Rekindling the Flame (Smoky Heights #1)

One

ONE

CHRISSY

Right there. God, yes!

It’s been way too long since I’ve had a decent orgasm.

I owe myself this, um, self-care session of epic proportions.

Just one … more … second … I’m so close.

“MOM!” a little voice yells from outside my bedroom door.

Aaaand it’s gone. This can’t be happening.

What happened to giving me a break, Chance? What happened to watching the kids for ten fucking minutes, Chance ?

“Mommy?” the voice tries again, quieter this time. I sigh, about to get up to see what he needs that only Mom can solve. Let me guess …

His sippy cup is only half full and he can’t drink from it unless it’s exactly two-thirds full?

Maybe his chicken nuggets are too dinosaur-shaped.

Or his cheese isn’t yellow enough?

Somehow these are all problems I’ve had to deal with in the past week, and they were all problems that the little bastards insisted Daddy couldn’t solve, Mom only. Ugh. Even the voice in my head sounds sarcastic and bitter. I’m not always so bitter, especially not toward my own children, but it’s been … tough lately. Having kids is a hoot , y’all.

“Preston!” I hear my husband whisper-hiss, likely while he grabs our second youngest and carries him away. I relax back down onto the mound of pillows and listen to be sure he has it under control.

“Remember what I told you? Mamí is resting, we can’t wake her up. Come here, buddy.”

His voice grows quieter as he moves farther down the hallway, back to the kids’ playroom, and I hear the door close over Preston’s murmured response.

I sigh. Like it isn’t hard enough to find time for us to be together , now I can’t even find five minutes to handle my own needs in between cartoons, clean-ups, and playdates? Not to mention, you know, my own work and career and life . Not that I have much of one anymore. That’s kind of how it goes when you have four kids under the age of ten.

Not that I’m complaining. They’re the loves of my life. But sometimes I miss me. And I definitely miss spending one-on-one time with Chance.

Okay, so maybe I am complaining just a little . But bear with me.

Well, if I can’t get time with my husband, at least I can clock in an O or two with my favorite vibrator, whom I have lovingly dubbed Ranger, after one of my favorite book boyfriends. He always gets the job done, he’s tactical, precise, and never fails to accomplish his mission objectives. Operation Long-Overdue-O is back underway.

I focus my attention back to my own needs (highly rare as a mother), and work myself back up to where I left off within just a minute or two. Finally.

But then, the rhythm stutters, the suction slows, and the vibrator gives one last shudder and dies in my hand, leaving me on the brink of a very promising release.

“FUCK!” I whisper-shout, now frustrated in more ways than one.

Now this is probably the time to give up, chalk it up to a bad round, and move on with my life. But it’s been weeks since Chance and I have had sex, and after my last pregnancy … I just can’t go that long anymore.

My libido has been hyped up for three years now (not that it was low before that—it wasn’t), and I don't see it coming down anytime soon.

I need a release.

I start to turn into even more of a feisty bitch if I go more than a few days, and I’m going to blame my recent irritability on this dry spell.

Yeah. Sure. That’s all it is. Biology.

It has nothing to do with the fact that your husband has practically become your roommate instead of the love of your life, the salty voice in my head chides.

Sensitive topic, let’s not go there and kill my vibe. Let’s get back to that release I’m so desperate for …

Instead of giving up, or selecting another toy from our little collection, I decide to finish with Ranger. His moves are what I’ve been craving, dammit.

I pull my robe closed and quietly (yet still somewhat dramatically, I’ll admit), stomp my way through the single-story house to the kitchen, opening the junk drawer to grab replacement batteries. After rifling through the Ds, Cs, and AAs, I discover an empty package of AAAs.

Great. I’m sure one of the kids grabbed the last of them for their remote-control car or some shit.

Glancing around the room, my eyes are drawn to the random battery that is sitting miserably at the bottom of our fishbowl. Yep, you guessed it, AAA.

Awesome. At least it went to good use.

Not.

I give a mental snort.

Oh no! Topanga!

Topanga isn’t looking quite so hot, if goldfish can even look hot to begin with.

I let my head fall and shake it for a moment, a chuckle escaping my lips. Can’t help but to laugh at my own misfortune. I guess it’s just not in the cards for me today.

I pull out my cell phone and quickly order the largest pack of AA batteries Amazon has to offer. (Do they sell 100 packs? They should. I’d definitely invest in them. Or maybe I should invest in a decent rechargeable toy? Mental note to get back to that later.)

Luckily, they’ll be here tomorrow. Unluckily, my mood for today is long gone.

Sorry, libido. And sorry anyone who has to put up with me until then. I highly doubt my salty demeanor is going to improve until I work some of this tension out of my system.

