To keep my feet from freezing, I slide on my unicorn slippers that are lined up next to our unmade bed. It’s snowing outside. We got three inches last night. Gunz used the compound’s mower with plow attachment to shovel the snow away. It gets piled where the kids’ jungle gym sits. There’s plenty of room for it to collect there. The kids love it too, because when it gets high enough they can sled down the mounds. Okay, let’s be honest, it’s not just for the kids. The men embrace their inner child and often join in. That’s what makes living on the compound so much fun. We’re surrounded by family at all times.
I know… I know… I’m stalling… blathering on. Am I at least keeping you entertained? The last thing I wanna do is face Big after what he walked in on. Figures, all it took was five minutes with her dad and Harley’s through screaming. Mom doesn’t have the magical healing powers. I’m a milk cow, nothing more. He’s the fun one. Argh. I gotta stop this or I’m gonna end up bawling again. It’s not Big’s fault she likes him better than me. In my experience, dads are better than moms anyhow. Mine was shitty. Good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.
Stalling further, I re-enter the bathroom to brush my damp hair and my teeth. So I won’t stink, I liberally apply deodorant, spritz on body spray, slather myself in a layer of body butter and insert disposable pads into my bra to catch any leakage. When all that’s done I step in front of the mirror and give myself a once over. There’s not much to see. Straight blonde hair that almost touches my shoulders. Blue eyes that look like they haven’t seen an ounce of sleep in ten days. They’re still puffy from Cryfest 2014. I’m not ready to face the music, yet. There’s too much to be done that I have no damn energy to do. Adulting can kiss my fat butt.
Continuing to stall, I sit on the closed toilet lid, remove my slippers, and prop my heel on the edge to paint my toes ruby red with a silver glitter top coat for Christmas. If Harley liked me, I’d paint her toes, too. But she doesn’t. At least not today. Perhaps I’ll luck out tomorrow. I know I sound like a big baby right now. There’s no excuse for it. Today just hasn’t been the greatest, as you can tell.
“Bink!” Big hollers somewhere outside the bedroom, probably the hallway. Wouldn’t it be easier if he came to talk to me face to face? Le sigh. Men.
Unable to move until my toes dry, I return his holler with one of my own. “What?!”
“Get your fine ass out here!”
“I’m busy!”
“Yeah, sulking!”
This is what happens when you fall in love with the same asshole who helped raise you, he knows every quirk, every pitfall of your existence down to your silliest ones. So what if I don’t want my nose rubbed in the fact that my daughter is happiest when she’s not in my arms, or when I’m rocking her or loving on her. Don’t all mothers obsess over this? I dunno, but it doesn’t make my pathetic issue any less real.
Big’s not one to be ignored. “Bink!”
Sheesh… “What?!” Leave me the hell alone.
“We love you!”
Great. Hit me right where it counts, Big. Hit me where it fucking counts. This is so unfair. Can’t even sulk for an hour without his interference.
We love you.
I know. Okay. I know. I fricken know!
“I’ll be out in a minute!” I concede, shoulders slumping as I blow on my toes to dry them faster.
“You’ve got two or I’m comin’ in after ya!”
Of course you are, control freak.
I count to thirty in my head—the Mississippi way. Then stuff my feet back into the slippers. If the polish gets ruined, we know who to blame… the old man. I tidy up the bathroom before heading their way.
In the hall, I stop short of entering the main quarters, to behold the craziest, most heartwarming display in existence ever to happen. Silly tears sting my eyes at the sight, as emotions clog my throat. Big has just finished cleaning the kitchen, and there’s a stack of sorted laundry on top of our long, ten-person walnut table. There’s a pizza box resting on the granite island from my second favorite pizza place. The first being Dewey’s in Kentucky, which is too damn far to travel for pizza in the winter. The scent of hot, bubbly cheese and dough overpowers the burnt cookie stench. In the living room, Harley’s asleep in a pair of pink footed jammies, lying on the floor next to the lit Christmas tree, legs and arms sprawled out in the cutest way imaginable. Pretzel’s head is resting on her belly. It rises and falls with Harley’s even breaths. I can’t see his eyes, but I imagine he’s asleep as well.
