13. Ma’am… Mommy
THIRTEEN
MA’AM… MOMMY
LYLAH
As I watch Tatum’s hips sway back and forth while walking out of the kitchen to her office, my mind floats back to last night when she returned from dropping Josie off.
Before a drop of wine was sipped, the sexual tension was already vibrating between us.
Then the bottles of wine were like throwing gasoline on the flames, but fuck was I ready to watch it burn.
And burn we did. I can feel the blush running up my chest just thinking about what those bathroom walls saw. My cheeks practically have a heartbeat when my mind replays waking up mid-fucking-orgasm with what I’m sure was Tatum’s name on my lips.
My eyes landed on her bare body so early in the morning, breasts engorged, begging to be emptied, water dripping down every curve, and her hair clipped up out of the way, but those few front pieces falling perfectly to frame her face.
And what did I do? Got up and ran from her like that wasn’t one of the best nights I’ve ever had with someone.
But I’m going to make it up to her with this amazing lunch I’ve planned out, one that will be better than takeout.
Sorting through what I have, I find the baby potatoes, broccoli, and chicken, moving it to the marble countertop.
The chicken is already cooked, thankfully, so I just toss it into the bowl with all the chopped-up veggies to season.
Lining the way-fancier-than-mine air fryer with foil, I evenly spread everything out, pressing the start button.
I happily prop my ass against the drawers under the counter and start to doom scroll, making my rounds of my fav social media apps. When the timer goes off, I practically jump out of my skin.
Tossing our food on some plates, I yell out to Tatum to let her know it’s ready. “It’s finished, unless you would like to eat in—” I cut myself off when I turn around, plates in hand, to her already sitting at the table. “How long have you been there?”
La La Land is where my head was, apparently.
“Not that long… It smelled too good. I had to come see what was going on.” She pushes up on the armrest of the blush-pink kitchen chair she’s sitting in, trying to get a better look at what’s on the plates.
I’m in front of her, setting hers down before she has to wait too long.
“This is the most action this kitchen has ever seen.”
My eyebrows pull together in concern. “But I only used the air fryer…”
She just nods, and I have to school my features, because it’s rude to judge her. Some folks just don’t care about cooking.
“I’m one of the worst cooks you’ll ever come across. I have a few meals I know how to make well, and that’s what I stick to. If I veer off, things catch on fire.” She chuckles, but at the same time, I can tell this is a sore spot for her.
“Well, good thing cooking is my anxiety reliever—or more like, happy place? Yeah, whatever that is, is what cooking is for me. I can shut my brain off and let my hands create whatever concoction it comes up with. ”
Tatum sighs like she knows the exact feeling. “That’s what laundry is for me.”
“I’d rather pull my hair from my head than do laundry willingly,” I joke, but there’s way too much truth in that statement.
“I’ll do your laundry if you cook.” She shoots me a wink, but I hope she knows I’m not dumb enough to turn that down.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, ma’am.” I give her a nod, but she’s quiet.
I meet her eyes, and it’s the same look she had last night, way too many times.
“It’s Mommy, not ma’am.”
Oh, fuck.
Like my brain is on autopilot, I rush out, “Yes, Mommy.” Then I’m eating before my dumbass can say anything else that makes me want to jump on top of her table and rub my cunt up and down her face.
I can’t have a Mommy and a milking kink…
We eat in relative silence, well, besides Tatum’s moans and groans of enjoyment from my food. “Lylah, that was seriously so good.” She’s sitting back in her chair and working from her phone now.
The longer we sit here, the more antsy I’m becoming.
Not to mention, I sent her a video request when I got back in my car from grocery shopping.
Well, technically, not a video request, it was more so a question that I’m hoping she says yes to, then she promptly uses me for the recording of said video.
It could be a great ice-breaker since she thinks I have no clue what she does for work.
I couldn’t help myself; she’s right there at the tip of my fingertips, close enough to touch, but the need for her in every capacity is all-consuming.
A sick part of me wants her subscribers to know about me.
Not that we’re a thing, because of the whole she’s my boss and I’m paid to care for her child … but I’m nothing if not a jealous bitch.
Instead of letting my mind wander any more, I stand, grabbing her plate while she types away on her phone, but as I turn around, she grabs my wrist, murmuring, “Here, let me. That’s the least I can do.”
“No, I’ve got it. Work, please. This is my job, especially since Josie isn’t here.” I give her a reassuring smile that she seems to take without complaint.
I’m lost in washing the dishes when I hear the faint noise of a scooting chair over the running water.
Loud enough that I can hear her, she asks, “ Hey, Bubbles… can you come and help me with something in my room?” The sly smile I spot right before she disappears down the hallway should scare the shit out of me, but all it does is send a sick joy pulsing through my body.
In the next second, I’m wiping off my hands and sprinting to the bedroom.