Grabbing the empty package (No, but seriously, would it have been that hard to add it to the stupid list on the fridge? Or at least tell me we were getting low or had already run out? Or, at the bare minimum, could they really not have just thrown the fucking package away?), I head down the main hallway to the kids’ playroom and poke my head in the door, nostrils still flared.

Despite the irritation I felt not ten seconds ago, the sight that greets me warms my heart, and I take in Chance’s features as he sits on the colorful interlocking foam flooring with Preston and our youngest (the only daughter of our brood) on his lap. He’s reading them a book about a hungry caterpillar, while our two oldest lie on the foam tiles all the way on the other side of the room, facing off with Beyblades in some sort of battle royale, complete with their own sound effects and all.

The kids all stay focused on their activities, but Chance looks up to me with a gentle, knowing smile on his face. “Feeling better, Di?” he asks huskily, his deep blue eyes twinkling.

I narrow my gaze at him, and his little nickname for me, as I hold up the empty package, and I can’t help the accusatory note in my voice. “Not quite. Did you know we were out of batteries? I could use some more to really help me feel better .”

Before we first became parents, I thought it would be harder to talk in code around the kids, but it’s really not. When you’ve been with someone for as long as Chance and I have been together (thirteen years and counting), it gets pretty easy to tell what the other one is thinking, or what the meaning is behind their child-friendly words.

His face falls in understanding. “No, baby, I would’ve put them on the list if I used the last of them.” He sounds so earnest, I believe him. “ of the boys must’ve used them. I’m sorry.”

At that, Preston lifts his head to look at me, eyes wide. “I gave ’Panga a battery to give him extra juice, Mommy. He didn’t look so good.”

My expression morphs into one of amusement and appreciation for this caring little dude who always has the best of intentions, even if they’re poorly executed ninety percent of the time. “That’s okay, buddy, thanks for telling me. Next time he’s not looking so good, will you tell Daddy or me so we can try to help him, too?”

He nods vigorously, eyes still wide, and turns his attention back to the book in his dad’s hands.

Chance shoots a glance at the big clock on the wall that is shaped like crayons, sees that it's a quarter to eight, almost the kids’ bedtime, and then brings his gaze back to me, one side of his mouth moving upward as he rakes those gorgeous eyes over my body.

“Let me take care of bath time, and then maybe I can come take care of you for once,” he says, quietly and full of intent, with another of his trademark winks. I try to maintain my indignance, but dammit, that smirk gets me every time.

Fuck him for still looking so hot after eleven years of marriage and a whole brood of children. I’ll be honest, I never got the appeal of a dad bod until Chance lost his not-quite-six-pack and softened up a little with time, but damn if he doesn’t pull it off. And when he adds a backward hat, like he’s got on now? Whoo-ey, I swear to Fendi, I don’t stand a chance.

And how is he in such a good mood? He hasn’t been laid in weeks, either, right? Ugh.

It’s been way too long, Christina. Get the kids to bed early tonight and steal some time with your husband. You deserve it.

“A modern fairy tale,” I reply sardonically, rolling my eyes, as if his offer hasn’t completely melted me. It’s not like he doesn’t already know what he does to me. I don’t need to add to his ego in that regard.

“Hey, what kind of Prince Charming would I be if I didn’t take care of my princess, Di?” he teases, eyes still on mine, that damned smirk still lingering on his lips.

A shiver runs through me at his words, pictures flashing through my mind of all of the times he’s more than taken care of me, and a thrill shoots through me straight to my downstairs.

Hey, what do you know, my libido is still hanging around after all.

“Daddy! We can do princess story?” Eleanor asks, looking up at him eagerly.

“Anything you want, my darling,” he tells her as he kisses the top of her head, winking at me.

I don't miss the double meaning behind his words, and I can’t help but grin as I back out of the room, eyes still on him.

He turns his attention back to the book and the two children he is entertaining. “What do you say, kiddos? You guys gonna go to sleep on time for once tonight? Hmmm?” He tickles them on the last word, and they break out in laughter, promising him they’ll be good.

I shake my head, trail down the hallway to the kids’ bathroom to start the bathwater, mind racing.

Maybe tonight we can get back on track, back to the us we were before this … chaos that became our daily life. Finally fit in some time for each other, instead of nothing but work and kids. The voice in my head is surprisingly hopeful, optimistic, rather than the usual pessimistic side of myself that resides there. Weird, but I’ll go with it.

Once the water is running, I lay out all the toys, towels, and jammies we’ll need for two showers and two baths, and wait for the tub to fill. The nighttime routine has gotten fairly easy over the years, and luckily, our kids are actually pretty great at listening (which I am very thankful for when I do get the chance to catch up with my other mommy friends and hear their horror stories).