“Babe.” Big addresses me from behind the island as he pulls paper plates from the cupboard closest to our six-burner stovetop. Shirtless, clad in a pair of black, low-slung knit pants in extra-long, his muscles ripple between movements as he lays the plates beside the box. With them, he sets a roll of paper towels and a half-empty bottle of ranch, my go-to pizza topper.
I pad to the opposite side of the island and flip open the pizza lid. Big reaches into the box before I get a chance and fishes out three pieces. Then he drizzles ranch across the top of them and hands me the plate with a paper towel strip tucked underneath.
“Go eat.” Big tilts his head toward the living room, where we sometimes spend mealtime together.
You don’t have to tell me twice.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
My stomach audibly growls her hunger. I haven’t eaten a thing all day. Saliva pools in my mouth at the mere thought of food. Pizza’s perfect.
Heeding Big’s order like a good baby mama, I do as I’m told and sit on the same black sofa we screwed on recently. I rest the plate on the puffy arm and the napkin in my lap as I curl my legs under. Big joins me a minute later, carrying his plate and two bottles of water. He tosses one into my lap, then finds his own spot on the couch.
Together, we eat in companionable silence with only the sound of Pretzel’s high-pitched snores and Harley’s sleepy coos to serenade us.
Three slices polished off, I wipe my mouth and fingers with the paper towel and gulp half the water bottle down. “That was great,” I praise. Big deserves it. He pulled through even though I didn’t ask for help, nor want it. If he hadn’t interfered, I’d be fixing dinner right now. Not relaxing on the couch in pajamas beside my sexy, half-naked man.
I set my trash on the floor to redd up later. Big follows suit, then slaps the tops of his thighs. “Take off those slippers and put your feet up here.”
I do what he asks knowing what’s to come. “You’re spoiling me tonight,” I comment, stretching into his lap, wiggling my toes, nails polished to perfection. Guess they were dry when I slid those slippers back on after all. There’s not a single ding in the gloss.
Big cuffs his mitt over my foot and presses his thumb into the arch, digging in just right. It feels damn good as I sprawl out on the sofa, using the arm as a pillow to prop my head on.
“You had a rough as fuck day. Didn’t even have time to work, did ya?” he asks, massaging each toe one by one.
Tucking my arms beneath my breasts to get comfortable, I bite back a satisfied groan. “No.”
“Did you put ointment on those cuts ya got from Leech?”
I give him a lazy side-to-side head shake. “Nope.”
“You need to do that.”
“Yessss, dad,” I drone, curving a partial smirk, eyes drooping to half-mast. If he keeps this up, I’m liable to fall asleep right here.
Big snorts his amusement. “Fine. Don’t. See if I care when they get infected.”
Smartass.
He would care. A lot. Then give me hell about it for a week, ’cause that’s how we roll.
“They’re not gonna get infected,” I reassure in a playful mocking tone, nudging his abs with my toes to pick on him.
He pokes my calf in payback. “If you say so.”
“I do.” Time for a subject change. “How’s the club?”
Big switches to my left foot. A raging boner prods my right as it resettles on his lap. He pretends the stiffy doesn’t exist. I do the same. “Same old, same ol
d. Gunz said his brother is comin’ for Christmas.”
“I know. He told me last week. Is he bringing anybody with him?” Bonez is Gunz’s brother. They’re close in age, share similar looks. He’s in the Corrupt Chaos Motorcycle Club which serves as a support club to us when necessary. Their brotherly relationship has dwindled on and off over the years. This’ll be the first he’s spent Christmas with us in God knows how long. It’s nice to see their bond rekindling after a rough drought that neither of them will cop to. Trust me, I’ve asked.
“Not that I heard,” Big replies.
My bottom lip juts into an exaggerated pout. “No Whisky then, huh?” She’s the Corrupt Chaos’s leading old lady. Basically, she’s their me. Except she’s older, owns a badass bakery, has wild red hair, and older kids. Her old man, Sniper, is their prez.
Big reaches out and plucks my bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger, single dimple grinning like I’m the cutest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. Those baby blues alight with love. “No, babe. No Whisky. Not this time. Speakin’ of Sacred Sister shit, when are you havin’ that wrapping party?”
