Countdown (Part 1 of 2)

Written by Noa. Noa is an experienced Jewrotica writer. This piece is the prequel of “Shinui / Change“, which can be read as a prequel to “In Total Darkness“.

…up on the windowsill, cold glass against my thin T-shirt, a tapping sound on the window from the outside – I ignore it – my cotton skirt hiked all the way up my thighs as he grinds against me, teeth and tongue working on the side of my neck, making me shiver, another tap at the window, which I continue to ignore, and I start to undo the buttons on his waistcoat –

Waistcoat?

Okay, no more pilfering from my roommate’s Regency romance collection right before bed.

He kisses me hard and quick. “Ahh, Shev,” he groans against my mouth.

Then he pulls back and I can see his face as he scratches the hair above his ear and says, “I don’t mind if you call me Effi,” and he leans in and –

Suddenly I’m awake, jerked back into reality by… what was that sound?

My phone buzzing.

I fumble for my glasses – no sense in messing around with contacts in the middle of the night – and pick up my phone.

Effi: I’m out of pebbles. Look out your window already

I get up and slide the window open, realizing at the last second that I’m wearing a tank top, and I duck so that just my head is visible.

There he is, standing outside my building at – I glance back at my phone – three in the morning. He’s waving, too, as if I could have missed him. Despite my instinct to chide him, a smile breaks over my face.

I don’t want to wake up the entire neighborhood by yelling, so I text him back.

Me: We’re not supposed to see each other!

Effi: YES 🙂

I quickly pull a jean skirt on over my pajama pants and a thin zippered hoodie over my top, gather my hair into a ponytail, and hurry outside to meet him. I’m thrilled that he’s here, even though he really shouldn’t be.

“Hey,” he says as I walk up. “I missed you today.”

I can feel myself beginning to yearn. I want to stick him in my pocket and bring him home. I want him to be mine. I want to whisper, “I love you, I love you, I love you” into his ear and let my lips brush against the soft skin of his earlobe. Six more days, I remind myself.

“Were you throwing pebbles at my window? And you actually hit it? Four stories up?”

“I missed the first few times,” he admits, as we start walking. “But I bullseyed at least five of them. You are a heavy, heavy sleeper.”

“I hope that doesn’t give you any last-minute doubts,” I say. “And I think your pebbles were incorporated into my dream, at least.”

I try not to blush as the rest of the dream comes back to me. Can he see it in my face? Sometimes I feel like ever since he gave me that ring, all I can think when I’m around him about is my desire for him and wonder if he feels even a fraction of it. People say that being engaged is stressful, but they don’t warn you about this. Often I’ll be talking to people about flowers and colors and music and all I’ll be thinking is, “Who cares about any of this? I’m going to have sex in a few months!”

Or, a few weeks.

Or, six days.

I know that I can relieve some of the tension on my own, in the dark, behind my locked bedroom door, and sometimes I do – but not too much; I feel like that would be cheating the game. And to tell the truth, it doesn’t help for more than five minutes, either.

“Once we’re married, I’ll make sure to text you if I need to wake you up,” he says.

There’s an elementary school with an open playground about a block away from my place, and we stop as we reach it.

“Want to go in?” he asks.

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