Countdown To Killing Kurtis
Lauren Rowe
June 15, 2015
Synopsis
I do love my husband. To death. I love him so much that I've waited a whole year (minus one day) for Killing Kurtis Day to arrive. Tomorrow it will finally be here and I'm giddy with anticipation. Don’t judge me, you don’t know the whole story. I reckon if you were in my shoes, you’d kill your husband, too.
**Readers 18+ due to adult content and situations**
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Excerpt
Chapter 1
Hollywood, California, 1992
20 Years Old
1 Day Before Killing Kurtis
My head bangs against the wall as Kurtis has his way with me, groaning and grunting all the while. I can sense he’s reaching his limit and can’t hold out much longer.
“Baby,” he moans, his voice straining.
I turn my face into his ear and exhale sharply, making sure my breathing seems ragged and desperate, as if, despite my best efforts at maintaining my composure, I just can’t control myself. Of course, my dear husband, only you bring out the wide-eyed little girl in me, the girl who believes in happily ever afters and soul mates. I roll my eyes, even as my skull bangs against the wall with a loud thud.
The vast majority of the time, something as simple as panting in Kurtis’ ear does the trick and sends him over the edge. But not this time.
Bang, bang, bang. My head continues its assault on the wall of our hotel room.
“Oh, Kurtis,” I blurt loudly, taking great care to infuse my voice with breathless excitement. And then, because Kurtis absolutely loves it when I talk Texas, I bring my lips right to his ear, blow out a puff of warm air, and whisper, in my most exaggerated twang, “Goodness gracious, sugar.”
That ought to do the trick.
I wait.
He’s moaning and grunting like a hog in slop, but undeniably hanging on. Well, hells bells. Looks like I’m gonna have to work a little harder than usual to lead my blind pig of a husband to an acorn tonight. I make a noise like my insides are being split in two by pleasure so intense, it hurts—and then, just because I like wearing belts and suspenders, I bite his earlobe, too. Hard.
Yep, that does it. Hallelujah. Kurtis lets out a mangled cry of release and relief, and I respond with my trademark I’m-just-so-in-love-with-you sigh. Just for the heck of it, since this is my final performance, after all, and I’m a big believer in “leaving it all out there,” I follow all of it up with a little shimmy—something I’ve only recently learned I’m supposed to do at times such as this—and then I arch my back with apparent pleasure like I’m finally, deliciously scratching a hard-to-reach itch.
I smirk. I should have been an actress. Oh wait—I am an actress. And a damn good one, too—destined to be seen by audiences in cineplexes all over the world.
Kurtis becomes still. His body goes slack. Beads of sweat cover his brow, his chest, his cheeks. If I didn’t hate my husband so much, I might actually think he’s handsome—quite handsome, indeed.
I smile dreamily at my dear husband, thinking about tomorrow—when he’ll finally be dead.
“You’re amazing, baby,” Kurtis says, grinning like a possum with a sweet potato.
“Oh, Kurtis,” I squeal. In a sudden and unexpected fit of genuine glee, I throw my head back and laugh with abandon. Tomorrow is finally Killing Kurtis Day, and I’m bursting at the seams about it.
Kurtis kisses my nose. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too, Kurtis,” I reply. And it’s true. I do love Kurtis—that is, if you define love as that hard-to-pin-down sensation of anticipation and longing you get as you count down the days, then hours, and then minutes until your loved one is cold and dead as he so richly deserves to be. What a thrill—a turn-on, even, if I’m being honest—to be so very close now, so very, very close, after waiting a tortuous year minus one day for his well-deserved fate to come. Being on the eve of his one-way departure from planet earth, I feel somewhat hot and bothered, actually. Hey now, being so close to Happy Killing Kurtis Day is getting me hotter than a stolen tamale. I suddenly and enthusiastically kiss my husband’s mouth, and he plunges his tongue into mine in reply.
“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, his brawny body instantly responding to my surprising invitation. “Again?”
“Again,” I mutter.
Might as well send the fucker off with a smile on his stupid, lying face.
About Lauren Rowe
Lauren Rowe is the pen name of an author who lives in San Diego, CA with her family--and who typically writes in other genres. Due to the explicit sexuality, language and dark themes of THE CLUB TRILOGY, the author felt it best to use a pen name to avoid confusion with her other body of work.
Connect with Lauren
Website: http://www.laurenrowebooks.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lauren-Rowe/1498285267074016
Twitter: https://twitter.com/laurenrowebooks
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Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9699494.Lauren_Rowe
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