Day 15
Celebrate with a night out together. You select what the other wears.
It turns out I can’t wait. Last night was…
I don’t even know how to describe it. I couldn’t call my mom fast enough this morning to ask her to babysit today.
I have never felt this much impatience and anticipation, not even for our wedding night (which turned out to be lackluster anyway on account of being tired, hungry, and beyond buzzed).
I’m on edge, tense, flustered—my mom asked what had me so atwitter when I begged her to stay with Violet tonight.
Overnight. Like a jack-in-the-box with the crank turned and turned and turned, I’m wound up.
When Daniel comes behind me to plant a kiss on my neck as I plate Violet’s dinner, I almost jump out of my skin.
Not because I’m repulsed, but because my nerves are on a hair trigger.
He smooths his hands down my arms with firm pressure, which helps, until he reaches into my waistband and uses his pointer finger to snap the band of the red, crotchless panties he set out for me to wear. My heart rate ratchets up even further.
“Yeah, any minute now. Can you…can you get Violet’s overnight diaper and pjs and set them on the changing table?” The words come out breathless, which I need to fix before my mom arrives.
This low cut, black top from five years ago—which looked divine on my pre-baby boobs—isn’t something I would’ve picked for myself at this age and stage.
My mom will clock it immediately. Let’s hope she doesn’t notice the sheer lace bra that’s not remotely restraining my nipples.
And the cut-out underwear that has my arousal sticking to my inner thighs after one brush of Daniel’s lips below my ear?
It has me feeling like I’m a teenager again, trying to sneak out of the house with a flask of vodka tucked into a pair of early 2000s riding boots.
I haven’t tried to get something past my mom in decades.
The doorbell rings with its familiar chime, and Daniel rushes to answer. Thank God, because it gives me a minute to clear my throat and hype myself up with an internal pep talk about being a full-grown woman who can do what she wants.
“Hey, come in! We’re thankful you could babysit again. I know Violet will be so glad to see you,” he says.
“It’s easy to say yes when you have such a sweet baby. Where is that little flower of mine?” she answers as Daniel takes her coat and hangs it in the hall closet.
“Molly was fixing her dinner—she’s probably in her high chair. You know how she gets when she’s hungry.”
“Who, Violet or Molly?” she asks, and it’s the levity I need to welcome her without flushing red from chest to cheeks.
“Hey, we both come by it honestly!” I say, before reaching for a loose hug—one that won’t have me pressing my nearly-bare chest into hers.
“Fed baby, loved baby is what I always say. Anything I need to know before I usher you two out the door?”
“I don’t think so,” Daniel replies. “Same bedtime routine as last week. You can give her a bath if this spaghetti dinner turns into a massacre.”
“It very well might,” I cut in.
“That’s well and good with me. Now, you two go have fun. I’ll see you in the morning!”
She raises a hand to shoo us toward the door as she sits at the table with a bubbly, babbling Violet. Our sweet girl who couldn’t seem to care less that we’re leaving.
“Thanks, mom! Text if you need anything—seriously,” I add.
She rolls her eyes and continues to shoo. With Daniel’s hand on my lower back, we step into the garage to head out for our first night away since we became parents.
***
“I take it back—room service was the right choice,” he says while holding a fry that’s been dipped in aioli at one end.
“You’re just saying that because I wouldn’t be topless down at the bar.”
“Yep, that’s exactly right. This is better.”
We’re sitting in a king size bed at The Continental, arguably the nicest hotel in town, while stuffing our faces with $22 burgers and playing a no-cards game of strip poker.
That is, we’re removing layers when the other person asks.
So far, Daniel has removed his sweater—my favorite of his that reminds me of the trip we took to Quebec City four years ago during the holidays—and pants.
I’ve removed my blouse and skirt. My nipples strain against the thin mesh of the bra, though it can hardly be called such when it’s more straps than fabric.
“What do you think? Better?” he asks.
“Any time I can eat a thousand calories of meat, cheese, and fried potatoes while staring at your abs is a win in my book. My dream is to not leave this bed for the next fourteen hours. That would be best of all.”
