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I shot him a quick, neutral text How’s your day? and flipped on the television. I only managed to down half a bag of Doritos before he responded.
Thatch: Terrible. I miss you.
Me: Are you home?
Thatch: Yes.
“Lying popsucker motherfudger,” I muttered to myself as I typed out a response.
Me: Since you’re home, do you want to Skype? I’m all naked and cozy in bed…
Yeah, I wasn’t naked, but he didn’t know that. I could undress with the speed of an Olympian if I had to.
Nine times out of ten, if I told Thatch I wanted phone sex and I was naked, I was. But the other one percent of the time, I offered without any intention of following through, just to earn some points, while painting my nails and reading through a People magazine.
Of course, that one percent had changed since pregnancy upped my randy scale to frightening—or awesome—levels. But before I got knocked up, I’d talk him into doing it old school, without the video chat element. That way, when one of our phone-sex sessions ended on day one of shark week, I could lie in bed, sporting a pair of granny panties, with an ice pack on my vagina, faking moans and doing my best to dirty-talk Thatch to completion.
But like I said, he didn’t know that, nor did he ever need to know that.
Thatch: I think I’ll pass on the Skype sex tonight, honey.
Me: For the second night in a row?
Thatch: Yes, but I have good reason so you can’t be mad about it.
Me: Unless you’ve come down with an incurable disease that requires a dick transplant and you’re literally in the hospital waiting on your donor penis, there is absolutely no reason good enough to cancel on me and my tits two nights in a row.
Thatch: Are you sure about that?
Me: Yes.
Thatch: Sure enough to bet on it?
Me: Yes, but I’m not taking your stupid bets tonight.
Thatch: But the last bet ended so well for you… Don’t you remember?
Me: Of course I remember.
Thatch: Wait…Which bet are you thinking of?
Me: The night you bet me one hour of oral and a pair of my now favorite Louboutins that I couldn’t suck you off in under a minute.
Thatch: So, oral trumps our first engagement?
Whoops. But in my defense, it was the best goddamn oral effort of my life, and my red suede Louboutins were so fluffing pretty.
Me: I guess you need to up your engagement game.
Thatch: Up my game? I’m pretty sure I can’t up my game if we’re already engaged to be married, honey. Three times, in fact.
Me: Are you sure about that? If my memory serves me right, the last proposal was from ME, and YOU gave me a goddamn MAYBE.
Thatch: You wanna marry me?
Me: I’ll have to think about that later. I’m too busy staving off insanity because I’m all horned up and you don’t wanna bone me via Skype.
Thatch: Can I bone you in person?
Three knocks to my door followed his message.
Thatch: Open the door, honey.
Slowly and without urgency, I got out of bed and walked toward the door. I opened it on a swing and came face-to-face with Thatcher, standing in my doorway, looking so goddamn good in jeans and the “Cassie’s Bitch” T-shirt I’d bought him months ago that I swore Zeus himself had sent me my very own version of a Greek god straight from Mount Olympus.
“You’re not at home.”
“You’re not naked.”
We both blurted out in accusation, and the big, bad, lying man had the audacity to look upset over my tiny white lie. I poked him directly in the chest on a hard jab. “Don’t try to turn the tables on me, Phil Latio. I know you’ve been lying like a mothertrucker all weekend.”
“Are you going to invite me in so I can explain?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know… Should I?”
He nodded and had the nerve to flash his version of puppy-dog eyes. I hated when he did that. If I had a nickel for how many times he ended up getting a blow job from that look alone… Well, I’d have a lot of fudging nickels.
I acquiesced and held the door open but kept my expression neutral, even though I had the overwhelming urge to throw myself into his arms and breathe him in. When my nose caught a whiff of his body wash and cologne as he walked past me and into the room, I had to practically shove my puss-ay back inside my underwear.
Jesus. Thirsty much, you randy bitch?
Thatch sat down on the edge of the bed and said, “Come here, honey,” motioning with a wave to match his words. I rolled my eyes but followed nonetheless. The sad truth was I had missed him too much not to.
He pulled me between his thighs and rested his hands on my hips as he moved the bottom of my sleep shirt up with his nose and pressed his mouth to my belly. He stayed like that for a long moment, his lips touching the skin below my belly button, and I watched as relief and happiness and overwhelming love consumed his face.
