Page 26 of Better Daddy
Teeth gritted, I straighten my leg and flex my foot to ease the locked muscle. Two knee bends later, the pain subsides. Damn, getting old sucks.
By now, my eyes have adjusted to the dark, and from here, I can see two Columbia Law sweatshirts folded neatly on the floor.
My lips twitch. Sloane climbed into bed wearing both of them, looking like the cutest marshmallow man I’d ever seen.
I didn’t think I’d see the pregnancy waddle for a few more months, but it was almost there tonight when she wandered in wearing at least three pairs of trousers.
Movement on the bed catches my attention, so I turn on my side.
Sloane slowly rolls to sitting in a way that would probably be eerie if I hadn’t seen her do this hundreds of times.
She’s self-conscious about her tendency to strip-sleep.
Is that what it would be called? Strip-sleepwalking, maybe?
Regardless of how it would be labeled by a professional, I’ve always enjoyed watching her do this.
Standing now, she looks ten pounds lighter than she did when she went to bed, which means the two sweatshirts on the floor probably aren’t the only things she’s shed so far tonight.
With bated breath, I lean closer to the edge. As much as I want this to be the last layer so I can get a peek at the flawless skin beneath, skin I haven’t seen in months, I know if it is, I’ll have to look away. She would hate me for looking without her permission. It hurts to admit, but it’s the truth. There was a time when I got this show every night.
Damn do I miss those days.
She slips her hands into the waistband of her gray sweats and lowers them slowly. I prepare to look away, my heart thudding heavily, but when the black fabric beneath is visible, I let out a long breath.
My bloody wife is the most put-together person I know in the light of day. But this quirk, this imperfection, is one of my favorite things about her.
She folds the gray material, but instead of putting the sweats in the pile of clothes on the floor, she moves efficiently to the dresser and slides them into a drawer. While she stands there, she drags her long-sleeve shirt over her head.
This time, the pale skin of her back comes into view, interrupted only by the strap of her bra.
Groaning, I lean back and stare at the ceiling.
Her footsteps are nearly imperceptible as she moves back to bed.
If I look down now, I’ll get a peek of her full breasts covered in nothing but a thin layer of lace. I want to. Fuck, am I desperate to seemore of her. But I shouldn’t. No. I’ll keep my eyes to myself until she gives me the go-ahead.
That’s what I’m trying to convince myself of when, without my permission, my attention drifts down to my wife and I catch the swell of the most perfect breasts in the world.
I only allow myself to look for the space of one breath. Then I’m flat on my back again, my eyes screwed shut. I am a bloody creeper.
The bed creaks, signaling that she’s snuggled under the blankets again. My girl is a burrower. I sit up, allowing myself to look at her again, knowing she’s covered.
It’s a mistake. Karma, maybe, for peeking at Sloane. Because I smack my head on the ceiling again, and stars dance in my vision.
But when they clear, I can’t help but take in my wife, who’s now buried beneath three massive comforters and surrounded by a mountain of pillows.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. Yes, we’re sleeping in separate beds, and yes, every word she says to me is laced with derision, but this is a start. For now, we’re in the same room, and that gives me hope that we’re heading in the right direction.
I’m only slightly disappointed to discover Sloane hasn’t removed any more clothes when I quietly slip out of bed to get ready for the day.
I’m up earlier than usual, determined to shower and dress early, then wake T.J. and get him ready, allowing Sloane time to focus on herself. With any luck, I can talk her into stopping for breakfast after we drop T.J. off.
Unfortunately, my wanker of a brother throws a wrench into my plan.
“I always take Murphy to school. Tell him, Lola.” My overdramatic brother spins toward his girlfriend, his brows hitting his hairline. “Tell him,” he huffs. “I. Take. Murphy.”
Yeah, he typically drops Murphy at school in the city, and even T.J. on the days he’s with me. But I figured he’d be thankful fora break from carpooling.
