Tied

by Emma Chase

  “I wouldn’t want to quit my job, either—I’d be a miserable bastard if I couldn’t go to the office anymore.” Then I ask, “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “I thought it would pass, once I got used to being home—had a new routine going. But it’s just gotten worse.”

  The strange thing is, I know just how she feels.

  “To be honest, I’m not exactly thrilled with the arrangements we have now, either.”

  Thankfully, her tears have dried. The vise grip on my heart lessens. “You’re not?”

  I shake my head. “I’m missing all the good stuff. I go for days without seeing James awake even for a minute. It sucks ass. Like the other day, when he smiled for the first time.”

  She tries to make me feel better. “That was just gas, Drew.”

  “Of course it was, because boys think passing gas is funny.”

  “I sent you a video.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not the same. At this rate, I’ll miss everything—his first word, his first step, the first time he realizes he can aim and piss on things—all the big moments.”

  Kate takes my hand. “So . . . what are we talking about here? Are you saying you want to stay home part-time?”

  Once the words are actually said, I realize that’s what I’ve wanted all along. “And you’ll work part-time. I’ll go the office Monday, Wednesday, and Friday . . . because I’m still the frigging man in the relationship . . . and you’ll do Tuesday and Thursday.”

  “Some of our clients aren’t going to be good with that. Jefferson Industries’ CEO is a prick—he’ll have major issues.”

  Like I give a damn. “Whoever isn’t okay with it, I’ll make sure they stay in-house. Pass them off to Jack or Matthew—and if we lose a few, my father will get over it. Nepotism has its advantages, Kate. I say we fucking exploit them.”

  “Our bonuses will take a hit.”

  I shrug. “It’s only money.”

  If you don’t have a boatload of extraneous cash and investments lying around, I wouldn’t recommend adopting this attitude. But since I do . . . I can.

  Then I point out, “In six or seven years James will be in school, then we can both go back full-time. Unless we have a few more kids between now and then—and since the activity that gets them here is at the top of our Favorite Things to Do list, that’s a definite possibility.”

  There’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there when I came home. Knowing I help put it there makes me proud of myself—not that that’s an unusual feeling, but in this case it’s especially awesome.

  Kate squeezes my hand enthusiastically. “So, we’re doing this? We’re really doing this?”

  “You and I and James will go into the office tomorrow and have a sit-down with Dad, George, and Frank.”

  She throws herself at me—chest to chest, arms around my neck, legs straddling my thighs. “I’m so excited!”

  “As excited as you are about getting the go-ahead from Roberta in two weeks?”

  Kate squints. “Ah . . . not that excited—but very close.”

  And then we’re kissing—tongues dancing and tasting. I fall back on the couch, taking her with me—keeping her on top.

  Her lips tease their way to my ear. “I love you,” Kate breathes, before licking around the shell. Heated lust gathers in my gut, then furrows out to my thighs and arms—and my dick.

  I return the sentiment. “I love you.”

  Kate’s mouth lowers to my neck, torturous in its feather-light brushes against my skin. “And I love our life.”

  My hand tangles in her hair, loosening the bun, making it fall. “Me too.”

  She drops to her knees on the floor and I sit up, legs spread so she can nestle between my thighs. She looks up at me with hungry, dark eyes and a naughty-girl smile—my favorite combination.

  Kate unbuckles my pants and I lift up to accommodate her as she yanks them off. More slowly, she peels my boxers down and my impatient dick bounces up to greet her.

  “And I love your cock.” She drives the point home by running her wet tongue up and down it, then swirling around the head.

  I look at her beautiful face and grin. “I love my cock in your mouth.”

  Her lips vibrate against me as she chuckles—and the sensation make my legs tremble. Then she suctions with her lips from base to tip—tauntingly—without actually taking me inside. When I’m on the brink of losing my fucking mind, she opens up and slides my dick into the tight, hot wetness of her mouth.

  My head lolls back and I groan.

  She swallows me slowly, inch by inch. It’s maddening and feels eye-crossingly fantastic at the same time. I can’t decide if I want her to suck me hard and fast or to draw out the blissful torture for hours. Maybe days.

