Page 18 of A Very Grumpy Father's Day
SEVEN
Declan
IN THE SHAME OF THE FATHER
*The Tuesday before Father’s Day*
I used to overhear the working parents of young kids refer to Monday as the new Friday. While I have always found the overheard conversations of most people to be annoying and pointless in general, I found the complaints of parents who had loved ones at home to be the most annoying and pointless of all. Until this Monday. As much as I never like to interact with anyone who is not my wife or child, this Monday I was somewhat relieved to have the opportunity to return to my office. Because nothing truly terrible ever happens at the office, aside from the daily nonstop annoying and pointless conversations with assholes and idiots (especially Drucker). And I’ve never done anything embarrassing at work.
Because, aside from those few months when Maddie worked for me as my executive assistant, there’s never been anyone at work that I felt compelled to win over.
This past weekend was a weekend that I needed to recover from. And I have almost recovered from it. Almost. My neck is still stiff and I might be dehydrated for the rest of my life.
The sleeping-in-the-bathtub thing and the thing we shall never again discuss—those things were bad enough. Then I went and fell asleep on my hot wife’s back while in the process of making sweet love to her. I should be celebrating my fatherhood this week, and instead I am facing my mortality. At the ripe young age of thirty-five. What the fuck, world?
I return home after an early dinner meeting to find that the scary German nanny is gone. That’s the first sigh of relief. I check in on Ciara and see that she is fast asleep in her crib. We’ve been transitioning her to sleeping in her own room at night for the past few weeks, and my heart swells with pride and just a tinge of bittersweet sorrow—she’s sleeping on her own like a champ. She’s growing up so fast. Another sigh of relief. I don’t have to deal with my daughter crying at the sight of me.
This means my wife is home and possibly available for those fifteen vigorous thrusts I promised her.
I remove my shoes and jacket, drop my briefcase in the den, and find Maddie on our bed in a lacey slip dress. She’s applying lotion to her legs. I can smell it. The musky, exotic sweetness. Like the baked goods aisle of an adult toy store in Thailand. It’s herspecialbody lotion. The room is only lit by her bedside table lamp. This can only mean one thing.
It. Is. On.
And my clothes are coming off.
She tilts her head in my direction and smiles. “Hey,” she says, her husky voice barely above a whisper.
“Hey. You fucking goddess. I hope your pussy’s ready because Daddy’s home, and he’s gonna eat it like it’s his last meal.”
I drop my shirt and pants, go to the foot of the bed, grab onto my wife’s ankles, and spread her smooth legs apart while crawling between them.
Her mouth falls open, but before she can say anything, I continue. “You know how much I’ve missed this pussy? Huh? You know how hard I am already just thinking about how you taste?” I pepper kisses up the inside of her thigh.
“Dec…”
“Half an hour, babe. I’m not done until you’re a quivering mess at the mercy of my tongue and fingers, and then my cock gets in the game.”
She covers her mouth. Not like she hasn’t heard worse, but I like that I can still surprise her.
“Declan. Sullivan. Cannavale.”
Shit.
“I can’t even ask if you kiss your mother with that mouth.”
Why do I hear my ma’s voice?
Maddie is trembling all over.
From laughing.
She points to the phone on her bedside table, which must be on speakerphone.
Which means my mother is on the other end.
Which means she heard what I just said.
Which means I will probably never get another erection again and my reservation in Catholic hell has been confirmed.
