There is one very big problem, however, and that is my parents, two of my sisters, their husbands, and three kids are crashing here on various couches and air mattresses tonight. Even if Britta slept in my bed and we
locked the door, the sounds would travel. Especially considering I plan to fuck her like the survival of the planet depends on her having an orgasm.
“Hey,” I say, trying to sound as casual as possible. “It’s, uh . . . getting late. Britta, you’re staying here tonight. Aren’t you? In my . . . room.”
Thankfully, my wife doesn’t catch the not-so-subtle looks my sisters send me.
The ones that say, Wow, dude, try and sound a little less like a horn dog.
“I mean, no, I didn’t really plan on it. You have a game tomorrow.”
My lips twitch, because I see where this is headed. “Yeah . . .”
“You need to get a good night’s sleep, right?” Everyone in the room snickers in response, and Britta’s cheeks turn pink as a result, followed by her backpedaling. “Not that you wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep if I were here. For whatever reason. That’s not what I meant.”
“It kind of was, though,” Chrissy says, patting Britta on the shoulder.
“You should stay. Have breakfast with us in the morning,” I say, casually sipping my soda, which I switched to from beer two hours ago, for this very reason. “I can drive you home real quick for a change of clothes.
Your toothbrush.”
“She doesn’t have a toothbrush here yet?” my mother, who did not make the switch from beer to soda, asks.
“She will,” I say, giving Britta a meaningful look. “Let’s go get your stuff. Sound good?”
A flicker of awareness in Britta’s eyes tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing. Trying to get her alone, so I can scratch this never-ending itch I’ve got for her. “Maybe in a few minutes . . . ,” she murmurs, winking at me. Crossing her legs in slow motion.
I’m sweating, ladies and gentlemen.
Will there ever be a time when I’m not a desperate, lust-fueled mess for my wife?
Nope. Definitely not.
“Well, even if you’re not here for breakfast,” my father starts, pushing the glasses higher on his nose. “We’ll see you at the game tomorrow night, won’t we, Britta?”
“Yes! You’re sitting with us in the family section, right?” adds my mother.
Britta jolts a little before setting down her drink on the coffee table.
“Oh, um . . .” She looks at me for help. “I’ll watch on TV, but I don’t really go to the games.”
“The bar is busiest during the games,” I say, trying to help. “She has to be there.”
“Right. Crowd control.”
A few surprised/curious glances are exchanged around the room, but everyone lets the subject drop and goes back to talking about fifteen different subjects at once, kids toddling through, drinks being spilled. Britta and I stare over the top of the pandemonium at each other, and I can see she’s conflicted about not coming to the game—and I don’t want that.
Would I love her to come? Absolutely. With every fiber of my being. I also understand why she can’t.
Eventually, she stands up and comes toward me. “Can you bring me home now to get my things?” she asks, a troubled groove between her brows.
I smooth that line with my thumb, slipping my fingers into her hair and tugging her forward into a kiss, holding her there and whispering,
“Don’t worry about it.”
“They’re wondering why I never go. Should I . . . tell them?”
“Not until you’re ready. Not unless you want to.”
She nods, giving me a grateful look. “Okay.” I release a pent-up breath when the worry on her gorgeous face dissipates. “I really like your family.
A lot.”
Don’t break into a victory dance. “They really like you, too, sweetheart.”
The hope in her eyes traps the breath in my lungs. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Never had a doubt.”
I’m not prepared when her gaze falls to my mouth, and she drags that full bottom lip through her teeth, slowly, her index finger drawing a circle just above my navel. “Are you driving me home just to get my toothbrush, Sum? Or was there something else you wanted?”
“Britta, it’s not funny. I’m aching.”
“So am I,” she whispers.
“Toothbrush,” I shout at the room, backing my wife out of the room.