  When I’m nestled in Kate’s throat, she pauses, breathing softly.

  And I hiss, “Fuck . . .”

  Kate was always skillful at giving head—a real natural. But in these last years, her talents have reached epic proportions. She’s a maestro and I’m her well-endowed instrument. She practically trained the gag reflex right out of herself, and she actually enjoys deep throating—and swallowing.

  She once told me it made her feel powerful. Watching my face as she works me over. Seeing the signs of pleasure she’s controlling—letting me revel in. It’s a pretty accurate take on the situation, because at the moment I’m at Kate’s complete and total mercy.

  And that, kiddies, is the best fucking seat in the house.

  She sucks me hard as her head glides up, so just the tip remains between her beautiful lips. She swirls with her tongue again—this time with more pressure, less teasing. Then she bobs up and down quickly—meaning business—all tongue, decadent sloppy wetness, and rough brushes of teeth. Her cheeks hollow out and her hand massages my balls, giving them a gentle, erotic tug.

  I moan and curse and chant her name.

  I grip her hair and guide her up and down on my dick with just enough force to make her hum in appreciation.

  “Yeah, baby, just like that. So fucking good.” I gasp.

  Kate’s lips tighten and her head moves faster.

  “Jesus, Kate, I’m gonna come.”

  My hand clenches and I hold her in place, and every muscle in my body contracts in screaming, unanimous pleasure. My teeth grind and my hips thrust, and with moans of her own, Kate swallows enthusiastically until I have nothing left.

  My breathing is harsh as she gifts me with one last flick of her tongue. Then she comes up smiling and climbs onto my lap. And I’m boneless—totally, sublimely relaxed. Screw wine: a blow job is the best way to unwind after a long day at work.

  The only thing that would make it better is if I could return the favor.

  As I enclose Kate in my arms, I add another tick to the running total of orgasms I owe her. This makes . . . fifteen. And I plan on settling up all in one night—the night Roberta says Kate’s good to go. Don’t worry—as long I keep her hydrated, there’s no physical danger from too many orgasms. I asked.

  “I think I’m going to go take that bath you mentioned,” she purrs. “Want to join me?”

  I run my knuckles along her jaw. “Joining you is just one of the things I’m dying to do right now.”

  “Things like washing my back?”

  I brush my lips against hers. “I want to wash lots of places—every nook and cranny.”

  Unfortunately, washing her back and rubbing her shoulders are all I’ll be able to do tonight. But it’ll be enough for now.

  I keep her legs wrapped around me as I stand up, bare assed, and walk us to the bathroom.

  Having two working parents in the house isn’t always perfect—schedule conflicts and work-related stress can get in the way. But it works for us.

  Now, where were we again? Before we cut to the gratuitous blow-job scene?

  That’s right—elbow deep in the massacre that is James’s diaper. Try mouth-breathing—it helps with the stench.

  “Good G
od, kid . . . what’d you do last night? Sneak out of the crib and eat a T-bone steak?”

  Which brings me to the greatest invention of our time. Nope—it’s not the Internet. Or the automobile. It’s not female birth control—though that’s a good one too. The best innovation of the last century is the Diaper Genie. It’s a lifesaver.

  I drop the toxic ball into the holy can and quickly close the lid. Then I get him cleaned up with the heated wipes and sprinkle on baby powder. Next I head over to the closet to pick out his clothes. A black, collared shirt, jeans, and Nike sneakers. Clothes make the man—and it works the same way with boys. It’s all about first impressions. If you actually want your kid getting knocked on his ass in the sandbox? Put him in one of those pansy sweater vests. That’ll pretty much guarantee it. James is a cool kid—and I make damn sure he dresses like one.

  After I gel James’s hair and brush his teeth—with some helpful suggestions on his spitting technique—I carry him to the kitchen airplane style. Zoom. And strap him in his high chair so he can’t escape.

  Next up? Breakfast. You remember how I love cereal, right? That hasn’t changed. It’s Lucky Charms for me—with extra marshmallows.

  But for my son? No Lucky Charms.