“And what’s the sleeping/not sleeping ratio in this dream of yours?
” He takes a bite of his burger and sauce sticks to the corner of his lips.
When I reach over to wipe it, he takes my finger into his mouth and gently sucks.
It’s the eye contact that kills me—those dark brown eyes, eager and earnest. He releases my finger with a wet pop.
“Hmmm, let’s say ten hours for sleeping, four hours for other stuff.”
“We can wrap up this dinner in the next ten minutes, then. Give ourselves more time for the other stuff,” he replies. A smile twists at his lips, and it’s almost shy. It would be if I didn’t know better. “Start by losing the bra.”
I hold his gaze as I reach behind me and unclasp the band.
The slippery fabric falls to my waist and his eyes fall to my tits, which bounce from being released.
The weight of his stare and the cool air from the wall unit have my nipples puckering instantly.
The warmth of his mouth would soften them, and that sounds heavenly right now.
“Any chance you’re already done?” I ask, as I lift my tray to the nightstand and push his away from his lap. “And take off your boxers.”
He stands, grabs the tray and places it on the floor. His boxers follow suit as he says, “With dinner, yes. With you, not until you’re begging me to stop.”
“Is that a threat?” I tease, as he climbs back onto the bed.
“No, baby, that’s a promise.”
With one smooth motion, he grabs my waist and lifts me to straddle him.
“These last few days, Molls, I thought I might die, not having you the way I wanted. It’s been so good, and just enough.
But I’m tired of just enough.” He bends down to pull a nipple into his mouth and sucks hard.
A throaty moan pours out of me. “I think you’re tired of it too. ”
With his hands on my hips, he pushes me slowly down his length, then pulls me back, groaning, as he coats himself in the wetness that’s been growing between my legs all night.
“Never get rid of these,” he says as he snaps the band of the crotchless panties again.
“The entire ride over here I was thinking about slipping my hand under your skirt and feeling for myself how eager you were. Knowing you were right there, this pussy exposed and dripping for me, it’s a miracle I didn’t crash the car. ”
“I would’ve let you, you know. Finger me on the ride. I would’ve loved it.”
This time, his groan comes out tortured. I slide back and forth on his cock of my own volition and watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.
He grabs the hair at the back of my head in a fist, tugging until my eyes meet his. “You know what I’ve learned these past few days? You like being slutty for me. All those nights we spent going through the motions and this is what you needed. Isn’t that right?”
My nod is accompanied by a whimper as he tilts my hips and grinds me against him, hard.
“Like I said the other day—I meet your needs. And you are needy tonight, baby. So needy.”
If the prompts on the cards have unlocked a boldness in how I express myself with my body, they’ve done the same with Daniel’s words.
And God, it’s working for us. The more aggressive I am, the dirtier he gets.
The filthier his words, the more pliable I become.
What if we’d spent our whole life, our whole marriage, never knowing this?
Never exploring how free we can feel, not outside of our commitment but in it? Because of it?
Another slow, tortuous roll of my hips brings me back to the gaping want between my legs. “Please, fill me up. It’s been too long,” I ask.
“You know I will, but not yet, baby. I need to taste you first.”
Before I can reply, he sits up, loops his arms under my thighs to lift them, and slides down the bed. He stops when my knees are on either side of his ears, my center hovering over face.
"God, this view. Do you know how pretty you are, all swollen and pink and wet like this? I can hardly stand it, knowing you’re this worked up and I haven’t even touched you yet. You’re perfect,” he says, and then lifts his head to lick one slow swipe up my core. “You taste perfect too. Now sit.”
I’m about twenty pounds heavier than I was the last time we did this. He senses my hesitation and says, “Molly, if you don’t sit I’m going to make you sit.”
“But I don’t want to crush you,” I reply, self-conscious of my new body and what it might mean for this particular activity.
“Please crush me. Please crush that pretty little pussy into my face until the only thing I can breathe is your scent. Let me have it, Molls. Sit.”
I won’t argue with a man who is begging to pleasure me, so against my better judgement, I sit.
I’m rewarded immediately with a groan that vibrates at my entrance.
