby,” she said. Her eyes were glistening. “I’m too old, and I told you I tried long before we met,” she said. “You know that. And yet you suggest it.” Taking his index finger, she lightly poked her taut belly in an attempt to make light of the situation. “Closed for business. Sorry.” She trembled.
He pressed her head against his chest and rubbed the back of her neck. “Hey, I’m sorry.” He kissed her eyelids. “That wasn’t nice of me to bring up again. I’m really sorry. Okay?”
She nodded and he wiped his thumb under her eyes.
“Petey, trust me. You just need a little time to think. You’re thinking right now about what is today, and you’re not giving yourself a chance to just take it easy.”
Now it was he who nodded and lowered his head to hers, and she hugged him. “It’ll come, Petey, I know it will. It will come again.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart. Now put some clothes on,” she said, slapping his rear. “I’m getting cold and hungry, and we don’t want to be late for your new friend.” She turned and strolled to the bedroom.
Suddenly his underwear whizzed past her head, grazing her hair before landing on the bed. She stopped in place and set her hands on her hips and turned around with a playful grin on her face.
“Isn’t it fashionable to be late?”
*
“Dinner is ready,” Greta said from Matthew’s office door, just off the library.
“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, turning to acknowledge her, but she was already gone.
He finished typing his e-mail message to William Harrell, then clicked the send button. Piled on his desk were notes, charts, and schedules, each a vital facet of the overall ICP Strategic Alliance report he had been working on all day. Another Saturday devoted to work, but that was nothing new. Glancing at his watch he figured he could probably finish most of the outline by morning, so long as he hurried through dinner.
Leaving the light of his library office, he strolled through the uncharacteristically dark house. He padded down the long hallway and passed the closed dining room door, crossed the foyer, and rounded the corner to the family room and kitchen area. The room was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day’s mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours earlier.
“Greta?” he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.
“In here,” came his wife’s voice softly.
He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office had brought in bunches for everyone.
“Oh,” was all he managed
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