“The Saturday before Christmas. Debbie already has an itinerary for you guys to follow.” Not that they’ll follow it. Men… biker men to be more specific, don’t like taking direction from the female persuasion if it’s cut and dry, laid out for them. If we do it subtly, then it’s all fine. Because they don’t pick up on it. God forbid we assert ourselves.
See.
Case and point.
Big’s scrunched-up expression is a prime example of the male biker resistance. “Are you serious? Does she think we can’t handle a bunch of kids by ourselves for one evening?” His nostrils flare their indignation.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. Don’t want him to stop massaging my feet, which is oh-so-amazing.
“No. She doesn’t. Neither do the rest of us,” I admit, knowing this’ll push all the wrong buttons.
Twisting his head my way, Big glares at me. The valleys in his forehead deepen, brows knitting together as he pauses the massage to clamp his mitt around my foot. It’s not enough to hurt. The cords in his neck tighten like thick banjo strings. “What the fuck?”
“Do you really think Bulk can handle both of his kids without Jez? How about Brew with little Dylan?” They can’t.
“That don’t mean I need fuckin’ notes on how to care for my kid.” Never said he did. He’s a good daddy. But that doesn’t mean his brothers aren’t clueless motherfuckers when it comes to child-rearing. Dixie has her hands full with Brew and son.
I nudge his thigh with my heel. “It’s not about you, Big. It’s to keep the kids occupied. She’s got games, snacks, and stuff all planned.”
“Fine.” He relents on a grumbled sigh and resumes the massage by pushing up my pant legs to work on my ankles. “You gonna be cool if I sleep at the clubhouse with Leech that night, so I don’t have to wake her up to bring her home when y’all are done?”
“If that’s what you wanna do. But… you’re giving up the opportunity to fuck me when I’m drunk.” One of his favorite pastimes. Not that it’s happened a whole lot. But it has happened. Drunk sex is fun sex. Nod if you agree. You’re nodding, aren’t ya?
“We’ll be home,” Big rushes out, recognizing his error.
“Thought so,” I snicker. God, I love this man.
“Maybe you’ll let me put it in your ass.” Those animated eyebrows bounce suggestively.
Not in this lifetime. Maybe if his pecker was smaller.
“Keep dreaming, bucko. It’s never gonna happen. Not even when I’m drunk. A finger is all you’re gonna get.”
“Fuck.” Big throws his head back, eyes slamming shut. “I’m hard just thinkin’ about it.”
I brush my foot against his velvet steel for emphasis. “You were hard before that.”
“True. But my boxers are wet now. We gotta stop talkin’ about sex before I flip you over, yank down those cute as hell pajama pants and fuck you facedown on this couch.”
I open my mouth to protest that idea before he asserts his dominance and follows through. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Big beats me to the punch. “I know you’re tired, babe. I’m just sayin’…”
“You’re a horndog, I know what I signed up for.” A lifetime of daily fuckery. When ED comes a-callin’ he’ll be popping the tiny blue pill like it’s Pez.
“Is that your way of sayin’ I can fuck your sweet pussy on this couch tonight?” Big tickles my clit through my bottoms with his thumb. It sparks a little something there. Something I’m too tired to acknowledge.
Full belly laughing at his insistence, I shove his giant mitt away. “Stop. That’s not what I said.”
“I think it is. Just say the words, ‘Big, fuck my sweet pussy. I’m wet for you. I want your big dick inside me.’” Big tries and fails to mimic my girlish lilt as he flips his hair like a damn diva.
My laughter persists, making my cheeks hurt from smiling too wide. “I don’t talk like that.”
Big nods, contradicting me. “In my fantasies you do. I jerked off at the clubhouse today thinkin’ about it.”
Lordy.
“At work? Jesus Christ, Big, we had sex at like midnight last night.” It was hottttt, too. Sixty-nine, then doggy style, finishing with reverse cowgirl that had him blowing so hard he convulsed like an inmate getting the electric chair.
“I know. The more we fuck, the more I want it. It’s a drug. Addictive as hell.”
Shaking my head, I chuckle at his odd way with words. “My pussy’s a drug. Good to know.”
Big scrubs a palm down his face, groaning. “Fuck. Don’t talk about your pussy, babe. No more. I’m gonna get blue balls. And I hate that shit.”
