by Xavier Neal
“That’s it, Cherry Pie. Swallow that shit for me.”
Scorching spurts singe my esophagus, showcasing not only his satisfaction, but the fact my skills aren’t as rusty as I thought they were.
It’s not like I’m given the chance to keep them sharp.
If we’ve got time to fool around, sex is the immediate thought, foreplay second.
I blame the kids.
Foreplay truly is a luxury once you’ve got little spies in your house.
Eddie tugs me off his cock, and my watery gaze instantly soars to his.
Heat and hunger are thrumming so fiercely through his stare all I can do is whimper in surrender.
His eyes devour the sight of my swollen lips. The lips he made swollen.
“Got the energy now?” I suggestively tease.
He motions his head downward to where his dick is already preparing for another round. Excitement cakes my expression, spurring him to challenge, “Why don’t you climb on top of me and find out just how fucking much?”
“I-”
“Dad!” Kenny shouts at the top of his lungs as he stomps down the stairs.
“Shit,” my husband grumbles, knocking towels into his lap at the same time I rise to my feet.
Seconds prior to Kenny reaching the bottom of the stairs, I’ve thankfully managed to make myself appear as though I wasn’t just about to climb on top of his father and ride my way to Orgasm town.
“Dad, I had a bad dream!” He dramatically gripes still rubbing his eyes. “Green Goblin-” The sentence is stopped short when his vision settles on me. “Mom!”
“Bud!”
Kenny rushes over, and I immediately wrap my arms around his solid frame.
God, it seems like forever since I’ve had time to hug him like this. I’m usually rushing to the shower post morning run when they’re being corralled for breakfast, and they’re usually out the door with a brief goodbye just as I’m headed down the stairs. This week I’ve missed dinner every night due to the increase in holiday treat requests. It’s why we went out for a drink. It’s why going out was needed. We’ve been working twelve and thirteen-hour days for the past five days. Celebrating the change by grabbing a beer seemed like the appropriate decision; however, as I hold my oldest in my arms and reflect on how exhausted my husband was when I walked through the door, I’m not so sure.
Leaning back so we can meet eyes, I inquire, “You wanna drink a glass of cold milk and tell me what Green Goblin did?”
He immediately nods at the offer.
My palm opens wide for his to join with it. “Let’s do that while Dad heads up to bed.”
Eddie’s objection is surprising. “I really gotta finish laundry first.”
“It’ll be there in the morning.”
“There will be more of it in the morning,” he argues. “It breeds overnight.”
I lightly giggle and prepare to lead our son to the kitchen.
“Dad?” Kenny calls to him.
“Yeah, bud?”
“Can you come have milk with us?”
The sweetness in his request demolishes the tiny willpower to do chores my husband had. “Of course. Jus’…give me a minute to uh…fix these towels, okay?”
Kenny patiently waits for Eddie to move.
His eyes dart up to mine, and he silently pleads for a little help.
“Come on,” I tug our oldest away. “Dad will be right behind us.”
Once we’re moving, I assume my husband swiftly tucks his dick back into his pants, probably just as disappointed we didn’t get to finish what we started as I am.
I park Kenny at the table, grab three glasses, and insist he begins his story while I fill them. It doesn’t take long for Eddie to join us but to my surprise, it’s his lap our son climbs into, requesting to be held. The choice causes an unexpected ache I attempt to hide with a soft smile.
Of course, I want our children to feel they can come to either of us, and that we’ll both be there for them whenever they need it, but I’m not used to being the one they choose second. It’s always been me who’s cooked in the kitchen with them, sang them songs to bed, and who’s held them after nightmares. Part of me is ecstatic to see them connecting to their father in a way that wasn’t available for him before due to his hectic schedule, yet part of me is feeling as though I’m being…replaced.
Which is insane.
We’re both their parents.
It’s okay for us both to be active and needed.
It’s okay that things are changing…
I wanted change.
I just hope I don’t grow to resent it.
Chapter 4
I drag the almost empty chili cheese fry container back to my side of the table. “This has my name on it.”
My wife purses her lips, peers at the remains, and pulls it her direction. “Pretty sure that says Sienna.”
“Cherry Pie, your vision must be goin’,” my head slowly shakes as I move the tray back towards me, “because that S you see is clearly the Superman S.”
She narrows her vision and stops the sly takeover. “No-huh. You can’t have the last bite.”
“But I want it…”
“So do I.”
“Yeah, but I need it.”
“Oh, you need it?”