  Those Breakfast Club kids actually knew what they were talking about. And we really do turn into our frigging parents. And phrases like We’ll see and Because I said so just pop into your head and fly out of your mouth. It’s disturbing. Like Exorcist-possession kind of shit.

  Anyway, for James’s breakfast? Organic-apple slices and whole-grain Cheerios—without sugar.

  I know—it’s official—I’m a hypocrite. I can live with that. It’s not like his taste buds know what they’re missing. And when they do, I’ll shove it down his throat anyway. Because it’s good for him. If one day he decides to hate me for that? That’s okay too.

  Because sometimes being a father is hard. And if it’s not? You’re not doing it right.

  I pour some Cheerios onto the tray and back up halfway across the room. “Hey, James, set it up.”

  He opens his mouth wide and keeps it open. I hold a single Cheerio between my fingers while I bend my knees and bounce my hand as if I were dribbling a basketball. “Three seconds left on the clock, down by one, Evans gets the ball. He fakes left, he drives in, he shoots. . . .”

  I toss the Cheerio in a high arc. It lands right in James’s mouth.

  “He scores! The crowd goes wild!”

  James holds both hands over his head. “Core!”

  Then I give him a high five. See—told you. Cool, right? I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and get ready for another shot. Then Kate comes into the kitchen, texting on her phone.

  All that worry about losing the baby weight? It was for nothing. Look at her—snug black yoga pants hug narrow hips, a navy Penn State T-shirt shows off her flat stomach and toned arms. Her hair’s pulled back into a ponytail, and a touch of shiny, strawberry-flavored lip gloss is her only makeup.

  Gorgeous.

  Kate still has that simple, low-maintenance kind of beauty. She doesn’t have to work at being hot—she just is. I maneuver next to James’s high chair and wait for Kate to look up.

  Yes, it’s deliberate. Children have the power to suck the sex drive out of a relationship like a hungry black hole. So it’s important to stoke the flame—keep the coals burning hot. And something about seeing a shirtless guy with a baby turns every woman on.

  Trust me—I’ve been accosted at the beach enough times to know. It’s like female frigging Viagra.

  It’s different for guys. Not that a baby is a negative, necessarily—but seeing a chick with one doesn’t automatically make us want to bang her. Because deep, deep down all men are still little boys. We want all your attention on us. It’s just how it is.

  I feel Kate’s eyes on me and I pop a piece of apple into James’s mouth. Then I stretch out my arms—flexing the muscles—giving her a good show. Oh, yeah—it’s working. She’s definitely wet. See how her head tilts and her eyes shine as she looks me up and down? How her lips part and she breathes just a little bit faster?

  She’s remembering what we just finished doing—and thinking about when we’ll get to do it again.

  “Mummy!”

  Kate’s eyes shift to James. Her smile changes—no sexy, more sweet. “Hey, little man.”

  She comes over and takes an apple slice for herself. “How are my two favorite guys doing?”

  “So far, so good.” I nod toward the phone in her hand. “What’s up there?”

  “I’m texting Billy’s manager Steven and Alexandra’s address. The one he was given is for a pawnshop in the middle of the Bronx. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  My parents are watching all the grandchildren for the weekend. Since Steven and my sister’s two trumps our one, the whole gang’s meeting at their place and taking a car to the airport together.

  I play innocent. “Who me? Nope—I know nothing.”

  She doesn’t look as if she buys it. “He could’ve missed the car to the airport. Maybe the whole flight.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve been a shame.”

  “Be nice, Drew.”

  “He’s coming, isn’t he? I think letting your ex-boyfriend tag along to my bachelor party is above and beyond the call of nice.”

  Kate motions with her hands as she attempts to defend donkey dump. “You’re always complaining about how close I am with him, but maybe if you tried a little harder, he wouldn’t depend so much on me. And besides, Billy doesn’t have a lot of guy friends.”

  “Which makes perfect sense. He’s a pussy—and females tend to flock together.”

  Kate rolls her eyes.

  James decides to join the conversation. “Poosy.”

  Oh, crap. That’s not good.

  But still, I start to laugh. How can I not?

  Kate frowns at me. “Great.”

