“I promise I’m fine,” I say. “Just thinking. Remembering.”
“Anything you want to talk about?” Her voice is soft. Her eyes, as usual, are knowing.
“I’m all talked out. A lifetime of expensive therapy will do that to a girl. I guess I’m feeling more than thinking, but I’m good.”
“Okay. I’m here if you need me.”
“You’ve done more than enough. This is your vacat
ion, too. Let Shondra and me cook tomorrow. We can at least handle lunch.”
“I think I will get me some sun.”
“Now you’re talking.” I sigh and stand from the table, kiss her cheek. “I’m gonna turn in. Take a quick bath since Grip’s putting the kids to bed.”
“Alright. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gives me a wry grin. “I may even let you cook breakfast.”
“Oh, well, I definitely need to get some sleep,” I laugh.
“Lemme get on in here and whoop Shondra and Amir’s ass.”
It’s gonna be a long night down here and the squabbling will be loud. Mama James takes her spades very seriously, and Amir does not back down from Mama James. Poor Kenya and Shondra will be caught in the cross hairs of their bluster.
“Definitely a bath for me,” I say, grabbing Martin’s drawing and turning to head up the stairs. “Goodnight.”
I run water into the deep porcelain extravagance of the master suite’s bath tub, but I don’t soak as long as I planned. There’s a restlessness no amount of candles and bath bombs can dispel. After just a few minutes, I dry off and belt a terry cloth robe over my nakedness, smiling when both babies move.
“Hello, girls.” I don’t care what Grip says, I know what I feel. There is double girl power in here. “I’d love for Daddy to feel both of you move. Can we make a deal that you’ll let him feel you both at some point?”
“Daddy would love that, too,” Grip says from the doorway.
Leaning one shoulder into the doorjamb and wearing a Muhammad Ali t-shirt, he’s a wonder, my husband. The chiseled planes of his face grow more handsome the older he gets. He has that damn man-ness that somehow converts years into magnetism. As the girl smoothing creams on my neck, serums around my eyes, and fighting gravity with every exercise imaginable, I should resent that undiminished masculine beauty. Except he’s mine, so there’s really no loser here.
I walk over and reach up to caress his jaw, shadowed with stubble. “You have a little gray in your beard, Mr. James.”
He grins, capturing my hand against his face. “Does it make me look distinguished?”
I reach between us, grabbing his cock through his shorts.
“This dick makes you look distinguished.” I squeeze and tug, chuckling at his sharply drawn breath.
“Fuck, Bris,” he rasps, dropping his forehead to rest against mine.
“Exactly,” I whisper, tipping up to nip at his earlobe. “You need to fuck Bris. I think you promised me a ‘massage’. I’m collecting.”
“Didn’t you just have a bath?” He eyes my robe and damp hair. “The oil—”
“I want it. I want the oil and the massage.” I give him another squeeze. “And the happy ending.”
He grunts, closing his eyes and leaning into me, his hardness pressing into my belly. Amorous heat rises inside me like steam and I want him so badly, I’m not sure we’ll make it through the massage. Grip’s massages are not professional grade. They’re mostly slick, deep tissue foreplay, but I love them. The restlessness I’ve felt most of the day could use it.
“Lie down,” he says, leading me to the California king.
My hand goes to the belt of the robe, but he stops me.
“I want to unwrap you myself,” he says.
I lie on my back, and he hovers over me, connecting our eyes. I see desire there, yes, but concern, too.