But she couldn’t hold out on me. When I started pounding into her, hitting that spot she loves so much, spitting filth in her ear, she’d scream for me every time. She can’t keep it in when I fuck her how she needs it.
Damn, I miss those sounds. My balls tighten at the memory, the echoes of her noises better than any porn I’ve ever seen.
What I wouldn’t give to have a night like that with her again. I think I’m getting there, though.
I think we’re both starting to prioritize us, as best we can around school, work, keeping four small humans, two adults, a dog and a goldfish alive.
I think we’ll get there again. Whatevertherelooks like for us. That elusive goal, wherever the fuck we’re headed. Somewhere where we balance it all, and don’t lose ourselves in the process.
So I smack her ass, plant a sloppy kiss on her cheek, and tell her to go crazy at Target. That I’ll be waiting, here with the kids and a freshly mowed lawn when she’s back.
I’ll always be waiting here for her.
EIGHTEEN
CHRISSY
“Last one to the water has to work at the Chum Bucket!”
My husband’s child-like taunt joins the cries of seagulls and the sound of gulf waves lapping on the shore, as he takes off running for the waterline.
All three boys tear after him, but Lea can’t keep up and quickly begins to cry, holding her arms up so as not to be left behind. Chance swoops back with exaggerated motions in a comically large circle to scoop her up in his arms like he’s Peter Pan helping Wendy fly for the first time, and they chase her brothers toward the warm saltwater of the Gulf of Mexico.
Brad and Preston are throwing out threats left and right, like there are actual stakes at risk here. Chance overtakes them without much effort, Lea laughing in his arms, clapping and cheering for their victory.
He slows down the closer he gets to the water, letting the boys catch up and overtake him, and making a big show about being disappointed he was last to the water.
Me? I’ve got sand duty. I’m stationed in a prime spot, guarding the mini football field of towels we’ve laid out for the whole family, the cooler of snacks and drinks, and keeping my butt planted firmly in the little beach chair we brought. I’m also on Kindle duty. Very important business.
I prop open the lid of the cooler, giving easy access to the drinks and chilled snacks. Look, mad props to all the crunchy moms out there, seriously, kudos, I just don’t have the wherewithal to bethatdedicated Whole Foods mama. I do what I can though. The kids have to eat all their chicken nuggets before they’re allowed a little dessert. Their screen time and tablet time is limited. But I’m not a miracle worker.
The cooler has a few Caprisuns (the natural ones, thank you very much), some organic juice boxes, cans of Sprite (the tiny ones, okay, give me a break), and plenty of bottles of water. Plus, the staples: cheese, grapes, pepperoni, and some of those squirtable yogurt things that taste way better than they look. More snacks are in the dry bag lodged in the sand next to it.
We areprepared. A morning of fun in the sun, with the whole Anderson clan. Sunscreen is on, kids have been fed, and the fun can beg—Oh no, why is Lea crying?
“Di!” Chance’s voice carries across the open space between us, and he points at her, but I’m already on it.
Little Lea is running toward me, toddling at an angle that tells me something is hurting her leg or her foot. I hop up to meet her on her way and pick her up. Her tear-streaked cheeks turn my heart inside out, and I wipe the trails away.
“What is it,mija?”
I start inspecting her little body as she takes big breaths and tries to find the words.
“Ow!” She grabs her big toe with one hand, and I pull her leg farther up so I can see the bottom of her foot.
Sure enough, right on her sole, there’s a little piece of shell digging into the skin, kind of sticking out of there.
It’s not dripping blood or anything, but I’d be near tears if it happened to me, so I feel for her.
“You got part of the beach in your foot, little lady,” I tell her, rubbing her belly through her little one-piece as I carry her back to the water.
She nods at me, pout still on full display.
“Should we get Dr. Daddy?” I ask her, my serious voice on.
She nods again, more enthusiastically, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
“Oh, Doctor Daddyyyy,” I sing-song to the man in the waves. “Your services are required!”
