Page 58 of Paternal Instincts
“Soon, hot stuff. Very soon.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Soon.”
Married life had given us routines and bedtime rituals we adhered to most nights when crawling into bed at the same time. I used the bathroom first since I was less meticulous and didn’t need long to pee and brush my teeth.
Quaid, however, honored a long-standing skin routine he claimed kept him young, which included special soaps and expensive moisturizers. He groomed his eyebrows, brushed and flossed his teeth, trimmed his nails, and used the toilet. It never took less than fifteen or twenty minutes. On nights he showered before bed, he could be in there for an hour.
By the time he finished, I had the bed turned down, the lights low, the blinds closed, and I had donned a fresh pair of boxers for sleeping.
Quaid changed and crawled in beside me, setting an alarm on his phone.
“What time are you getting up?”
“Five.”
“Good lord. Make it seven.”
“No. I want to be at the house at seven.”
“Quaid. Tomorrow’s Sunday. The holiest of holy days. For the love of God in heaven and his son Jesus Christ, let those poor souls sleep in.”
“Your mother would be so proud of that observance. Should I call and tell her we’ll join her for morning mass?”
“No! Fuck my life. Five it is. What was I thinking? The Davises probably won’t sleep anyhow. Their kid’s missing.”
Quaid snorted but slapped a hand over his mouth to cover it. “You’re going straight to hell.”
“I accepted that a long time ago. Will you be my plus-one?”
He plugged his phone in and set it on the bedside table. “I think they have a party room saved for our kind, don’t they?”
“Oh, stop. You don’t believe that shit.” I dragged him down into my arms and continued where we left off in the nursery, kissing and touching his warm skin. We could get into wild debates about the afterlife another time. Tonight, I wanted Quaid. His body, but most of all, his heart.
I rolled him to his back and straddled him. “Stay.” Leaning over, I dug through the supply drawer, finding the bottle of scented massage oil I’d bought a while back for exactly these moments. “Did someone mention a massage?”
“Yes, please.” He gnawed his lower lip, a sparkle in his eyes.
Considering the oil was messy, often got on the sheets, and was hell to wash out, I assumed after the first time I used it, Quaid would have thrown it away, but he hadn’t. It turned out the massage was worth the headache of cleanup. We’d gone through half a bottle.
I coated my hands, warming the oil with a brisk rubbing of my palms. “Where should I start?”
“Back and shoulders.”
I rose to my knees, allowing him to roll over.
Quaid folded his hands under his head and sighed the moment I pressed the heels of my palms into the tight muscles along his spine, gently at first, then adding pressure as the tension loosened.
Out of respect for the late hour and my husband’s need for sleep, I didn’t spend as much time as usual on each area, but I still gave him the attention he needed. His shoulders and neck were always the worst,and I dug my thumbs into the taut muscles, working out the hard knots of stress that had accumulated throughout the day.
He groaned each time I hit an especially tight spot, melting deeper into the mattress.
“I don’t want anything stupid,” he mumbled against the pillow after I’d moved my focus to his spine and lower back, savoring the silky glide of his skin under my oiled hands.
“What do you mean?”
“For a baby name. How many cases have we worked where the names were so outrageous we couldn’t help making fun of them?”
I chuckled. “There’ve been a few. Remember Basil?”
