“And I still remember every—" his tongue flicks out, teasing the tip of my ear “single—" his lips close around my earlobe “thing—" he presses a kiss below my ear, to the deliciously sensitive spot on my neck that always causes an instant flood down below “that gets her off.”
He pulls back once again, and this time he takes his hands with him, leaving me cold and bereft, a fire burning within that needs him to be stoked, to fully combust under his touch. I know from experience nothing else compares.
And that’s it for me.
It’s time for him to get a dose of his own medicine.
Jumping off of my stool—rather skillfully in these four-inch heels, if I may say so myself—I take his hand and yank him off of his stool, too.
The look on his face is worth the possible ankle sprainandthat back spasm in the club. Disbelief with a heavy dash of the kind of excitement I haven’t seen since about five am last Christmas morning, on the faces of all our children. There’s definitely a joke about a package, or maybe a box to be made here, but I’m too focused to come up with it right now.
“Let’s go,” I tell him, and start tugging him out of the bar. He quickly readjusts his groin region before he’s out of the relative safety of the height of the table, and he pulls on my hand to pause me, eyes sparkling at me, those damn rugged cheekbones of his doing all sorts of shit to my insides.
“Okay if I pay for our meal first, Di?” The teasing tone to his voice doesn’t quell the fire in my core. “Or you need me to take you into a breakroom, maybe a supply closet and remind you who you’re married to? Take the edge off with a couple Os before we get home and I can give you everything you need?”
Hah. Don’t hold your breath, buddy.
But, God, grant me the strength to hold out on this man tonight.
Iwillbe reminding him of exactly who he married, though. And just how determined she can be when she sets her mind to something, especially making him aware of what he’s missing.
ELEVEN
CHRISSY
My national anthem blares out of the speaker in our bedroom on repeat.
“Dirrty” by Christina Aguilera.
When this video came out, back when music videos were a big fucking deal, a lifetime ago, it definitely shaped my personality for a core, formative period of my life. Another short, confident, sexual, strong Latina named Christina? I waspositivewe were either soul mates, or I wanted to be her. I couldn’t decide which.
It’s also the song that was on that time Chance fucked me up against the wall at the club. The time that’s been on both our minds since we saw said wall. I can’t shake the memory. How it felt. How…risky it was to be “dancing” against the wall, where if anyone looked closer, they’d see my skirt up, might catch a flash of zipper, as he thrust into me over and over again right there where so many could’ve seen us.
Some of the best acting we’ve done, to this day, to manage to still pretend to be dancing throughout that entire performance. Granted, we were so fucking turned on it didn’t last long, but still. Impressive, if I do say so myself.
Chance is taking care of the sitter, Cash-Apping her for tonight, with a hefty tip so she considers coming back after whatever the kids put her through this evening, while I’m in the bedroom…prepping.
The volume is loud enough to infiltrate every corner of the room, hypnotic in its beat, the message of the song setting the tone, yet quiet enough not to make it past the white noise machine that’s on in the hall and disrupt the sleeping littles.
He’ll be in here any second, so I do a quick check in our bathroom mirror.
Since motherhood, my days of going braless are sadly long over. So I picked a shirt for tonight’s date that could accommodate a push-up bra, the eighth miracle of the world in my not-at-all humble opinion, and went for it. It’s almost a corset, but it’s got these thick straps on the shoulders, in a deep red color that works so well with my rich skin tone.
Actually, you know what, speaking of music videos, it’s giving 1999 Britney Spears “Crazy” video vibes. Now that we say that, this shirt might actuallybefrom not long after that. Whatever, it makes my tits look hot as fuck.No ragrets, as the gif says.
In fact, I think it would gogreatwith the skirt I wore on the date we were paying homage to tonight. Not that it will still fit, but after digging around in the closet for a minute, I find the damn thing and swap out the skirt I’m wearing for it instead. I can’t get it zipped, it hangs sort of off of one hip, but fuck it. Close enough. It shows the bottom of my ass cheeks—just like every pair of shorts I can find at the mall these days, but refuse to wear out of the house as a mother offour. But for this plan? It’s perfect.
I leave the heels on, my feet are fucking killing me, but I can deal.
By the time I’ve used the bathroom, cleaned up, reapplied deodorant and a spritz of perfume, and readjusted my outfit for maximum damage, the bedroom door is opening and softly closing once again.
My husband comes up behind me in the mirror, eyeing me up and down, taking in the change in wardrobe and admiring what stayed the same. His eyes are full of so much heat, so much need, and the kind of appreciation that’s so fucking genuine, if I bathed in it for long, I’d start to rethink all of my doubts about us.
“Di.” The single syllable is breathed like a plea, a prayer to some goddess. For a second I wonder if the nickname is that of a mythological deity, decide to Google it later, but that train of thought is quickly derailed by the way he moves toward me. Like his salvation lies in me.
Those blown-out pupils drop to my skirt again, what’s exposed by the lack of material there, and he’s not even staring at the way it doesn’t fit right, the fact that the zipper is fully open on the side of the thing. In fact, under his gaze, I lose all self-consciousness entirely, and a bone-deep boldness I haven’t felt in forever seeps through me, settling in my core and expanding throughout my body.
Before he can make it to me, I start walking toward him, one foot in front of the other, then kicking a heel up behind me as I go. This is my show, and I’m not going to let him forget it. Manicured, deep red fingertips come to rest on his chest and press, ever so slightly, as I walk him backward. He grunts, takes the hint, tongue darting out to swipe his lower lip, and he moves with me.
