Page 15 of Eager Housewife
“We could start my days off at midnight?” she suggests.
“Aye.” That’s fair.
“Or on Saturday morning?—”
“Midnight.” Much as I want those extra hours, I don’t compromise.
Her mouth sets in a mulish line. “Okay…” She strokes her hand self-consciously over her thigh. “I’ll have to change into something suitable for going out.” Then she peeks up at me from beneath her lashes in a come-hither that’s half-hope, half-expectation.
“Me too.” Who am I to deny my willing lassie? I close the gap between us in a few strides and wrap my arms around her waist, dragging her up my body until her face is level with mine and her feet dangle in the air. I kiss her lips gently. “Let’s get changed. You might need a shower.”
* * *
I toy with her wee hand as we watch the show from seats in the middle of the stalls, running my thumb over her soft skin. In the interval, I keep my palm at the small of her back, treat her to champagne and chocolates, and introduce her to some of my mafia connections who thankfully are at this opening night. That at least worked out, but the Laurent kingpin notices when I’m possessive of Blythe and pull her close as we discuss our legitimate businesses. He doesn’t call me on the fact that at a moderately-bloody London Mafia Syndicate get together earlier in the week I claimed Blythe was just a convenient wife, and nothing was happening between us sexually because she’s mydaughter’s best friend. Not my finest moment. Though Laurent exchanges a wry look with his wife, who was also present, and she hides a knowing smile as she chats with Blythe.
I wish I hadn’t told them this wasn’t real. There are enough reminders already.
While we’re snug in the dark of the theatre seats, my arm behind Blythe’s shoulders as we watch the second half of the show, and during a late tapas dinner afterwards, I wonder how I’m going to survive a night sleeping apart from her. If she wants that? We haven’t discussed whether she needs more space.
We’ve chatted like old friends all week when I’m not fucking her brains out, but there’s a lull and perhaps she’s as unsure about this temporary alteration in our relationship as I am.
Two days of not being able to connect with sex.
Will I even see her over the weekend?
“How many kids do you want?” I tell myself I’m waiting for my after-dinner coffee to cool sufficiently that I can drink it, but honestly, I’m hyperaware of the ticking of my watch as it gets closer to midnight. I haven’t had her since we went upstairs to dress hours ago, but I could, until twelve. The days when I can’t have become a straightjacket in my mind. A conversation about the fiction that we can keep this up forever is the perfect distraction.
She blinks. “I didn’t think that choice was in my vows?”
“I’ll take your wishes into account,” I say, with faux gravitas, and she giggles. It’s the best sound in the world. “How many?”
“Two-point-four?” she suggests, not meeting my gaze and toying with her teacup. “Isn’t that the average?”
“The point four could be tricky. How about we round up to the nearest ten?”
“Ten!” Her gaze flies to mine and I cannae tell if it’s delight or disbelief. “You don’t want ten children.”
I shrug. “I’ll compromise on nine-point-five.”
“Half a child is fine, but point four isn’t enough?”
“Aye. Half is enough. Just a wee one. Half a pint’s worth. Will be nae bother.”
Blythe laughs at my poor joke and my heart expands.
“Go on. You said you wanted kids. Have you got names picked out?” She blushes and it’s my turn to grin. “You have, haven’t you?”
“I may have some ideas,” she mutters.
“Are we going to have enough that we should name them alphabetically? There’s Ainsley. Our first could be Blair and we could work our way to Zane.”
She splutters. “I cannot have twenty-five children!”
“Slacker,” I tease. “That’s poor dedication, but I guess we can start with one, and see how we go. We might already have done that.”
There’s a glow of happiness from her as she bites her lip and nods and I wonder if she’s remembering how I told her I was breeding her as we had sex on the bed before she got dressed.
“What about five?” she says, tentatively.