“Cherry Pie, I’m twice your size, so I need twice the amount of food. Every time we share shit, I’m practically starving myself.” I smirk at the same time I start to reach into the dish. “That’s how much I love you.”
Her hand doesn’t hesitate to strike mine.
“Hey!”
“Twice my size yet twice as slow.”
The challenge in her brown gaze manages to grow my smile.
This is the shit I’ve missed. Between adjusting to her new job and the craziness of the holiday that just passed, we haven’t had much time to be alone. And by much time I mean no time. Her hours at the shop are a bit more unpredictable than I was anticipating. She’s rarely home in time for dinner with us most days. When she finally does manage to sneak through the door, I’m passed the fuck out. Handling the boys as well as the house day to day is much more difficult than I was imagining. There’s cooking. And cleaning. And laundry that never ends. Once you add in homework, Kyle’s Little Dunker’s basketball practice that I somehow got roped into assistant coaching, and Kenny’s sudden interest in Karate, I barely have the energy to read them a bedtime story. Forget about staying up late to hear about their mother’s workday or trying to seduce her into sex. Big Foot keeps promising it’ll get easier. I’ll find my footing. The right routine, which may differ from the one Sienna had. He also encouraged me to get some shit I never thought I’d use, like a family calendar for the fridge as well as taught me how to use the one on my phone. Both of those things are definitely helping. It’s one reason I knew I would have time to swing by Sienna’s job to treat her to lunch. She mentioned Monday this week would be the only good day, and I immediately put it in the schedule. Sure, it’s cold as fuck outside, but spending some quality time with her instead of just a few texts a day makes my nuts being frozen to the inside of my jeans worth it.
Another cold gust of air kicks up around us causing Sienna to shiver.
I stand up, walk around the picnic table we’re parked at, shrug off my jacket, and drape it over her shoulders. Her mouth immediately twitches to object, but I shake my head in denial. “Don’t even fuckin’ try it.”
She slips her arms into the leather sleeves, poorly hiding her smile at the same time I settle beside her.
Stubborn like a goddamn calf not ready to be weaned off its mother’s milk.
Honestly don’t think I’d be this happy if she were any other way.
My somewhat selfless act is surprisingly rewarded. “You can have the last bite.”
“Naw,” I playfully argue. “You’re the one freezin’ to death because she didn’t put on enough pounds for the comin’ winter.” Giving my black t-shirt shielded stomach a solid pat, I add, �
�I’m good through March at least.”
Sienna rolls her eyes and uses the back of her hand to nail me in the lower stomach. “Shut the fuck up. You’re the exact same size you were when we first met.”
True story.
Great genetics.
That and, of course, rarely being able to sit down on the job.
I will say this: I was worried when I quit that I’d have to make time to go the gym to maintain the muscles I’ve gained over the years. Couldn’t have been more wrong. Part of me thinks since I’ve become a stay-at-home Dad I’ve toned up more. Is that possible?
No…Sadly, lifting jugs of milk and bulk boxes of cereal isn’t the same as bench pressing.
“And yet, you, Cherry Pie, somehow look even better.”
A hint of redness tints her cheeks. “Good lie.”
“You know I’d never lie to you.” The casualness of my comment is accompanied by me scooping up the last of our food. “Even when I probably should.”
“Even when you definitely should,” she retorts on a chortle.
Me joining her laughter only spurs her teasing to continue.
“Like what woman wants to hear her husband was watching clown porn.”
“It wasn’t clown porn,” my counter is slightly muffled due to the food I’m chomping on. “It just happened to have a clown in it.”
Her head tilts at me as if what I said doesn’t make the situation better.
But it does.
“He was a rodeo clown who got to fuck the hot cowgirl in his trailer. I was into it, not because he was clown, but because she was a cowgirl.”
Sienna shrugs. “Still was a clown having sex, making it clown porn.”
On one hand, I love that she doesn’t have a problem knowing I occasionally watch porn, something much more difficult to do now that I can’t even get a minute to myself to take a shit without one of my sons magically needing something, but on the other hand, I do wish she didn’t remember the occasional blunders related to it. Like that one. Or that time I thought she was going to be home late but instead came home early with my sister-in-law to catch me jerking it on our couch. Yeah. Sienna still rubs that one in my face whenever the chance presents itself.
I concede, though it’s not because I agree. A familiar tune leaks out of nearby speakers encouraging me to drum on the table while my mouth makes the additional instrument noises. Sienna gleefully snickers and bobs her head along to the opening of “Living On a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. As soon as the words start, I begin to croon to her, the southern drawl she fell hard for instantly giving the classic song a little bit of a twist.