  Most kids speak their first word around the eleven-month mark. Because my son is a genius, his first word came at nine months. And it wasn’t Mama or Dada or anything typical like that.

  James’s first word was shit. Kate was not pleased.

  Between you and me, though, we got off easy. It could have been so much worse.

  She turns to James and admonishes gently, “No, James.”

  He shakes his head, trying to understand. “No poosy?”

  I crack up harder. Now Kate is glaring. She puts her hands on her hips. “Yes—and that’s exactly what Daddy’s going to be getting if he doesn’t stop laughing right now.”

  James’s eyes go wide and he tries to warn me. “No poosy, Daddy.”

  Now I’m full-out laughing my ass off.

  Kate throws her hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just perfect! Now he’s going to spend the next two days with your parents talking like a foulmouthed little hooligan. What’s your mother going to think?”

  I sober slightly, still smiling, taking her hand in mine and holding it against my chest. “Considering she’s the woman who had to raise the first foulmouthed hooligan? I think she’ll have an enormous amount of sympathy for you.”

  Kate grins. “Which is totally deserved. I swear, between the two of you, I don’t know how I keep my sanity.”

  “It’s the sex. If raisins are nature’s candy, screwing is its antidepressant. It’s the best way to maintain good mental health.”

  An orgasm a day keeps the psychiatrist away.

  Kate crosses her arms doubtfully. “Sure it is. That sounds an awful lot like when I was pregnant and you told me women who performed oral sex more often were less likely to develop preeclampsia.”

  I point my finger at her. “That was totally true! I read an article about it.”

  How awesome is that? If I wasn’t sure before, after that I was certain—God is definitely a guy.

  “In what magazine? Playboy?”

  “Men’s Health.”

  Feeling left out, James tries to get another laugh ou
t of me. “Poosy!”

  I ruffle his hair. “Now you’re just showing off.”

  Kate scoops him out of the chair and holds him close. “Are you done with breakfast, baby? Do you want to sing with Mommy?”

  He claps his hands.

  Most of James’s likes and dislikes mirror my own. He hates broccoli. Female sportscasters get on his nerves. And he despises televised figure skating. But he loves Kate’s voice.

  Oh—and her boobs. See how he bends down to rub his face against them? Reveling in their symmetrical, cushiony softness.

  I nudge his shoulder. “Dude, we’ve been over this—they were loaners. You’re cut off now.”

  Kate breast-fed for the first year. Weaning was hell. Not that I blame the kid—if Kate told me her perfect tits were off-limits? I’d pitch a fucking fit too.

  James’s little face scrunches up—like Damien from The Omen.

  He grabs on to Kate’s shoulders with both hands and yells, “Mine. Is my mummy!”

  I pull her a little closer to my side. “Technically, she belongs to both of us, buddy. We can share. But those?” I point to Kate’s breasts. “Those are mine.”

  He ups the volume. “No. Is mine!”

  Sigmund Freud would have a field day in this house.

  I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Is my mummy!”

  Getting into a yelling match with a two-year-old is not a good idea. That’s a battle that cannot be won.

  Kate pushes my chest. “Stop teasing him. And go shower—we’re gonna be late.”

  I kiss her forehead. Then, behind her back, I point to myself and mouth to James, Mine.

  He blows a raspberry at me. Smart-ass.

  As I back out of the kitchen, Kate starts to sing. In that soft, flawless voice that still makes me weak in the knees.

  And stiff in the crotch.

  I know the song—“Jet Plane” by John Denver—but she changes the lyrics to fit the situation.

  ’Cause we’re leavin’ on a jet plane

  We’ll be back on Sunday again

  Oh, James, we love you so.

  Kate rocks back and forth slowly, and James’s deep brown eyes turn to her alone. He looks up at her with complete adoration. Overwhelming worship. Total devotion.

  It’s the same way I look at her. Every day.

  I’m not a big fan of humility. But watching the two of them like this? It makes me feel humble. Fortunate. Like how Joseph must have felt seeing his wife hold baby Jesus. Just so fucking lucky to get to be a part of something so beautifully sacred.

  We’re leavin’ on a jet plane

  We’ll be back on Sunday again

  Oh, James, we love you so.