“Mine,” Beck says. “But I guess now it’s ours, huh?” She smiles at me. I smile back.
And the four of us eat lunch, sip champagne, and discuss the kids’ pick-n-paint pottery classes that Beck is hosting this afternoon. After handshakes and hugs are exchanged, Carl and Nancy leave, and it’s just Beck and me. Alone, in the studio.
Twisting the lock on the main door after them, Beck turns to me with a sinister grin. Without her smock on, her entire body is on display in the form fitting yellow gingham sundress she’s wearing. Along with those white Keds on her feet, and the sexy mom bun she has going, I’m now completely hard and ready to push her over the sink.
Something tells me she has the same idea. Then she lowers her dress, letting that fuckin’ fuck-hot rack of hers spill out. “Need something to go with the champagne?” she asks, blinking at me seductively. She closes the distance between us and presses her nipples into my chest.
“God, yes,” I pant, giving my cock a rub through my work slacks.
Right there in the studio, I suckle and lick, swallow and grind, bend her over and eat, then smooth her hair down and plant soft kisses on her. When we first met, she hated me, and had every right. And before I met her, I didn’t know how I was going to get my life back. I didn’t want to be the wild one forever, and now as we wipe each other up from orgasms and lust, I realize I still am the wild one. Only now, I’m wild with Beck, I’m wild about Beck, and I’m absolutely wild for Jett.
“I love you,” I tell her as we redress after our frantic fuck. “And I want to watch a movie with you tonight.” I tap my chest over the tattoo, indicating the movie.
She smiles. “I would love that.”
Epilogue
Beck
“Hop on, mama.”
Four years later
“Don’t do that, Carl. Let me take care of it,” Beau says to my dad, reaching for the broom he’s currently pushing around the studio.
When we opened four years ago, I was calling the studio… The Studio. Creative, I know, but it worked well in the city before, and I already had a great sign. A year later, though, The Studio had grown massively popular for its sculpt and sip classes. Now, three more years after that, we have a second studio that is purely sculpt and sip called… you guessed it, Sculpt-n-Sip. We toyed with other names, but Sculpt-n-Sip works great because Saturday and Sunday mornings, we open the studio to sculpting classes for kids. The pouring is definitely chocolate milk and not chardonnay wine, and still, the kids are just as tipsy from the creativity and sugar as the women get from the wine.
It’s great.
Dad clutches the broom to his chest, a pile of junk at his feet. Tonight we had another successful paint party; a bachelorette party, to be exact.
All twenty women signed up ahead of time, requesting a “special” sculpt project from me. When the maid of honor contacted me and told me she wanted us to all sculpt penises, I had to say yes.
After putting twenty-one cocks in my kiln, calling a handful of Ubers because bachelorette parties are great at pre-gaming, now I’m cleaning up with Beau and dad.
I’ve been exhausted lately, and I wouldn’t normally ask for help cleaning up after a standard class. But tonight, after moving all those clay dicks and balls, I’m beat.
“I can sweep, I’m old, but I’m not dead,” Dad says while defending the small pile of swept-up crap at his feet. “And I can use a dustpan, too. I’m not too old to bend over.”
Coming up behind my dad, I drape a hand on his shoulder. “If you want to take the job of bending over, I’ll let you because if I do, we may need to call mom down here to get me back up.”
Beau’s hand falls across my lower back. He begins kneading the strip above my waistband that always aches. His lips press to my temple before he says, “go sit down. Let us finish cleaning up. I’m glad you called, but now you have to let us do it.”
Dad wags his finger at me. “Listen to him, dear. Have a seat, and we’ll get this place ready for opening tomorrow in less than thirty minutes.”
Beau walks me to the bench seats where customers sit to cover the shoes with booties and helps me settle.
“I’m going to be in the kiln room. If you need anything, yell for me. Okay?” he asks, crouching between my legs, his palms fanned over my bare knees. Sundresses are all I can wear this time around. Too many clothes on my skin make me want to scream. Too much anything makes me want to scream. This pregnancy is wild.
I nod but drop my hands to his, weaving them together on my legs. It’s not fair that at thirty-years-old, Beau is somehow more handsome and gorgeous than his mid-twenties. It is such fucking bullshit that men get more and more handsome as they age, and I get bags, circles, grays, marks, and too much more.
Leaning forward, we kiss over my heavily pregnant belly. He breaks our linked connection to smooth his hands over my bump, his tongue curling into mine.
When Beau and I had our first child together a year and a half ago, the pregnancy was so smooth. I’d given up nursing Jett at that point; he was well adjusted, I was feeling great, and Beau was excited. When our son Jack was born, the birth was so seamless and perfect. I remember when he came out after just a few pushes, locking eyes with Beau, tears streaming down his face as he stared at me with adoration. “I want a million more,” he said as we cried and kissed.
Now, though, with Jack being one and half years old and Jett being five, we’re busy and we’re freaking tired. Add to the fact that I run these two locations almost completely on my own–with the exception of three other sculptors I hired to float between locations and hold classes on the weekends, or any other times I’m too swamped. And Beau is working, too.
And this pregnancy has been an absolute nightmare.