My singing pauses to insist, “Pick up that guitar, Cherry Pie.”
When she hesitates, I slide off the seat, prop one foot on the edge of it, and start belting into my makeshift microphone known better as my empty soda cup.
Her face burns in embarrassment.
Once upon a time, she used to jump at the chance to join me in random karaoke moments like this. Once upon a time, she gave less of a fuck what other people thought and more of a fuck about what made her laugh. What made her smile. What made her happy.
I’m really hoping this job gives her back that part of herself that she somehow managed to lose.
It’d make me feel less like an asshole for not being the one to fix whatever is that got broken.
“Could use a little backup,” I insist, my free fingers flailing around like I’m playing the actual instrument.
Fuck, I wish I was a little more coordinated so I could.
She shakes her head a second time.
Not one to give up easily, I start to strut around the table like it’s 1986 and I’m actually Jon Bon Jovi. The impromptu performance begins to gather the eyes of people nearby, yet I keep my attention on Sienna.
She’s the only person that matters.
She’s always been the only person who matters to me like this.
And the more crowded a room gets, the more everything I have goes to her.
She’s my foul-mouthed Lois Lane.
I’m her southern-cursing Superman.
The bridge comes back around, and I pause to put the cup down so I can appropriately drum on the table.
Suddenly, she’s up on her feet, hand stretched in the air, singing the chorus at the top of her lungs. Her head banging is beautiful. Watching her thick hair swing so freely around has me mentally battling my cock not to stand at attention. My pounding of the table proceeds while she strums on her guitar, her entire body throwing itself into every move she makes.
We shamelessly sing together, although my thoughts drift to appreciating this moment for more than its face value.
Yeah, we’re laughing and smiling and acting like fools, but we’re together. We’re in this shit…all of this wild shit we have to call life, together. Whether we’re eating or headbanging or arguing, she’s mine.
Completely.
110% mine.
And these brief occasions like today where that fact shines so brightly it’s blinding, fill my heart with gratitude.
Not everyone gets this.
Not everyone gets to call someone theirs.
I try not to take that shit for granted…
It’s a lot easier not to when work’s not in the way…for either of us.
By the end of the song, most of the people eating at tables near us have joined in to sing the classic tune. A commercial follows the anthem, and we take the opportunity to throw our trash away.
As soon as the trash is out of her hands, she checks her cellphone. “Shit! I gotta get back!”
The panic in her voice places pain in my chest.
Fuck, I really don’t want her to lose something she loves because I’m being selfish and wanting to spend more time with her.
I swallow the urge to plead for just a few more minutes together. “Alright then. Let’s get that sweet ass back to the shop.”
Sienna moves her body closer to mine, and I immediately take advantage of our proximity. My hand parking itself right on her ass sends her brown eyes up to mine. “Just because you mentioned my ass doesn’t mean you have to touch it.”
“Wrong.”
She laughs and attempts to nudge me away.
“Think you’ll be home…I don’t know…earlier than you have been?”
My wife’s expressions changes to one I loathe.
Fuck me. There’s the infamous, “How Do I Say This Without Royally Pissing Him Off” face.
“Probably later…”
Resisting the urge to remove my hand in disappointment is difficult.
“Yasmine says it’s just because of the holidays,” she rushes to explain. “Christmas is coming, so company holiday parties are on the rise as are family celebrations, and everyone wants to bring something worth bragging about.”
“No denying your cheesecake is that.”
“Strangely enough, so is my baklava.”
“Bak..la..what?”
Sienna grins at my confusion. “Baklava. It’s a pastry.”
“Like a cake?”
“No.”
“Like a pie?”
“No.”
“Like a cookie?”
“No.”
“Like-”
An exasperated sigh interrupts my next guess. “Let’s not play that game.”
I have to hide my frustration with a forced grin.
I’m not a complete idiot. I get there are different types of desserts. Obviously. You can’t be married to a woman who went to some snotty-nosed chef school and not understand all sugary treats aren’t created equally. However, that doesn’t mean the names of the fancier ones stick better in my mind. It’s not like she makes them for us. Hell, I wasn’t even aware she remembered how to do any of the fancy shit until she took this job. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m no different. Just because it’s been a minute or two since I stained some concrete doesn’t mean I don’t remember how.
Huh.
Maybe I should
rip the carpet out of our bedroom and do that.
Maybe a house renovation project would help keep me a little saner…balance out the chores I hate with something I actually enjoy doing.
