Angelica: I’m here
The sitter, a member of Gen Z, the poster child of minimal human contact; of course she texted before ringing the doorbell. My bad for missing it and bringing this chaos down on myself.
I will say, we don’t trust our slightly crazy brood to just any sitter. It takes a special talent to handle these four wild ones—and the doodle—on your own. Angelica is one of two we’ve tested and trusted thus far, outside of Chrissy’s sister, the grandparents, and once every few blue moons, Ellie.
It took a good fifteen minutes to get the kids to settle down once Angelica had gotten inside and set up for the evening, even despite the fact that I’d spent a good portion of the late afternoon wearing out the kids and the dog as best as I could.
It’s this nightly routine I developed a year or so back, weather permitting, of throwing a Frisbee in the yard for a good thirty minutes to let Sir Wags, and any other willing participants, expend all their pent-up energy, and whatd’ya know? The days I get to make them run, and run, and run endlessly? We were blessed with lovely children, very few tantrums, and one very sweet dog. The days they didn’t? There were a lot more tiny terrors running amok in Casa Anderson.
So to minimize the chance of any acting out on poor Angelica tonight and risking cutting date night short, I’d worn the fuck out of all three boysandthe dog. The sitter should have no major problems with them tonight, and I shouldfinallyget a full night with my wife.
It’s our first date night since we struck our deal earlier this week, and I’m not taking any chances. Tonight, my wife is going to remember how good we are together. I’m going to make sure of it.
When she steps out of the bathroom a lot more than the “five minutes” she said she’d be later, I amnotcomplaining. God. Fucking. Damn.
Some shirt that shows off better cleavage she had than on the day I met her, coupled with this short little skirt I wanna pull right up and over her hips to live underneath of, and a pair of fuck-me heels that I’m dying to obey.
I briefly consider turning up the TV in the living room to a deafening volume and not letting this date leave our bedroom.
The memory of that look on her face from the other night, the hurt there, stops me.
I need to win her back for real. Whatever that takes. Even perpetual blue balls.
“Baby.” A groan makes its way out of my chest as I continue soaking in how good she looks.
She raises a brow at me and smirks. My cock twitches, and I’m worried these khakis might not be a safe choice for tonight. Maybe a stronger material, something with a bit more structural integrity, like something in a thick, dark denim, would’ve been a better call?
“You look…” My voice runs out thanks to my dry mouth, and I clear my throat to try to get it back. A goddamn twinkle shines in her eye, gotta be the first one I’ve seen in ages, and I know we’re on the right path. Hope surges in my gut, and my resolve to do whatever it takes to win this woman back to me strengthens. “You look way more than good enough to eat. You look like all the sustenance I’ll ever need, baby.”
Her eyes run up and down my frame, pausing at the sleeves of my blue button down that I’ve rolled up almost to my elbows—she’s got a thing for my forearms, my wife—and her chest rises and falls with some forced breaths. I’m not the only one affected right now.
I shoot her a wink, take her hand, and escort her to the front door, where she kisses all the kids goodbye, and we give them one last warning about being good for Miss Angelica. Then I’m leading her out the door, to the Tahoe (not the minivan I usually drive), with my hand resting on the top of her ass, copping a squeeze at any given chance.
“Where are you taking me?” Her sultry voice cuts through the quiet sounds of our wheels on the road, the traffic around us as we wend through downtown, toward one of our old favorite haunts. Granted, we haven’t been there in…God, probably close to a decade now? Since she first got pregnant, I think. But I remember the way.
“Will you claw my eyes out if I say it’s a surprise?” My teasing tone softens the question.
“Do you want me to?” She hits me back with the sass I’ve missed so fucking much.
“I definitely wanna see those claws, Di, but save ’em for when we’re back home, yeah?” I peek over at her for a quick second, shooting her a wink. One of my hands leaves the wheel to rest on her thigh, just below where her skirt ends on her tanned flesh, and I gently stroke the soft skin there. She flexes her muscles in response, and I wipe away a grin.
A few minutes more and she’s whipping her head around from side to side, taking in our surroundings. “Are you taking me to Pop ‘n’ Lock?” She names one of our favorite clubs from when we were first together.
“Yes and no,” is my smooth response. “Technically, it changed hands a while back, I think they rebranded as the Bump ‘n’ Grind.” Another charmingly retro name that calls to our generation.
Chrissy sits back in the passenger seat with a look of curious anticipation on her face.
“It’s 2000’s night tonight, Di. We’re gonna be able to recreate one of my favorite nights we ever had.”
Her cheeks flush as the memory overtakes her.
Notice she didn’t ask mewhichof the nights we came here that we’re recreating. She knows. My cock twitches again, and my jaw snaps shut to trap another groan. My dick knows which night we’re talking about, too.Hang in there, big boy.It needs my words of encouragement to not blow this too soon. Literally.
Except when we drop the car with the valet and I take her hand to lead her inside, it doesn’t feel right. The club has more than just rebranded. It’s…totally changed.
I mean, the space inside looks about the same. The cover charge is twice what it was back then, but what isn’t? But somehow, it’s all wrong inside.
Lasers and strobe lights nearly blind my eyes as I try to lead my wife down to the dance floor I know so well, the same one we used to frequent on a weekly basis. But what is this garbage they’re blasting out of the speakers? And why so loud?
