Maybe he has a point. But when your girlfriend sends you a photo of your sort-of stepchildren covered in pancake syrup, grinning at the camera, you can’t help but smile.
It’s our last night on the road, and I’m lying in another generic hotel bed, missing home more than I ever thought possible. The team went out for dinner, but I begged off, claiming I needed rest. Really, I just wanted to call Goldie without the background noise of the guys giving me shit about being whipped.
“Hey, gorgeous,” she answers on the second ring, her voice soft and sleepy.
“Did I wake you?”
“No, just reading in bed. Kids are asleep. How was the game?”
“We won. Advance to round two.”
“I know. I watched. You played really well.”
The fact that she watched, that she pays attention to my games even when she’s not there, makes something warm settle in my chest.
“I miss you,” I tell her, not caring how pathetic that sounds.
“I miss you too. How much longer?”
“Flight lands tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be home by five.”
“Good. The house feels too quiet without you.”
“The kids okay?”
“They’re fine. Tyson scored three goals at practice yesterday. Blythe has been working on a ‘welcome home’ performance that involves at least seventeen costume changes.”
I laugh, already picturing it. “Can’t wait to see it.”
“What are you wearing?” she asks suddenly, her voice dropping to that husky tone that goes straight to my cock.
“Boxers and an old t-shirt. Why?”
“Just curious. I’m wearing your old practice jersey. The blue one you left in my laundry.”
“Jesus, Goldie.” My hand moves automatically to the growing bulge in my boxers. “You can’t just say things like that when I’m stuck in a hotel room three states away.”
“Why not? What would you do if you were here?”
“You know exactly what I’d do.”
“Tell me anyway.”
I close my eyes, picturing her in bed, in my jersey, hair spread across the pillow. “I’d start by taking that jersey off you. Slowly. Then I’d kiss every inch of skin I revealed.”
“Mmm. Where would you start?”
“Your neck. That spot behind your ear that makes you whimper.” I can hear her breath catch through the phone. “Then I’d work my way down. Your collarbone, your breasts...”
“Dex,” she whispers, and I can tell from her voice that she’s already touching herself.
“Are you touching yourself, Goldie?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I want you to imagine it’s my hands instead of yours.”
“You’re really good at this,” she breathes, and there’s surprise in her voice. “The talking me through it thing.”