“You masturbated at work, Big. You could do it again. Your hand works just fine.” How much do you wanna bet he did it inside his office without the door locked?
“Why’s Pretzel wearin’ an ugly-ass doggy sweater?” he asks out of nowhere.
A tiny smirk. “Nice subject change.”
“Glad you approve.” Big’s chest puffs in sarcastic pride.
“I thought it was cute. That’s why he’s wearing it.” Why else would I have bought it?
Lips pressed together, glancing this way, Big delivers an unimpressed stare down. “He’s a Pit, Sugar Tits,” he states, then pauses as if he wants that small fact to sink in. I know what my pup is. Don’t need him to clarify.
When a sufficient amount of time lapses Big carries on. “He’s not a fuckin’ Yorkie, Cockapoo, dumbshit whatchamacallit dog. Those are the dogs who wear ugly-ass sweaters. Not Pitties.”
“Mine does,” I state matter-of-factly, brooking no room for argument. Hating on Pretzel’s sweater because of his breed is like saying Big shouldn’t wear sexy lounge pants designed for twenty-somethings. The point is, he can rock out whatever he wants because he’s Big. Just as Pretzel can sport a fancy, needlepoint doggy sweater if he wants. The clothes don’t make the man. The man makes the man. If a thick-shouldered Rottie ran in here wearing a pink tutu, underneath it all he’s still a Rottie. And yes, I know I said he. Boys can wear tutus, if boys wanna wear tutus. Own your shit. Case closed. Mic drop.
Now, where were we?
Yielding, Big drops his head against the back of the couch and looks up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure which is worse, the ugly sweater or the fact this massive hard-on is goin’ to waste.”
“You changed the subject, and we already agreed that your hand functions just fine to relieve your penile ailment. Plus, I can’t have sex right now or I’ll fall asleep. And I’ve gotta pump. My breasts hurt.” I cup the mounds for emphasis. The pads inside my bra will be soaked through soon.
Big blindly traces his fingertips up my calves to my knees, where he proceeds to rub, inching closer to my center the more we discuss sex. “I can suck the milk out. No need to pump.”
If I had a nickel for every time Big offered his milking assistance, I’d own a brand-new Harl
ey, straight off the lot.
“How many times do we have to go over this? My breast milk is for Harley’s consumption. Not Big’s.”
“I like the taste,” he admits without an ounce of shame. Sometimes I wonder what the brothers would say if I told them about Big’s breast milk fascination. Would they razz him? No. They’d probably give him a high five and ask for a sample. Which would turn ugly, real fast. They’d end up on his shit list with a black eye and the whole club would still know of Big’s temporary fetish. Yet nobody would speak of it again, in fear of getting their ass handed to them.
“I know. You put it in your cereal twice in the last month.”
So gross. How do I know this? I asked when two freshly pumped bottles disappeared.
“We were runnin’ low on 1%.”
Excuses. Excuses.
I sigh, snuggling deeper into the couch. “Right. So you used Harley’s milk instead of going to the clubhouse to get some.”
“It’s sweet,” Big explains, sliding his palm higher to “massage” my thigh.
To let him know I’m onto his pervy game, I slap the back of his hand but don’t force him to remove it. The rubbing does feel good, as long as he stays on task. “You’re one kinky fucking bastard, ya know that?” I tease.
Big winks, blowing me a flirty kiss. “Who’s crazy in love with his woman, her pussy, ass, and tits that leak delicious milk.”
Do you see what I have to live with?
That would be hella sweet if he weren’t trying to coerce me into bed. Okay, it’s still sweetish… and a smidge cheesy, too.
“You can compliment me all day, we’re still not having sex,” I clarify to torment him. One way or another I’ll have a dick in me before bedtime. When my man’s on a mission, nothing gets in his way. Not even my exhaustion, or his.
“What if I put the rest of the laundry away and do the pumpin’ for ya?” Big offers, nervous energy vibrating off him in potent waves. He really wants sex tonight. That doesn’t surprise me, he’s been hard this entire talk. Dirty thoughts are no doubt running rampant in that sex-starved brain of his.
“You gonna clean bottles out, too, and put our girl to bed?”
MC Chronicles: The Diary of Bink Cummings: Vol 5 Page 4
