“I’m leavin’ shorts on the bed for you. The pajama pants have to go,” Beau said, disappearing into our closet.
“I can’t let you win,” I confessed, heading back to the bathroom.
“I know it’s hard on you,” he said with his head poking out of the closet. He was relaxed and still grinning ear to ear. He must have enjoyed the day. Those bright smiles he was throwing out were reserved for only the best of times. “Don’t worry, I won’t count the win. Consider it a birthday present.”
I lost him to the closet once again while I did my part to secure everyone inside the house and setting the alarm. As suspected, Scott’s two older children were gone. The rest of the girls were asleep on sleeping bags all over the living room furniture and plush rug on the floor. Both dogs were sleeping near them. Amelia dozed in her recliner. West was knocked out in a smaller rocking crib near her. He’d had a huge day. These scenes always filled my emotional bank until it spilled over. I vowed to never take any of this for granted. I flipped off the overhead light and started for my bedroom.
Beau
Since we married, Dash and I established a new anniversary tradition: we took turns planning the celebration. This year fell to me. Dash gave me the odd years due to my personality. He thought that joke was hilarious. Me? He needed to leave humor to those who knew how to deliver a joke.
This was our first anniversary alone since the kids arrived. In the theme of “go big or go home,” I’d splurged on a junior suite at the newly opened Escape Resorts, a luxury hotel on the west side of Houston. I aimed to wine and dine my guy. I envisioned medium rare T-bone steaks, artery clogging loaded baked potatoes, overflowing bottles of wine, and loads and loads of carnal sexcapades. We’d make up for every time our responsibilities thwarted our sexy time.
Instead, I discovered my anxiety was still right under the surface, and it made me insecure as hell. Over the last few years, I thought I’d managed to carve out a compatible, healthy space in Dash’s life. The problems in our past never actually reached me anymore. The country boy, me, and the socialite, Dash, found a cohesive existence to live our lives.Pfft.A night in Escape Resorts, or better said, a reservation at Reservations fine dining and nightclub, proved I still hadn’t integrated well with the wealthy. From the clothes I wore to the callouses embedded on my palms, I still didn’t fit in the crowds Dash was born to thrive in. I had donned a suit that was made at least ten years ago while I tried my hand at romance and seduction. Yet all my preparation had me feeling like I was the lead character in a remake ofHee Haw.
I gave a humorless laugh. Clearly, I was the funny one.
The table was spacious and ours for the evening. We tucked into the half circle booth, sitting side by side—nowadays, the closeness provided better ease for me to finish Dash’s dinner when he’d had enough.
The evening was a ‘culinary’ experience. A multi-course meal that lasted over three hours. Slowly, I unwound from Dash who pressed himself close to my side. Thankfully, I remembered the basics of etiquette I’d learned when we lived in Chicago. Well, until it came to the actual eating of the main meal. When I tasted the deliciously seasoned thick cut T-bone, I trailed the next bite with its juices dripping toward Dash for a try. Good fortune must have smiled on me because Dash was deft in his napkin skill, dodging the juices and still managing to take the bite.
Honestly, I felt like Dash was digging the vibe I tried to create. As the clock struck ten, the restaurant opened to the dance club next door. A gay nightclub. A first for me in a very long time, but clearly not Dash who strutted and danced to the other side of the building while holding his glass of wine.
I wasn’t sure which one of us plied the other with alcohol. The culprit might have been simply the time of year; it was damned hot outside. Another option was the hard, tight twenty-year-old waiters who wore tiny speedo uniforms and nothing more. Their bright, flirty smiles encouraged more and more cocktails. Maybe it was the way they kept our drink glasses full, and our dance floor space was next to our reserved high-top table.
My bet landed on the way Dash undressed me while dancing suggestively against my body. First, he removed my tie, the dress shirt followed, the belt was shimmied off, and the button of my slacks was left open causing them to hang low on my hips. How did he continue to arouse me so thoroughly after all this time?
A drunk Dash was a beautiful thing. From our seven o’clock reservation for dinner to about an hour ago, somewhere around midnight, my guy had finally stopped chatting about where the girls were going to start preschool, or their meticulously planned birthday event next weekend, or whether West should begin eating cereal now.
Finally, he moved on to more important topics: sex-talking to me in a dirty, filthy way that turned me the fuck on.
Another thing that caught my eye was that most of the men here waxed their chests. With age, I’d developed a pretty good coating of fur. How often did I have to get waxed to keep a bare chest? Did I have to do it myself or was it better to pay someone? What did that cost look like? Did waxing really hurt like they said it did?
Then Dash gave me the come-hither look, stripping off his dress shirt. I liked that move a lot, and barely laughed when he carefully placed it on his seat. Some things never changed.
We were back to the hither, Dash was on me. His hands slid over my chest, roaming freely. I locked my arm around his waist, drawing him tightly against my body. The music popped as we took it to a sultry sway. What a great experience. I understood why the club required all the privacy paperwork before accessing the fun environment.
“Drink,” Dash encouraged, tilting us toward the table to gather my cocktail glass. He pressed it to my lips as his palm rubbed the length of my hard cock. When I took the glass to keep it from trailing down my chest, he lifted on his toes to press those plump lips against my ear. I wished he’d whispered something to do with fucking me senseless, but he didn’t. The music was too loud, and he required help to stay on his tiptoes. “I love you. We should get a membership here.”
Right. He and I had recently set a budget for our finances. I didn’t know, because he didn’t let me know, but suspected cash was tight. He worried endlessly about the cost of a good private school for the kids. Based on what we were seeing, he and I weren’t Reservations nightclub wealthy. “You think?”
His face came within inches of mine, hands on each shoulder to stay steady. “I think you’re the hottest guy here.”
I burst out a laugh right in his face then tried my hand at the compliment. “You’re the hottest guy here.”
Something raced over his expression. His body went still. “That means you think I’m old, don’t you?”
What? Wait. Did that meanhethoughtIwas old? Fuck, I halted movement too. Dammit. Old was a gay man’s nightmare. My eyes narrowed, taking a closer look at my husband who might be divorced on our nineteenth anniversary. Was this one of his workarounds? A devious trap that I regularly fell for? He was master level good at those.
“Why aren’t you answering?” he slurred and tipsy swayed until I righted his position.
“How do I answer? Of course you’re not old. You’re still the hot guy that made me tumble over my handlebars.” I gave a single nod, proud of my off-the-cuff response. “Do you think I’m old?”
“Yeah,” he said as if the answer was obvious. “Of course you are. You have to know that.”
Divorce proceedings began to take shape. My chest bumped him several steps away into other dancers. I glared my meanest look, which he found hilarious.
“I’m younger than you, lawyer-man.” I let out a shout loud enough to draw stares, which only made Dash cackle like a damned hyena.
