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"Baby please don't finish yourself off without me."
"You'd better get here fast then."
"What about dinner, and the show, and the hotel?"
"Oh, I've already checked into the hotel. And I've taken advantage of the entire spa package and I'm feeling very, very relaxed."
My breath is rattling. "I'm fine to skip that five-course chemical gastronomy or whatever, to be honest."
"Molecular gastronomy," she breathes into the phone. "Just make sure you call and cancel the reservations and let someone on the waiting list have a lucky night. Right after you send me a photo of you."
"Why do you need a photo of me? You already know what I look like."
"Babe."
Then it hits me. "Oh, you mean…"
"I would have thought you'd know me by now. I wanna see your hand wrapped around it."
Oof. "Shit, babe. You're killing me."
"Come on Smitty, you know what a sucker I am for those rough hands of yours."
I turn around and, seeing nobody else nearby on the ridge, I unzip the fly of my jeans, reach inside my drawers and pull out my dick. It's already hard since I've been thinking about that immaculate pussy it's going to own tonight.
I click send, zip up, and swagger back down the ridge toward the house, feeling pretty good about myself. In my haze of lust, I get excited when I hear Ally call me back. But when I look down at my phone, I see it's the restaurant texting me. Confused and perplexed since I was just about to call them, I look at the message.
It reads, "I don't think that photograph was meant for us?"
I take a closer look and realize, with horror, I made a mistake.
When I arrive at the hotel and park the truck, I head on up to the penthouse suite via the specially designated elevator. The metal door slides open directly into the suite, and there's my wife, waiting for me, naked as a jaybird.
"Happy birthday to me!" she chirps and plants a kiss on my neck. "I don't know what you said when you called to cancel our dinner reservations, but Devin just called me and said dinner was on the house tonight."
I was feeling pretty deflated after my humiliating debacle earlier. Further mortifying was having to reply to the restaurant and explain that the photo was for my wife and I needed to cancel. I said I was fine to pay for the dinner that we had to cancel because I was just relieved they didn't call the cops on my bungling ass.
"I don't get it. Why in the world would they call you?"
"Babe, I've coordinated at least ten weddings at that restaurant. Devin the ma?tre d' and I go way back. So…," she says, running her hand over my shirt and unbuttoning the buttons, "if we skip the concert in the park, we can still make dinner. What do you say?"
I have to confess the truth or I'm never going to make it through this night. I'm terrified that I'm about to ruin her 40th birthday either way.
She is raring to go, her thigh already riding up the outside of my leg.
I can't stay away from her kiss as she arcs up toward me with those full, pink lips. I press a sensual kiss into her waiting mouth and it both nourishes me and scares me. But I have to tell her the truth.
"Baby. You're probably wondering why you never got that dick pick."
Her mouth is killing me with those saucy humming noises, her tongue skimming lightly over my bottom lip. My cock twitches.
"I sent it to… apparently Devin, by mistake."
The words barely escape me with her lips so close. I wait for the ax to fall, slicing its way through our perfectly sexy evening and more importantly, putting a damper on her birthday.
She follows her licking with a kiss and palms my member. "I know," she whispers.
"You've known this whole time?"
