Fridays are not for Anal
Five years later…
I stare across the boardroom table at Hamilton Investments and pin him with my no-nonsense glare. I’ve gone over the facts, obsessed over the details, and come to a conclusion.
He’s guilty.
No way around it.
“Numbers don’t lie,” I tell him, my glare unwavering.
Liam narrows his stare at me, unfazed by my scrutiny. “I didn’t steal it.”
Bart, who’s sitting to my left, raises his brows in shock. My father-in-law knows it. We both know it. Liam did this and he’s going to confess. And once he confesses, we’ll proceed from there.
“You were the only one who had access to the funds during that time period,” I tell him, my voice calm despite my irritation.
“Maybe you just miscounted,” Bart offers, always a sucker when it comes to these conversations. He may be the owner of Hamilton Investments and me just his internal auditor now, but I’m running this show.
“I didn’t miscount. We all know I never miscount,” I reply, my sharp stare never leaving the young man sitting to my right.
Liam shifts in his seat and scribbles something down on the paper in front of him. I ignore his loss of focus as I wait for my confession.
“It’s late,” Bart mutters under his breath. “We have dinner reservations later. Tonya’s probably already there waiting. Maybe we should just let this go.”
I swivel in my chair and lift a brow at him. “Charles Britton stole from you and he is sitting in prison as we speak. At Hamilton Investments, we don’t tolerate stealing,” I growl, reminding the old man that he needs to stay focused. He’s too soft in his old age.
Bart groans but concedes with a nod. I turn back to Liam. His brown eyes meet mine and he grins at me. Challenging and fearless. It knocks me off my guard. It always does. Apparently, I’m weak in my old age too.
“I didn’t steal it,” he says again, but the smirk on his face determines otherwise.
I’m starting to believe that maybe I didn’t count right. But that’s madness. I am never wrong. At least about numbers I’m not.
Bart checks his watch as I’m about to start another grueling round of questions. We’re interrupted when Lilith waltzes in the room, a picture of sunshine.
And by waltzes, I mean waddles.
My beautiful wife is pregnant and the little girl in her tummy is due any time.
All irritation over the thief sitting beside me dissolves as I rise to meet her. Liam is quicker. He slides out of the chair, snags his paper, straightens his red bowtie that matches mine exactly, and then saunters over to my woman.
“I got you a present, Mommy.” He beams, holding out the paper of what I think might be a hand drawn picture of Björk. It’s messy, but he’s a kid, so…
“Aww,” she coos as she admires his picture. “It’s beautiful. Björk is the prettiest kitty I ever did see.”
The little shit then reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a bag of Skittles. Skittles I know he purchased using the dollar he stole out of my office drawer.
Bart laughs and I shake my head. I’ll have to ground my four-year-old son later for stealing and lying, but for now, I let him be a gentleman for his mother. She runs her fingers through his hair that’s the same shade as mine and flashes him a brilliant smile.
“Thank you, baby. I love Skittles. But you know who loves them more?” she asks.
“My sister?”
“Yes!” She claps her hands and then pulls him to her for a hug.
“You guys ready?” Bart questions as he holds his hand out.
Liam breaks away from his mom and grabs onto his grandpa’s hand. I overhear Bart explaining to his grandson that stealing is for weak men and Hamilton men aren’t weak. I can’t help but smirk when William Grant, Junior reminds his grandpa that he’s not a Hamilton.
“Let me guess,” Lilith says, amusement in her voice. “He didn’t earn the money to buy me those Skittles from the vending machine?”
I turn and admire my gorgeous wife. Pregnancy looks good on her. She’s fearless and bright in a sunny yellow dress that showcases her very pregnant belly. The matte red on her lips is sexy as fuck and the moment Liam leaves after dinner to spend the night with his grandparents, I’m going to spend the rest of the night sucking it off.
“Not even close but come tomorrow evening when he gets back from your parents’, he’s going to be pulling weeds in the flowerbed. That’ll teach him,” I say with a grunt.
She laughs and the sound fills my soul. “You think he’s going to feel punished by doing yardwork? He’s just like you, Wonka. Exactly like you down to the freaking bowtie. You’re not punishing him. The little turkey is going to enjoy every second of it.”
I grab her hands and pull her to me, loving the way her giant belly presses against me. Our mouths meet and I kiss her pretty mouth.
“He can’t go unpunished,” I murmur against her lips.
