“Um… spank bank material?” I say it like a question.
“Spank bank…” Wesley starts, and I wince, readying myself to delete the picture and apologize profusely.
Just because I sent a picture to him, doesn’t mean he’s okay with me screenshotting his cum covered dick. I open my mouth to speak, but I’m cut off by Wesley’s deep, throaty laugh.
Oh.
“Are you going to touch yourself to that picture later, baby?” he asks, a softness to his voice.
“Yes, absolutely,” I respond instantly.
He hums. “Good.”
We both clean up and get into bed, placing our phones against the pillows next to us, like we're in bed together. We stay up way too late talking, and when I wake up the next morning to my alarm, I see a text from Wesley.
It’s a screenshot of my sleeping face, with a message attached.
Wes:I stared at you far longer than I’m willing to admit. Talk to you tomorrow.
I clutch my phone to my chest and kick my feet under the blankets, like a fucking school girl. I’ve got it so unbelievably bad for this man.
Fuck it.
I’m going to tell him when he comes home. I’m going to tell him I love him. I feel like I can’t hold it back, and want to tell him now, but refuse to continue this teenager-like state I’m in, and tell him I love him over the phone.
I get out of bed, and head to the kitchen so I can make Delilah and I breakfast. I’m moving around the kitchen, waking up my laptop on the island, and starting the coffee maker when I hear little bare feet pad on the hardwood.
I smile to myself before I turn around, and when I hear my girl get closer, I look over my shoulder to see Delilah with her pajamas askew and hair sticking up in all directions.
Same, girl.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say brightly.
“Good morning,” her tone is a little off, so I turn to fully face her.
“What’s wrong?”
“I miss Daddy,” she says with a wobbly voice.
Same, girl.
“Oh, come here,” I say, and reach my hands out for her.
She comes to me willingly, reaching her hands up so I scoop her up in a big hug. She rests her little head on my shoulder, and wraps her arms tightly around my neck seeking comfort.
I rub small circles on her back. “He’ll be home in just a few days. Do you want to call him?” I ask.
She nods against my T-shirt—Wes’s T-shirt—so I shoot off a text asking when would be the best time for him, then set Delilah up with one of her favorite shows to try and distract her as I continue to make our breakfast.
I’m not great at cooking, but making something this toddler is willing to eat is not hard as long as you keep it simple. Frozen waffles, scrambled eggs and strawberries it is.
I haven't had to worry about dinners because Wesley already prepped our dinner for every night that he will be gone, and had them ready for me in individual containers to just pop in the microwave.
I'm plating the eggs when I get lost in daydreams about how thoughtful he is, smiling to myself as I recall my birthday, and every breakfast he’s ever made me. Then there was that one time he noticed I liked a certain flavor of sparkling water, and one day I opened the fridge and there were probably thirty of them in there.
Then he noticed I had a small bottle of unscented detergent in the laundry room, so he switched out their scented detergent and softener for an unscented and hypoallergenic option.
My phone ringing brings me back to reality, and I see it’s Wesley calling. I swipe to answer, and put the call on speaker.
