Page 23 of Untangled
“You drained all the life out of me with that,” he laughs. “But I can work you over again if you need it.”
“Should we see what we’re doing tomorrow, first? If the prompt is a good one, I can wait.”
I reach to my nightstand and steal the next card from the deck. With a smile, I read it to Daniel.
“Yeah, babe. I can wait,” I answer.
Day 15
Celebrate with a night out together. You select what the other wears.
It turns out I can’t wait. Last night was…I don’t even know how to describe it. I couldn’t call my mom fast enough this morning to ask her to babysit today. I have never felt this much impatience and anticipation, not even for our wedding night (which turned out to be lackluster anyway on account of being tired, hungry, and beyond buzzed). I’m on edge, tense, flustered—my mom asked what had me soatwitterwhen I begged her to stay with Violet tonight. Overnight. Like a jack-in-the-box with the crank turned and turned and turned, I’m wound up.
When Daniel comes behind me to plant a kiss on my neck as I plate Violet’s dinner, I almost jump out of my skin. Not because I’m repulsed, but because my nerves are on a hair trigger. He smooths his hands down my arms with firm pressure, which helps, until he reaches into my waistband and uses his pointer finger to snap the band of the red, crotchless panties he set out for me to wear. My heart rate ratchets up even further.
“She said she’d be here at 5:30pm?” he asks. I shiver at the warmth of his breath against my skin.
“Yeah, any minute now. Can you…can you get Violet’s overnight diaper and pjs and set them on the changing table?” The words come out breathless, which I need to fix before my mom arrives.
This low cut, black top from five years ago—which looked divine on my pre-baby boobs—isn’t something I would’ve picked for myself at this age and stage. My mom will clock it immediately. Let’s hope she doesn’t notice the sheer lace bra that’s not remotely restraining my nipples. And the cut-out underwear that has my arousal sticking to my inner thighs after one brush of Daniel’s lips below my ear? It has me feeling like I’m a teenager again, trying to sneak out of the house with a flask of vodka tucked into a pair of early 2000sriding boots. I haven’t tried to get something past my mom in decades.
The doorbell rings with its familiar chime, and Daniel rushes to answer. Thank God, because it gives me a minute to clear my throat and hype myself up with an internal pep talk about being a full-grown woman who can do what she wants.
“Hey, come in! We’re thankful you could babysit again. I know Violet will be so glad to see you,” he says.
“It’s easy to say yes when you have such a sweet baby. Where is that little flower of mine?” she answers as Daniel takes her coat and hangs it in the hall closet.
“Molly was fixing her dinner—she’s probably in her high chair. You know how she gets when she’s hungry.”
“Who, Violet or Molly?” she asks, and it’s the levity I need to welcome her without flushing red from chest to cheeks.
“Hey, webothcome by it honestly!” I say, before reaching for a loose hug—one that won’t have me pressing my nearly-bare chest into hers.
“Fed baby, loved baby is what I always say. Anything I need to know before I usher you two out the door?”
“I don’t think so,” Daniel replies. “Same bedtime routine as last week. You can give her a bath if this spaghetti dinner turns into a massacre.”
“It very well might,” I cut in.
“That’s well and good with me. Now, you two go have fun. I’ll see you in the morning!”
She raises a hand to shoo us toward the door as she sits at the table with a bubbly, babbling Violet. Our sweet girl who couldn’t seem to care less that we’re leaving.
“Thanks, mom! Text if you need anything—seriously,” I add.
She rolls her eyes and continues to shoo. With Daniel’s hand on my lower back, we step into the garage to head out for our first night away since we became parents.
***
“I take it back—room service was the right choice,” he says while holding a fry that’s been dipped in aioli at one end.
“You’re just saying that because I wouldn’t be topless down at the bar.”
“Yep, that’s exactly right. This is better.”
We’re sitting in a king size bed at The Continental, arguably the nicest hotel in town, while stuffing our faces with $22 burgers and playing a no-cards game of strip poker. That is, we’re removing layers when the other person asks. So far, Daniel has removed his sweater—my favorite of his that reminds me of the trip we took to Quebec City four years ago during the holidays—and pants. I’ve removed my blouse and skirt. My nipples strain against the thin mesh of the bra, though it can hardly be called such when it’s more straps than fabric.
“What do you think? Better?” he asks.