“Maybe I could take his punishment for him. He gave me the Skittles after all,” she teases.
My palms slide to her ass through her dress and I give her fleshy bottom a playful slap. “There. Punishment successfully transferred.”
She laughs as she grips my bowtie and pulls me forward. “I think you might have to do that a few more times later tonight. Our son wasn’t the only one who was bad today.”
I slide my palm into her silky hair and tug her hair until she’s looking up at me. “What did you do?” My brow is lifted in question.
Her brown eyes twinkle with a challenge—the same look our son gives me when he’s up to something. “You’ll have to see later…”
“Did you try to paint our kitchen pink again?”
“Nope.”
“Does my cat have all her hair?”
“Björk is still the beautiful crazy pussy she always is.”
“Did you throw out my lactose-free coffee creamer?”
“As much as I hate that shit, no.”
“Is my new azalea bush still alive?”
She snorts. “Yep.”
“What could you have possibly done to get yourself in trouble?”
“I found a renter for the house.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief.
I frown in confusion. “The lease was up and the Carlsons were moving to the city. It was in the plan to rent it out.” For years now, we’ve rented her old home out ever since she moved in with me. We tried to convince my grandma to move in next door, but she really does love her duplex and said Lil’s old house is too big for her and Skippy.
“Yeah, but…”
“But what?”
“I rented it out to Daryl and his sweet girlfriend.”
I blink in shock. Horror rushes through me. “You didn’t.”
“Majick isn’t that bad once you get to know her—”
“You didn’t.”
“—she only has seven dogs and—”
“You didn’t.”
“—that one time she accidentally flooded the radio station wasn’t her fault—”
“You didn’t.”
“—not to mention Big D loves her—”
“You didn’t.”
“—and the time she hid in your trunk because the police were after her for indecent exposure was all a misunderstanding—”
“You didn’t.”
“—plus, she’s practically family since D knocked her up—”
“Lilith,” I growl. “Tell me we are not about to be neighbors with Majick. I can handle Daryl, but that woman…she’s insane.”
She lifts a brow. “You thought I was insane once too.”
“The jury is still out on that one,” I deadpan.
“Brat,” she says with a huff, a smile tilting her lips on one side.
“You’re definitely getting punished for this one.” I groan. Majick is worse than insane. She’s fucking psychotic. “Majick. Fuck.”
She laughs. “I don’t really see what could go wrong. She’s a sweetheart.”
“She’s never babysitting.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” she says, giggling.
Just imagining Majick with her wild blond hair with pink streaks, four lip piercings, and seven dogs terrorizing our rental property next door has my eye twitching. The thought of her ever being responsible for my little Liam has my head throbbing.
Never. Never babysitting. Hell, I don’t even want her near my lawn, much less my kids.
“Hey, Wonka?” my wife asks, her voice filled with amusement, drawing me from my daze.
“What, woman?”
“I’m just fuckin’ with ya.”
My breath rushes out loudly in relief. “You’re right,” I growl. “You’re definitely getting punished for this. Your antics are too crazy.”
She grins, showing all her pearly white teeth. “Darn. My big handsome husband is going to tie me up and spank my ass,” she sasses as she pulls away and starts for the door. “Oh, the horror.”
I stalk after her and give her juicy ass a little swat. “Spanking isn’t the only thing I’m going to do with that ass.”
“Will!” she exclaims in faux horror. My wife may act scandalized, but she loves me in every one of her tight little holes. “Fridays are not for anal.”
Flashing her a wolfish grin, I shrug. “We’ll see, demon girl.”
“Careful there, Wonka, you might just wake up to a neighbor from hell,” she warns. “Majick and D really are house hunting.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time I had a neighbor from hell.”
“And look how that turned out for you.” She motions at her voluptuous pregnant body. “You got an angel.”
At this, I laugh. “You’re the filthiest angel I’ve ever met.”
“To my defense, you made me filthy. I was pretty angelic before you. You definitely made me that way.”
“You made me this way,” I say back, motioning at myself.
“And what way is that?” she challenges.
I palm her stomach and smile. “Happy.”
Fridays may not be for anal.
But Fridays are for quickie boardroom sex with your pregnant wife.
Saturdays are for pulling weeds and lessons learned for little lie tellers.
And Sundays?
Sundays are for hangovers when you’re drunk on love.
The End