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A fire crackles from the hearth, flames igniting the room in a flickering warm glow, our only source of light aside from the flat screen mounted to the wall.
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen this movie,” I rumble. We’re laying on our sides, with my back to the cushions as I spoon Skyler from behind. I’ve got one arm around his waist, hand splayed across his smooth stomach under his shirt, and the other propped up around his head so I can see the screen.
“I can’t believe you showed this to your five-year-old,” he says, and a glance down at his profile shows him making a horrified face at what he’s seeing on-screen.
Chuckling, I bury my face in his neck, nuzzling him. He practically purrs, rubbing his cheek into my forearm.
Goddamn, he kills me.
My hand slides lower, spreading wide, wide enough for my fingertips to creep under the band of his boxer briefs.
His breath shallows, and his body stiffens ever-so-faintly.
I hide a smile in his skin, and clear my throat, forcing myself to stay on topic. “Jesus, first Mel, now you. Is it really that bad?”
Skyler clears his throat when my finger wanders deeper, brushing over his pubes. His dick doesn’t touch my hand, but I feel the disturbance in his underwear all the same, the fabric shifting, tightening.
“N-no, guess not. Could be worse.”
I guess I probably shouldn’t tell him I watched Hellraiser with her last week…
The original, obviously.
What can I say? My Pops raised me on the good stuff. And it would seem my daughter’s caught the bug for it too. I block her eyes and ears of course when it gets too bloody and violent, or just all around inappropriate. I’m not completely negligent.
But the girl loves the jump scares and creepy make-up. It’s her favorite thing.
I hum. “If it helps, she hasn’t had any nightmares.” In my head, I hear Mel sing-songing,“Ye-e-et.”
“Well, that’s good,” Skyler says.
“Though Mel did text me last night that she caught her in the bathroom giving Gizmo a bath in the sink.”
Skyler barks a laugh. “Well at least she didn’t feed it after midnight.”
“Something tells me that’s next on her list,” I say dryly.
Yeah, Santa brought my daughter a hamster this year. The North Pole was fresh out of Mogwai. Or at least, that’s what we told Abby when she couldn’t seem to make sense of the furry little guy in his cage.
Still, she was happy with her knock-off, and called him Gizmo, because of course.
It’s a while before either of us speak again. Skyler gets lost in the movie, while I get lost in him, stroking his skin, teasing his cock, kissing his neck. I never take it any further, and he tries to act like what I’m doing isn’t getting to him.
When the credits roll, I reach for my phone on the end table. It’s a little after six.
“Come on,” I say, tapping his hip, and nudging him off the couch. “Let’s eat something. Pasta, okay? I’ve got spaghetti and I think penne. Preference?”
He tugs down the shirt. It’s mine, and one of my bigger ones, so it’s baggy and loose on him, hanging down to mid-thigh. “Penne’s good,” he says.
We make our way to the kitchen, and divide and conquer like we’ve done it a million times before. He grabs ingredients from the fridge and pantry, while I get pots and pans out and start the stove. Only two weeks with him, where he’s slept here every night, and we’ve already fell into a sort of effortless domesticity as if we’ve been living together for years.
“Garlic bread?” I ask, brushing past him for the freezer. “It’s the frozen kind. Sorry.” It’s just myself here, so I mainly live off non-perishables and frozen foods.
He shakes his head. “That’s perfect.”
Nodding, I grab it and sit it on the counter to thaw. The directions say to leave frozen until the oven’s pre-heated, but I’ve always found it to get crispy too quick that way, and I like my garlic bread on the softer side.
I cut Skyler a look, wondering what he prefers. He’s frowning down at a couple jars of sauce, like maybe he’s trying to decide which one he wants to go with.
