There was a lot of time left before it became a real issue, but evidence was suggesting it was going to take every single minute of it to reform.
Me: What about coming home to me in an apron and stilettos?
Thatch: Naked dinner?
Me: ;)
Thatch: You know you get spanked for stealing my signature winks.
Me: ;) ;) ;) ;)
Thatch: I do love your ass when it’s really fucking pink.
Me: You know what else is nice and pink?
Thatch: Tell me.
Me: My pussy.
Thatch: I think you mean MY pussy.
Me: ;)
Thatch: 10 minutes, honey. Be ready.
I grinned at how easily he played into my hands—not that I’d expected him to resist. I set my phone on the counter, and started removing the Chinese takeout containers from the brown paper bag.
What? This is my version of making dinner.
I lit the candles on the dining room table and dressed up the takeout dishes by tossing them in our nicest serving platters. Thatch knew I wasn’t Susie Homemaker, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I would actually cook a meal, but he always appreciated when I went above and beyond. And if I was being honest, and not the least bit humble, the whole scene was pretty enough to post from Martha Stewart’s Instagram account—which just goes to show, you really can fake fucking anything.
Naked dinners, our Wednesday night ritual, were one of Thatch’s favorite things. But since I had been out of town for the past two Wednesdays, I had some serious making up to do.
True to his word, ten minutes later, Thatch strolled through the door and met me in the kitchen with a giant-ass grin on his face. “Hi, honey,” he said as his eyes trailed over the sight of me in nothing but a frilly apron and black stilettos. “There is literally nothing better than coming home to you like this.”
I smiled and gave him a little twirl, showing off my bare ass in the process.
His grin grew wider as he moved toward me. “God, I’m a lucky son of a bitch.”
I nodded my head, and he chuckled. “Modesty becomes you.”
Thatch didn’t waste any time, lifting me into his arms and wrapping my legs around his waist. He buried his nose in my neck and inhaled deeply, whispering, “Mmm, you always smell so good.” He leaned back and took my mouth in a soft and sweet kiss while his hands continued to palm my ass and squeeze the pliant flesh playfully. Heat consumed the kiss and me, making a greedy ache take over low in my belly as Thatch grinded himself against me with a deep groan. “Fuck, I missed you.”
I giggled against his lips. “Me too. But not enough that I won’t suspend you from naked dinners if you don’t get to work on losing the clothes.”
He chuckled and set me on the kitchen counter. “Suspended? Please, tell me what exactly you’d do without me at naked dinner.”
I shrugged. “Probably just rub one out on the kitchen table.”
“I meant for you to tell me in detail…painfully explicit, one or two fingers, what you taste like, detail,” he told me through a smile as he pulled off his clothes. With a flick of one red-tipped finger, I motioned for him to give me a spin, and he playfully obliged, shaking his bare ass in my direction. I laughed and hopped off the kitchen counter, spanking the meat of one taut cheek before heading into the dining room.
He sat down at the table, and I served him his favorite meal from Wok-n-Roll: Kung Pao Chicken with a side of egg roll. As I spooned Shrimp Lo Mein onto my plate, I noticed Thatch’s expression was less playful and more serious as his gaze honed in on my stomach.
“What’s wrong, T?”
“Does your assistant help you carry shit when you’re on location?”
My brow furrowed. “Carry what? My camera bag? Pretty sure I can manage that, honey.”
He shook his head. “Does he help you?”
I shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”
Thatch grabbed the knot of my apron and pulled me toward him. He untied the strings and tossed the frilly material haphazardly onto the floor. His hands gripped my waist and he leaned forward, softly kissing my belly. “Promise me something, honey.”
Confusion made my face tense up, but somehow, I knew this wasn’t the time to tease him about not making sense. Instead, I rested my hands on his bare shoulders, rubbing at the smooth, hot skin with the pads of my thumbs. “What’s that?”
“Promise me that you’ll ask for help more when you’re out of town. Ask your lazy-ass assistant to help you carry shit, okay? It’s his job to assist you. That includes doing all of the menial shit like carrying your camera bag.”
I tilted my head to the side and stared down at him. “I think you’re being a little flipping dramatic, Thatcher. I mean, I’m not that far along. I’m not even showing at this point.”