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I crave her deeper today than I did last week, harder than yesterday, crazier than even this morning. It’s a constant, insatiable need that dwells equally in my head, my cock, and my heart.
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “Maybe I should buy a few one-pieces.”
I shrug. “If it makes you feel more comfortable, go for it. But don’t do it for the boys’ sakes. Trust me, you’re my girlfriend—that means you no longer qualify as an actual woman to them. You’re in the same category now as their aunts . . . and Angela and Callie wear bikinis too.”
I wrap my arms around her waist, kiss her cheek and nibble at her jaw.
“Besides—if your goal is to ugly yourself down, don’t delude yourself. You could walk around in a garbage bag and you’d still be smokin’.”
Her shoulders lose their tension and she aims her smile at our reflection. She turns in my arms and brings her lips close to mine as her hands coast down into the waistband of my swim trunks, squeezing my ass.
“You’re pretty sexy yourself, Dr. Daniels. In case I didn’t mention that yet today.”
Then Violet kisses me—with tongue. And I love my life right now.
* * *
Having your entire family living within a ten-mile radius is kind of like eating Pringles potato chips—you can never have just one. So, while only Garrett and Callie and their kids come over in the morning, the entire family tree is here by the afternoon.
Ryan worked the night shift, so after a power nap, he, Angela, and my two teenage nieces, Frankie and Joey, show up. Tim’s already at my parents’ house doing laundry, so the three of them arrive shortly after.
Food isn’t an issue—with three healthy, perpetually starving boys in the house, I keep the freezer stocked with chicken, burgers, and hot dogs. Callie and Garrett baked cupcakes and cookies, Angela brought enough pasta salad and sliced watermelon to feed a small army, and since my mom likes to store up food like a doomsday prepper, she whipped up a ton of potato salad, macaroni salad, and canned peach crumble.
By 2 p.m. the sky is cerulean and cloudless, the sun is scorching. The Rolling Stones are blasting from the speakers scattered around the yard and everyone except my parents and baby Charlotte, who naps on a towel beside them under the shaded protection of the sun umbrella, is in the pool. Engaged in a heated game of water volleyball.
Because sports are woven into the fiber of my family’s DNA—we’re like working-class Kennedys—we’re competitive and like to win.
And Violet Robinson fits right in.
She jumps up with a grace that still surprises me and spikes the ball over the net toward Ryan. He dives for it with a splash . . . and misses.
“Eat it!” Violet shouts like a baller.
“Niiice!” I hold my hand up and she slaps it high five.
“Did I mention I was the captain of the girls’ volleyball team back in high school?”
“You didn’t,” I chuckle. “But I’m glad you were.”
Ryan groans, “We’ve been hustled.” He waves his team in. “Huddle up! Time for a new strategy.”
My three-year-old nephew, Will, talks shit like a chip off the old block from where he’s sitting atop Garrett’s shoulders behind me.
“We’re gonna beat you, Uncle Ryan!”
Ryan points at him like a WWF wrestler accepting a challenge.
“We’ll see about that, little man. It ain’t over till it’s over.”
Twenty minutes later, it’s over . . . and we beat them. Afterward my championship team basks in the sweet glow of victory as we all sit around the patio table eating and drinking and talking.
“Dad, can we pleeeeease get a trampoline this year?” Spencer asks. “I’m ten now—that’s double digits. I’m way more mature than when I was just nine.”
As an emergency medicine doctor, there are certain items I’ve sworn never to own—in my mind it’s a vow just slightly less sacred than the Hippocratic Oath. A garbage disposal, a motorcycle, and a trampoline are the top three—because they’re disasters waiting to happen. Most people think falling off a trampoline is the biggest risk, but they’re wrong. The bone snapping, ligament-tearing rebound and midair collisions are the real hazards.
“Not happening, Spence. Not now, not ever.”
Plus—I have three boys. They’re not exactly known for thinking through the consequences of their actions.
It was only last summer that I caught Brayden and two of his friends carrying my weights up from the basement, that they were going to tie to their ankles because they wanted to see how many pounds it would take to sink them to the bottom of the pool . . . and keep them there.
Yeah—that actually happened.
I don’t even want to contemplate what they’d do with a trampoline and their bikes, their skateboards . . .
“But this one has an excellent safety rating!” Spencer whines, holding up his phone to display a trampoline marketed as “safe” that looks exactly the same as the rest of them.
