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My wife . . . my beautiful, gorgeous wife and mother of my children stands in our too small of a bathroom, leaning toward an even smaller mirror applying her make-up. Our house is small, barely big enough for the four of us, but we make it work. When Katelyn and I bought our home, we did so with the help of our parents. After we married, we lived with my parents to save money. We were young and had a grand plan. We’d save money, pay off the small loan left from Katelyn’s schooling, save for our dream home, and enjoy life for a few years. Kids would come later, all boys of course, because … football, and we’d raise our family in Beaumont. The only part of our plan we followed through with is the marriage part and honestly, we had no business getting married right away, but we did. I can admit, I’m the guy who rushes into everything – headfirst – no questions asked.
When we found out Katelyn was pregnant, not with one but two babies, because you know – Mason Powell doesn’t do anything half-assed and knocked his wife up good – my parents said we could stay with them. The thought was appealing, but not fair to my parents. They were retiring, and the last thing they needed was crying babies keeping them up at night. With our parents in tow, we found an affordable place. One where we could expand with the help of our dads; put a swing set up, and create a happy life. It’s what we’re doing. I don’t have a single regret . . . except, I might have dried marinara sauce on my shirt.
“What are you doing?” her eyes meet mine as she asks the most obvious question. There’s a hint of humor in her voice. She’s curious to know why her husband, the love of her life, is stalking her in the hallway.
“Is it a crime to watch you get ready?”
She laughs, shakes her head, and turns toward the mirror to finish applying lip gloss. Katelyn smacks her lips, stands upright, and turns her head to the left and then to the right.
“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her. I move from the hall to the doorjamb and lean against it. I try to look sexy, desirable for her, like the men in the cologne ads her and Josie are always fawning over. I think I may even wink, but I’m not sure because she’s laughing again, and now her hand is on my stomach and her fingers are splayed out, resting on what used to be well-toned abs. I can admit since the twins arrived, I’ve slacked in the workout department.
“Thank you,” she says as she stands on her tippy toes to kiss me. Normally, I’d lean down and meet her halfway, but there’s something exciting and sexy about her reaching for me. My hand caresses her cheek, my way of showing her I don’t want the kiss to end. She deepens the kiss and pulls me into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. Lately, this is where we have sex, or the shower, my truck, or in the basement with her sitting on the washer or dryer, but it’s dark and musty down there, and until I can finish it, it’s not ideal. Not that the bathroom or truck is either, but being parents to toddlers doesn’t leave us with a lot of options. One is a heavy sleeper, the other is not, and when she wakes, she screams until her sister wakes up, no matter how fast Katelyn or I can get into their room, which means we usually have two kids in our bed. Again, not ideal, but it’s hard as hell putting them back to sleep. I will say, I’ll happily take these secret moments with my wife whenever I can get them, along with baby toes in my face when I sleep. I have the best life, regardless.
Katelyn and I fumble with our clothes, and thankfully the toilet seats are down before she’s pushing me to sit. We’ve grown accustomed to the quickie. In fact, we mastered it in high school. I thought once we got to college, things would change, but alas, roommates suck. They have the worst timing, and the whole sock or underwear on the door handle doesn’t work, plus the minute one of the guys on my floor sees your hot girlfriend enter your room, they know the only studying we’re doing is anatomy. The guys used to snicker, which only became worse when people found out Josie was pregnant. Pregnant and eighteen. When Katelyn’s mother found out, she went on a tangent, freaking out Katelyn was going to be next because I was always with Liam—I was for sure going to do the same thing. The difference was, I would’ve stayed and married Katelyn. I would never leave her. Still, those words scared the shit out of me, and I doubled up a few times even though Katelyn and I have never had a scare. Of course, when I started wearing condoms again, my girl thought I was cheating or implying she was trying to get pregnant. Neither was the case.
The three of us moved off campus at the end of our freshman year to help Josie with Noah. I remember the first time I held him, I cried. I cried for my former best friend, who was missing the single most important day of his life. Noah looked like Liam, in every sense. It’s odd to think the day he was born, I became a dad to my best buddy. On the days I didn’t have class, I took care of him, and Katelyn and I would babysit whenever Josie needed us. He prepared us for becoming parents. So, when Katelyn told me she was pregnant, I was elated. It was a job I already knew how to do.
Twins, on the other hand, is a completely different story.
The problem with a quickie or your sex life becoming all quickies is the lack of foreplay. Don’t get me wrong, I always have a hard-on for my wife, but I’m not the guy who plunges and pumps, I like to make sure my wife is ready. I like to get her all hot and bothered and slowly ease into her. I like to tease her to the point where her nails are digging into my shoulders, where she’s moaning and nipping at my heated flesh before giving her what she needs, and I always give her what she needs.
