Page 23 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
“Yes. That is literally what she just said. I’m putting you on speakerphone.”
“Okay, okay, let me get in the zone—hang on.” I have to sit on my right hand so I’m not tempted to honk the horn again. I’m about to turn on some music, but then I hear smooth jazz through the phone. “Aw, babe. You have it on the jazz channel.”
“Yep.”
I sigh. “I fucked up. I should have gone through the park.”
“Oooh. Are you admitting that you were wrong and apologizing for not taking my advice? Because thatisdoing it for me. Say more.”
My car slowly inches forward for a few seconds. I silently give Red Mustang Guy the middle finger again. “Why don’t I tell you what I would be doing if I were there right now.”
“Fine.”
“I’d be opening the door with the card key I picked up at the front desk. I would quietly shut the door, wonder why I don’t see you anywhere in the room, and then hear the shower running in the bathroom.”
“I would not take a shower and risk getting my hair wet in the middle of a work day.”
Not going to argue with that, and so I will pivot… “I find you sitting at the edge of the bed, your back to me, totally naked, still wearing your heels—”
“How would you be able to see that I’m wearing heels if my back is to you and I’m sitting at the edge of the bed?”
“All right, that’s enough out of you, Sassy Mouth. You’re bent over my knees.”
“Oh, I don’t think I am.”
“Oh, I think you are, and I can feel exactly how much you like it—have you forgotten?”
I can hear her huffing and shifting around on the bedspread because I may notunderstandmy wife, but Iknowher. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Yeah. I’m right. May I continue?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Inthis scenario,you’re wearing an impossibly short little plaid skirt and a tiny blouse that’s five sizes too small for you.” She clears her throat, and I just know she’s rolling her eyes, but I persevere. “I’ve removed my suit jacket, but I’m still wearing my pants and dress shirt and I make you wait while I roll up my sleeves. It’s driving you crazy because you can’t see my hands or my arms and you love to watch me roll up my sleeves, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And now my dominant hand slides under that little skirt and rests upon your bare, beautiful, round ass. Now I begin stroking, slowly, lightly because I love your ass, Cooper. I love to look at it. I love to touch it. I love the feel of your warm, silky skin and the firm, full curves of each cheek. I love how you tremble all over and your breathing becomes ragged. You’re impatient, but you love the buildup as much as I do, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re wriggling around in my lap, partly because the wait is so unbearable and partly because you know what it’s doing to my erection. You know exactly what you do to me. You feel me getting harder against your stomach. I place my other hand flat against your back, and your whole body stiffens because you know what’s coming next and you want it.”
“Yeah, I want it.”
“I caress the backs of your thighs and then slowly, slowly… Shit.”
“What?”
“Nanny Greta’s calling me. Did she call you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not looking at my phone.”
“She never calls me.”
“Shit, I missed her call. Answer it.”
“Hang on.” I have never been this aroused when speaking to Greta before, but I switch over to the German nanny in case, God forbid, there is some kind of emergency. “Hello? Greta?”
