Tied (5 page)

She doesn’t acknowledge me right away—and she’s not folding clothes anymore. She’s holding a pair of baby socks in each hand, unnervingly staring off into space. In deep thought.

Usually for guys, when our women are contemplating something serious? It’s a bad sign.

Cautiously I sit down next to her. “The baby’s asleep.”

Her blank expression doesn’t change. “That’s good.”

“Kate? You okay?”

Snapping out of wherever she was, she turns to me quickly and tries to blow it off. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Fine
—a red flag if there ever was one.

I don’t waste time with pleasantries. “Fuck fine—what’s wrong?”

She focuses her attention on the socks. “I just realized . . . this is my life now.”

I try hard to decipher the hidden female message in that statement—and come up with zilch. “O-kay . . . and . . . ?”

“And folding clothes, dirty dishes, afternoon walks, naptimes, changing diapers . . . that’s my life. That’s what I have to look forward to.”

“Well . . . changing diapers won’t last forever. And in two more weeks I’ll be able to make you cum again in numerous, illicit ways—that’s something worth looking forward to.”

That gets a chuckle out of her, but it’s halfhearted. “I’m a terrible person.”

I rub her shoulder. “If
you’re
a terrible person, I’m in some seriously deep shit.”

This time her smile is a bit more genuine. “I love James, Drew.
Love
 . . . isn’t even a strong enough word . . .”

I nod, because I and any parent know exactly what she means.

“. . . and I know how lucky I am. Lots of women would kill to be able to stay home full-time with their kids. I really am grateful for the life I have—but I never thought this would be all I’d have.”

And the tears start to fall. Big ones.

In the days after James’s birth, he wasn’t the only one on a bawling binge.

Kate was a mess.

I thought I understood the havoc hormones can wreak on the female personality—but I didn’t understand jack. Pregnancy hormones are a whole other animal entirely. She cried because James was beautiful, she cried because she loved me so much, and because of how much I love her. She cried when James cried, and when he slept or if he sneezed. She cried because she hadn’t lost all the baby weight two days after he was born, the way those motherfucking evil, narcissistic celebrities make women feel they should.

Even though I’m accustomed to my son’s crying jags, seeing Kate cry will never be something I’m okay with.

My chest tightens, squeezing my heart as she wipes at her cheeks. “I feel so guilty for missing work—for watching you walk out that door in the morning and wishing it was me. How screwed up is that?”

I rub her back and tell her the truth: “It’s not screwed up at all.”

Kate looks at me with surprise in her eyes.

“I wouldn’t want to quit my job, either—I’d be a miserable bastard
if I couldn’t go to the office anymore.” Then I ask, “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I thought it would pass, once I got used to being home—had a new routine going. But it’s just gotten worse.”

The strange thing is, I know just how she feels.

“To be honest, I’m not exactly thrilled with the arrangements we have now, either.”

Thankfully, her tears have dried. The vise grip on my heart lessens. “You’re not?”

I shake my head. “I’m missing all the good stuff. I go for days without seeing James awake even for a minute. It sucks ass. Like the other day, when he smiled for the first time.”

She tries to make me feel better. “That was just gas, Drew.”

“Of course it was, because boys think passing gas is funny.”

“I sent you a video.”

I shake my head. “That’s not the same. At this rate, I’ll miss everything—his first word, his first step, the first time he realizes he can aim and piss on things—all the big moments.”

Kate takes my hand. “So . . . what are we talking about here? Are you saying you want to stay home part-time?”

Once the words are actually said, I realize that’s what I’ve wanted all along. “And you’ll work part-time. I’ll go the office Monday, Wednesday, and Friday . . . because I’m still the frigging man in the relationship . . . and you’ll do Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Some of our clients aren’t going to be good with that. Jefferson Industries’ CEO is a prick—he’ll have major issues.”

Like I give a damn. “Whoever isn’t okay with it, I’ll make sure they stay in-house. Pass them off to Jack or Matthew—and if we lose a few, my father will get over it. Nepotism has its advantages, Kate. I say we fucking exploit them.”

“Our bonuses will take a hit.”

I shrug. “It’s only money.”

If you don’t have a boatload of extraneous cash and investments lying around, I wouldn’t recommend adopting this attitude. But since I do . . . I can.

Then I point out, “In six or seven years James will be in school, then we can both go back full-time. Unless we have a few more kids between now and then—and since the activity that gets them here is at the top of our Favorite Things to Do list, that’s a definite possibility.”

There’s a light in her eyes that wasn’t there when I came home. Knowing I help put it there makes me proud of myself—not that that’s an unusual feeling, but in this case it’s especially awesome.

Kate squeezes my hand enthusiastically. “So, we’re doing this? We’re really doing this?”

“You and I and James will go into the office tomorrow and have a sit-down with Dad, George, and Frank.”

She throws herself at me—chest to chest, arms around my neck, legs straddling my thighs. “I’m so excited!”

“As excited as you are about getting the go-ahead from Roberta in two weeks?”

Kate squints. “Ah . . . not that excited—but very close.”

And then we’re kissing—tongues dancing and tasting. I fall back on the couch, taking her with me—keeping her on top.

Her lips tease their way to my ear. “I love you,” Kate breathes, before licking around the shell. Heated lust gathers in my gut, then furrows out to my thighs and arms—and my dick.

I return the sentiment. “I love you.”