He spends the next few minutes exploring with his mouth and tongue, building up my need and never lingering long enough to meet it.
He laps from my entrance to my clit, he sucks right there and flicks with his tongue, he dives into me and pulls back out just as quickly.
Occasionally, he turns his head to bite at the flesh of my inner thighs.
It’s infuriating and wonderful and also, I might die if he keeps it up.
“Babe, please,” I whine.
“Please what?” he answers from beneath me, when I recline just enough to spare his mouth.
“Please, make me come.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear. Of course, baby,” he replies, before gripping my legs and diving back in with a fervor that steals my breath.
What was once languid, leisurely, is now intentionally aggressive.
He spreads me with his thumbs, leaving my sensitive clit entirely exposed to the thrashing of his tongue.
He flicks in rhythm until I’m thrusting against his mouth, chanting more when I can catch a breath.
I stay just like that, riding his face, while he gives me the more I asked for.
My orgasm hits like a slingshot, a quick, powerful release that has me careening over the side of a cliff at Mach 1.
Holding onto his hair—probably too tightly—is the only thing keeping me grounded.
I’m heaving breaths when I come back to myself, to sit on my heels with my heart slamming in my chest.
“Need a break?” Daniel asks.
I shake my head no, as words are still beyond my grasp.
“Good. You stay here.” He slides himself down and out from under me and I collapse on the white fluff of the comforter, face down.
“Ass up, baby,” he commands, and I feel his fingertips grip the hinge point of my butt and hips, tugging. I push up to my knees but leave my chest resting on the mattress.
“Can I take you like this?” The ask is a courtesy; he knows this is my favorite position.
“Always,” I reply, and I mean it. If sex can be like this, the answer is always. Anytime. Every time. He brings his cock to slide against my throbbing center, wetting himself before he pushes in.
Achingly slow, he feeds his cock to my body, one inch at a time.
“I missed you,” he says, as he lowers to press kisses on my spine while he fills me. “You feel like home. This,” he punctuates with a thrust—finally—“feels like home.”
And it does. His slow pull out of my body and immediate push back in feels as familiar as that favorite sweater.
Comforting, warm, well-loved. For all the new we’ve been doing lately, there’s something remarkably blissful about defaulting to what we know we like.
It’s a gift from all our years together, the way my body speaks to his, and his to mine, until the only replies are muffled moans.
He continues his pace, slow and then fast, gentle and then forceful, until he says, “You want a hand, baby?”
“Always,” I repeat again, and he brings his fingers to the apex of my legs, just above where we’re joined, to rub circles against my clit. If I weren’t already half-collapsed, this would’ve done it.
“Mmm, that’s it, that feels good doesn’t it?” he asks, then answers himself with, “I know it does. You feel so fucking good, Molls. So fucking perfect. I see you trembling, are you going to come for me, baby? While I’m stretching you out and playing with you, like this?”
If the first orgasm was a slingshot, this one is a boomerang.
I release, and release, and release, offering each one to the universe while it answers with another.
I’m vaguely aware that Daniel’s thrusts have become erratic, that he’s cursing under his breath as he pounds into me, into my pussy that’s squeezing him with muscle contractions he can barely withdraw from.
The movement falters and then stops with a groan the entire hall must hear.
He pulses inside me, laying his chest against my back for several moments, before he pulls out.
When I start to feel the wet stickiness of his release drip from me as I move to sit up, he stills me and pushes it back inside with two of his fingers.
It’s almost enough—almost—to make me ready to go again.
“You better hope my IUD is working,” I laugh when I peel myself off the bed to head to the bathroom.
“Nah, you better hope your IUD is working. My part of conception is done,” he jokes back.
When I’ve cleaned up and he’s back in his boxers (and I realize my regret at not bringing a pair of fully-crotched underwear), we settle into bed and turn on the tv like we would at home.
But this time, instead of sitting at opposite sides of the couch and intermittently scrolling on separate devices, I lean into him.
I scoot my body until it fits into his, with my head on his chest and his arm around my shoulder.
This, too, feels like home. And I didn’t realize until this month, how homesick I was for it.