Sex hasn’t always been easy for us. We started young and have only been with each other, and maybe that’s a benefit to some, or a hindrance. Everything we’ve learned, we’ve learned from each other, and I’m not afraid to admit we’ve watched a little porn here and there to discover new things. In the beginning, I had no idea I should take her shirt off or that my pants should come all the way off, and it wasn’t like I could ask my dad. I don’t care what your parents say about always coming to them, there is never the right way to phrase, “Dad, can you give me instructions on how to have sex with my girlfriend?” Thank God for Hustler and Playboy and the clerk at the high school senior convenience store who had a crush on Liam. She never cared if we looked at nudies in the back of the store.
Now, life is different. I know how to read my wife like an open book. I know if she comes home from work and looks frustrated, a hurried trip to the bathroom will do the trick. I know her signs and what they mean and deliver the goods every time.
Katelyn kicks off one pant leg – clearly, she didn’t learn to take her pants all the way off – and straddles me, kicking the garbage can with her foot and bumping her head into mine. She mutters “help,” and my hands rest on her hips in an attempt to slow her down. “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her.
She looks into my eyes and kisses me. Her movements are slow, methodical, taking me inch by inch, only to stand up and start all over again. She knows if she prolongs the moment to where she’s taken me in wholly, she’ll get the hard-fast fuck she’s looking for. Once I’m fully sheathed, I give her a second to adjust before using my hands to guide her back and forth on my erection. Katelyn’s a screamer and has been ever since my horny teenage ass figured out all the magic that comes with touching her clit. It’s like a man’s secret weapon, and yet, she reads me stories out of her magazines, from women who have partners who won’t touch it. Stupid, stupid men.
My wife looks me in the eyes and lifts her t-shirt over her head. I quickly unclasp her bra and let her gloriously bouncing tits free from the contraption. This is where I lose focus. I love her boobs and could touch, kiss, lick and rest my hand on them every second of the day, but since the girls arrived, I don’t get to play with them as often as I’d like. So, while my wife is moving up and down on my dick, I’m making out with her rack, completely lost to the fact my wife’s nails are digging into my skin. Sure, I hiss. I feel fucking great right now. I’m in heaven. Getting laid and being rewarded.
“Mase,” she says my name, headily.
“Uh, huh?”
“Help me.” Before her words register, she’s guiding her hand between her legs. Oh, yes. I have a job to do and my thumb goes to work.
“Don’t scream,” I tell her, but it’s too late. She starts and I do my best to muffle her cries by kissing her, but as expected, Elle is wailing and I’m thrusting rapidly into my wife in order to finish.
I let out a string of slurs and groan as I drive into her a few more times before getting my release. “We need a babysitter and a night in a hotel where it doesn’t matter how loud you scream.” I say in between gasps of air.
She giggles, which feels oddly fantastic on my semi-hardon. “We’d probably sleep the whole time.”
I nod because she’s right. We run on about five hours of sleep. I don’t care if the twins are a year old, if one is up, the rest of us are up.
Katelyn stands and I hand her the box of tissues. This is the awkward part where we both clean up without looking at each other, almost as if we did something dirty. While we dress, I say to her, “I’ll get the girls. Have a good day at work.” I give her a quick kiss after pulling my pants up and leave her in the bathroom to get ready, again.
It’s Saturday, Valentine’s Day, and instead of spending it together, the girls and I are going to make our rounds, visiting all the women we love, while Katelyn works at Josie’s flower shop. Josie told her not to come in, but Katelyn knows how busy the shop is going to be today, and there isn’t a single thing my wife wouldn’t do for her best friend.
I go into the girls’ room to find Peyton glaring at her sister. Typical. Elle is my spunky, firecracker, while Peyton is my laid back, cuddle bug who is content to sit on my lap or next to me. Elle, on the other hand, go-go-go, and if it’s not fast enough, she’s going to try and go faster. Elle gets my attention first. I lift her out of her crib and take her to her changing table. You know the built-in strap that comes with the changing table, it was invented for squirmy babies like Elle. Once I have her strapped down, the stinker tries to roll away and gives me a nice kick to the gut. I glance at Peyton, who is standing in her crib, still glaring.
“You know, Elle, if you’d sit still, Daddy could change your diaper faster.”
My daughter shakes her head. “No, no, no, no.” Her favorite word. She also says mama and baba, but never dada. Peyton says dada, though, and each time I hear it, my heart soars.
“Elle, say dada.”
