“Anything you haven’t thought of?”
He puts his fingers to his temple, thinking it over for a minute. “Um, Daddy mentioned something about sucking.” My eyes go wide at his comment, mentally berating my husband, but Tre nonchalantly raises his shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe he got us lollipops or popsicles as a treat.”
“Junior,” I call out bitingly, trying to gauge where he is. Addressing Tre, I tell him, “Go watch a show while I talk to Daddy and get ready.” He scoots off, not having to be told twice to sit and enjoy a TV show. “Hey, where you at?” In the kitchen, I find a picnic basket all ready to go. A sweet gesture, for sure. Which reminds me, I have to text Luke and ask to borrow his truck.
“You beckoned?” Junior’s voice bellows, as he comes in from the living room. I put aside the fact that he’s in gray sweatpants and a fitted T-shirt. And his stupid backwards hat. For the moment, at least.
“You made mention of ‘sucking’ to our son. What the hell, Junior?” I swat at his arms angrily, then realize that was dumb on my part. Bicep muscles. Junior’s got big ones.
“It kinda slipped out.”
“Right. How did that conversation go again?” Do not look directly at his face, Emmy. Be strong. Resist his charm. I fail, miserably, at following my own directions. “Never mind. I have to go get ready for the game. Hope you have some suckers for your son for a treat since now he’s expecting some.”
Making my way upstairs, the man follows me. This is what he does, distraction at its finest. I do my best to ignore him, the way he looks, the way he smells, as I start taking off my clothes so I can change into jeans and my football hoodie.
“I was talking to myself, and he overheard me. All I said was, ‘Emmy better get her suck on tonight.’ He didn’t get it.”
I can’t look at him, lest I’ll be more distracted and I’m on a time crunch, so I can’t assess fully whether he’s telling the truth or not. Most likely he is; he does talk to himself quite a bit, sharing his innermost thoughts, which are always of a sexual nature. It weirded me out the first time I heard him do it, but as I got used to it, it just became one of his quirks I (mostly) adore. Except when he does it in front of the kids.
When his words sink in, I realize exactly what he said. Turning on my heels, I demand, “Whoa, why do I have to get my suck on tonight? Like I owe you for something?”
Damn him. Foiling my need to get changed with his words. As if that’s not enough, he stalks closer, one slow step at a time. I try to signal him to stop with my eyes, shooting daggers his way; however, he’s undeterred, ignoring the shade I’m throwing him.
My hands land on my hips, standing my ground. Ahem, attempting to stand my ground and ward off his advances. I have a game I need to get ready for, and this little interruption is hindering that. Plus, no clue where my daughter actually is.
“Where’s your daughter? House is awfully quiet.” I intend for my words to halt his movements, but the man multi-tasks so well. Usually, I’m appreciative of it except in times like this when he uses it against me.
Spinning me around, he answers, “She’s playing in the playroom.”
I go to respond, something about how he knows she’ll still be there when he goes back to check on her, but every coherent thought leaves my brain. I want to blame it on pregnancy brain, and not for the kisses my very sexy husband trails down my neck. The most I can manage is a breathy, “Junior.” Stupidly, my body begins to fall back, leaning on Junior for support, as my pulse quickens, my body betraying my mind.
“How about you get your suck on before the game?”
My eyes fly open at his words, finally breaking through and putting a stop to his attempts at seduction. I pull myself out of his reach, much to his chagrin, and lock myself in the bathroom to finish getting ready.
“So, that’s a no for right now?” he calls through the door.
“Correct. But maybe if you let me get ready, I’ll get it on tonight. You did pack that awesome picnic dinner for us and all,” I coo back to him.