With the hellhound I was growing up, I was sure Fate was gonna get me back, but so far, we’ve been blessed.

It’s probably Chance. He’s always been one of those people who can smooth rough waters, bring calm to just about any situation, and ease tensions when they build.

Parenting comes naturally to him. The negotiating, bartering, and diplomatic skills he’s been wielding his whole life really come in handy for more than his sales job at my bestie’s family’s marketing company.

Who knew those same skills would translate so well to parenting?

I mean, in both cases, it’s basically someone talking about their problems, figuring out what they need, and reaching an agreement on how to best provide a solution. He was born for this role.

Hell, he was acting as a peacekeeper between his parents even as a young thing, and maybe our kids being half-saints is the payback he’s earned for his good deeds over the years?

Me, on the other hand? We are truly fortunate we aren’t reaping what I sowed in my youth. But that was before Chance. And when I was without my best friend Ellie. I’ve come around since then. Mostly.

Wetness leaks out from the corner of my mouth, and I use a finger to wipe it away, a smile forming as I swallow.

I slowly open my eyes and attempt to form a conscious thought, forcing my brain to put two and two together.

Drool?

Did I fall asleep?

Shit. Real sexy, Christina. At least that dream was hot …

The thoughts are coming a little more readily now, and I check the time on my phone—almost ten PM. Ugh, I can’t believe I passed out before he got back from putting Lea to bed. I roll over to see if Chance is in bed with me.

His side of the bed is empty, but the covers are thrown back, so I can tell he’s been here. I sit up, putting my left tit back in my robe where it had worked itself free during my impromptu nap, and tying the robe closed once again. Damn, this thing really isn’t meant for lying down in.

As my eyes adjust to the low light in the room, I quickly scan to see if he’s in the closet undressing or something, but I can hear slight noises coming from the bathroom, where light leaks out from beneath the mostly closed door.

Call it a wife’s intuition, but I have to check on him.

Two months ago, he got food poisoning and didn’t even tell me he was throwing up all night, until four AM when I woke up to find him asleep on the floor in front of the toilet and got him some nausea medicine and Gatorade.

I swear, men won’t ask for help until they’re on their damn deathbed. At least mine doesn’t.

My friend Lola’s ex-husband apparently wouldn’t get out of bed if he had so much as a tickle in his throat. He made her wait on him hand and foot when he was under the weather, but not my man.

I peek my head around the edge of the door, and what I see is so much worse than Chance passed out in his own vomit.

My husband, sitting on the toilet.

My husband, with his dick in his right hand.

My husband, with his phone in his other hand.

My stomach drops when I see what’s on his screen.

Another girl on his phone.

I can’t even call her a woman. She looks early twenties, at the most. Definitely no crow’s feet like I’m getting. She’s tiny, like I used to be. Perky tits, like I used to have.

She looks like she knows how hot she is.

She definitely doesn’t look like she’s long past her best years, or like she’s brought four of his children into this world.

He is furiously jerking the hand gripping his cock, making soft noises as he obviously tries to remain quiet, staring intently at the photo in his hand before he closes his eyes and continues his ministrations to his own shaft, moving faster with each stroke, completely unaware of his wife watching on in horror as her entire world shatters with each pump of his fist.

I can’t make a noise. I’m not sure my body is even functioning. My stomach is still in the region of my knees.

My creaky, thirty-three-year-old knees.

Far below my thirty-three-year-old ass and hips that will never be as small as they were before I got pregnant with Bradshaw, our firstborn.

Never as small as the ass on the chick he is currently pleasuring himself to the sight of.

I slowly back away from the bathroom, not making a sound. I can’t even form a coherent thought other than my husband doesn’t want me. My husband wants that tight little thing, not the woman he brought four new lives into the world with.

I guess for better or worse didn’t mean when life gets too busy for regular sex?

Or when your wife gains some baby weight?

I can’t help the callous thoughts flooding my mind right now, but I wish I could. My usual pessimism is back with a bite I haven’t heard in so damn long. If I wasn’t what you wanted, Chance, maybe you shouldn’t have knocked me up four times in six years.

I’m not proud of what I’m thinking right now, but I’ve never claimed to be perfect. I’m salty and quick to defend myself and my family on the best of days, and I would not call this the best of my days.

As I head back to bed, crawling up to my pillow and underneath the covers again—my back toward his side of the bed, pretending I never saw anything—one thought won’t leave my mind above all the others. It’s on repeat, like a fucked-up chant, a morbid mantra to the demise of my marriage.

My husband wants someone else.

My husband doesn’t want me.

That’s my only thought as I somehow, eventually, drift off to sleep, long after Chance came back to bed, oblivious to his wife silently crying into her pillow with her back to him, no more than ten inches and a world apart.

Keep reading for free on lokepub