Kate’s mouth lowers to my neck, torturous in its feather-light brushes against my skin. “And I love our life.”

My hand tangles in her hair, loosening the bun, making it fall. “Me too.”

She drops to her knees on the floor and I sit up, legs spread so she
can nestle between my thighs. She looks up at me with hungry, dark eyes and a naughty-girl smile—my favorite combination.

Kate unbuckles my pants and I lift up to accommodate her as she yanks them off. More slowly, she peels my boxers down and my impatient dick bounces up to greet her.

“And I love your cock.” She drives the point home by running her wet tongue up and down it, then swirling around the head.

I look at her beautiful face and grin. “I love my cock in your mouth.”

Her lips vibrate against me as she chuckles—and the sensation make my legs tremble. Then she suctions with her lips from base to tip—tauntingly—without actually taking me inside. When I’m on the brink of losing my fucking mind, she opens up and slides my dick into the tight, hot wetness of her mouth.

My head lolls back and I groan.

She swallows me slowly, inch by inch. It’s maddening and feels eye-crossingly fantastic at the same time. I can’t decide if I want her to suck me hard and fast or to draw out the blissful torture for hours. Maybe days.

When I’m nestled in Kate’s throat, she pauses, breathing softly.

And I hiss, “Fuck . . .”

Kate was always skillful at giving head—a real natural. But in these last years, her talents have reached epic proportions. She’s a maestro and I’m her well-endowed instrument. She practically trained the gag reflex right out of herself, and she actually enjoys deep throating—and swallowing.

She once told me it made her feel powerful. Watching my face as she works me over. Seeing the signs of pleasure she’s controlling—letting me revel in. It’s a pretty accurate take on the situation, because at the moment I’m at Kate’s complete and total mercy.

And that, kiddies, is the best fucking seat in the house.

She sucks me hard as her head glides up, so just the tip remains
between her beautiful lips. She swirls with her tongue again—this time with more pressure, less teasing. Then she bobs up and down quickly—meaning business—all tongue, decadent sloppy wetness, and rough brushes of teeth. Her cheeks hollow out and her hand massages my balls, giving them a gentle, erotic tug.

I moan and curse and chant her name.

I grip her hair and guide her up and down on my dick with just enough force to make her hum in appreciation.

“Yeah, baby, just like that. So fucking good.” I gasp.

Kate’s lips tighten and her head moves faster.

“Jesus, Kate, I’m gonna come.”

My hand clenches and I hold her in place, and every muscle in my body contracts in screaming, unanimous pleasure. My teeth grind and my hips thrust, and with moans of her own, Kate swallows enthusiastically until I have nothing left.

My breathing is harsh as she gifts me with one last flick of her tongue. Then she comes up smiling and climbs onto my lap. And I’m boneless—totally, sublimely relaxed. Screw wine: a blow job is the best way to unwind after a long day at work.

The only thing that would make it better is if I could return the favor.

As I enclose Kate in my arms, I add another tick to the running total of orgasms I owe her. This makes . . . fifteen. And I plan on settling up all in one night—the night Roberta says Kate’s good to go. Don’t worry—as long I keep her hydrated, there’s no physical danger from too many orgasms. I asked.

“I think I’m going to go take that bath you mentioned,” she purrs. “Want to join me?”

I run my knuckles along her jaw. “Joining you is just one of the things I’m dying to do right now.”

“Things like washing my back?”

I brush my lips against hers. “I want to wash lots of places—every nook and cranny.”

Unfortunately, washing her back and rubbing her shoulders are all I’ll be able to do tonight. But it’ll be enough for now.

I keep her legs wrapped around me as I stand up, bare assed, and walk us to the bathroom.

Having two working parents in the house isn’t always perfect—schedule conflicts and work-related stress can get in the way. But it works for us.

Now, where were we again? Before we cut to the gratuitous blow-job scene?

That’s right—elbow deep in the massacre that is James’s diaper. Try mouth-breathing—it helps with the stench.

“Good God, kid . . . what’d you do last night? Sneak out of the crib and eat a T-bone steak?”

Which brings me to the greatest invention of our time. Nope—it’s not the Internet. Or the automobile. It’s not female birth control—though that’s a good one too. The best innovation of the last century is the Diaper Genie. It’s a lifesaver.

I drop the toxic ball into the holy can and quickly close the lid. Then I get him cleaned up with the heated wipes and sprinkle on baby powder. Next I head over to the closet to pick out his clothes. A black, collared shirt, jeans, and Nike sneakers. Clothes make the man—and it works the same way with boys. It’s all about first impressions. If you actually
want
your kid getting knocked on his ass in the sandbox? Put him in one of those pansy
sweater vests. That’ll pretty much guarantee it. James is a cool kid—and I make damn sure he dresses like one.

After I gel James’s hair and brush his teeth—with some helpful suggestions on his spitting technique—I carry him to the kitchen airplane style.
Zoom.
And strap him in his high chair so he can’t escape.

Next up? Breakfast. You remember how I love cereal, right? That hasn’t changed. It’s Lucky Charms for me—with extra marshmallows.

But for my son? No Lucky Charms.

Those
Breakfast Club
kids actually knew what they were talking about. And we really do turn into our frigging parents. And phrases like
We’ll see
and
Because I said so
just pop into your head and fly out of your mouth. It’s disturbing. Like
Exorcist
-possession kind of shit.