Authors: Helena Hunting
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
2015 Helena Hunting
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Published by Helena Hunting
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Formatting by LJ Anderson of
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Editing by Lauren Schmelz and Jen Matera of
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Alex, you’ve seen me through many a MS. Thank you for believing in my words and helping me work through them, even when I’m freaking out.
Husband of mine: You’re the best inspiration. Thank you for loving me.
Debra: It’s a mutual addiction. Without you I’d be rocking in a corner.
Nina: You’re my voice of reason. Thank you for never mincing words.
Shannon: Everything you make is beautiful. You’re an awesome friend.
Lauren: Working with you has been seamless and hilarious. Thank you for helping get this into shape and dealing with my endless list of made up words.
Jen: Between your AR and my OCD, I think we make an awesome team, and you’re an awesome copyeditor.
Marla: You’re a word sniper. I love you!
Liv: Thank you for being such an amazing source of support, I’m so glad we’re friends.
Daisy: You’re just the sweetest, but you know that. We’ll hide behind curtains together.
Kelly B: Your beaver love is more than I know what to do with.
Shay: You rock, woman. Seriously. Thank you for all your support.
Filets: We keep pushing forward, making strides. I’m so blessed to know all of you.
The Locker Room: Ladies, you made the waiting, and the work, and the editing all worth it. Thank you for being on my side.
101 Ladies: You’ve been amazing through all of this. Thank you!
Emma: You’re an absolute doll. Thank you so, so much.
Fandom friends: Thank you for coming with me on this journey. I can’t express how much it means that you’ve stayed with me this long.
OTHER TITLES BY HELENA HUNTING
ABOUT THE AUTHOR- DEBRA ANASTASIA
It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning, and I’m thirty seconds away from an amazing orgasm. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual. Just because I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. My day is always better when I start with a shot from the orgasm bottle.
I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way possible. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a furious pace, the vibrator—God bless the damn vibrator—is hitting the s-s-s-spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.
And that’s the moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic, destroying my morning
. She must have let herself in again, as is typical.
Here’s the thing; I don’t live with my mom. I moved out more than four years ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property, but it’s supposed to be my private space. My refuge from my crazy awesome, albeit super-inappropriate mother.
The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull up the covers. My vagina is raging. I can’t even begin to explain. It’s the female equivalent of blue balls.
Mom!” I slump further under the comforter. “How many times do we need to have this talk?”
You should be out of bed already! I have something for you!” She waves her hands around in the air like the crazy inflatable balloon guy on TV. It’s too much this early in my day.
I literally just woke up. I need five minutes before we have a conversation, okay?”
Her arms fall to her sides, her shoulders dropping with her smile, which would make me feel bad, except she’s let herself into my home and barged into my bedroom unannounced. So all I have is frustration.
Oh, sure.” Her dejection is blissfully short-lived. “How about I put on a pot of coffee?”
My mom loves to be useful, and while I’m annoyed, I don’t want to hurt her feelings in spite of the inconvenient interruption. “That’d be great.” Any reason to get her out of my room is a good one, but a fresh pot of coffee is more than welcome.
She backs out and closes the door, leaving me in peace. For three seconds I contemplate finishing what I started, but there’s no way I’m going to come with my mom tooling around in my kitchen. Instead, I toss my vibe into the nightstand and make a stop in the bathroom to wash my hands.
At twenty-two, I should be able to maintain some distance from my mother. However, she has a great deal of difficulty with the concept of personal space. In my freshman year of college, I threw out the idea of moving into an apartment close to campus. My mom and Sidney—my stepdad—had recently tied the knot. They were worse than virginal teenagers. I’ve had the misfortune of walking in on them in compromising positions more than once. The third time was my breaking point.