Date Night

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter One

  ALEX

  “Joe, where are those spreadsheets?” I yell from the open door of my humdrum office. Muted tan walls box me in with one window that overlooks the illustrious parking lot where if I’m lucky, I have a rare sighting of a stray cat lifting its tail, calling out a feral scream, looking for some action.

  “Be an accountant,” my dad said.

  It’s safe.

  Reliable.

  Dependable.

  But what he failed to mention is that it’s boring as shit.

  “The spreadsheets, Joe.” I raise my fist to the air. “I need the spreadsheets, stat.”

  Things I never thought I would be saying when I was younger: I need the spreadsheets, stat.

  Scalpel, stat . . . maybe.

  Flames blazing in front of me, calling out, water, stat. A slight possibility.

  But begging Joe, who perpetually wears a breathing strip over his nose, for data spreadsheets for a mediocre company was not on my list of pipedreams.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife, she’s my world. And our daughter is a funny little punk who imitates my wife’s sarcasm a little too much, but there is something missing in my life.

  Excitement.

  Mystery.

  The thrill of life.

  Any thrill really . . .

  But that all changes tonight . . . if Joe ever gets me the goddamn spreadsheets.

  “Joe,” I yell louder. “I need those—”

  “Here you go,” Joe says, rushing in from the side, the squeak of his nose sucking in air distracting—per usual—as I stare at the papers in his hand.

  I press my fingers to my brow and take a few calming breaths.

  “What have I told you about giving me hard copies? I’m trying to save the earth here. Email, Joe. Email.”

  He nods apologetically, tapping his head with his finger. “That’s right. Email. I’ll do that right now.” Despite the high-pitched whistle that blows in and out of his nose, which blends with the humming of computers in the office, and his lack of awareness for the earth, Joe is quite good at his job. He’s one of the best accountants in the firm, so a reminder here and there isn’t going to get him kicked to the curb.

  Not getting me the spreadsheets on time when it’s date night with my beautiful wife, now that could possibly end our working relationship.

  I say that, but I don’t mean it. I’m a fucking marshmallow when it comes to being a stickler, even as a boss. My wife calls me a pink Peep—all soft and squishy. It’s true. I had to fire one employee and cried for a day after. Completely and utterly traumatic event for me. I took a sick day while Lauren, my wife, let me cry into her breasts. Her cleavage gave me the strength to come back to work the next day.

  She has magic tits.

  No joke.

  The first time I realized they were magic was back in college. We were drunk, we were naked, and we were trying to feed each other noodles, one piece at a time. We started to get creative with how to eat them. Dangling off chopsticks, fingers . . . nipples. Yup, nipples. Bare-ass naked, my amazing wife—girlfriend at the time—stood in front of me, massaged her breast, flicked her nipple until it was hard, and dangled that noodle like a goddamn expert on her hard nipple. I might have been drunk, but I knew in that minute, I needed to marry this woman. And even though I was so drunk, that was still incredibly hot. Who knew nipples could be used like that?

  From there, her boobs have gotten us out of speeding tickets, have awarded us free popcorn at the movies—big score there, because it came with free refills—and when she was breastfeeding Chloe, she squirted her breast milk on my random scrapes, pink-eye, and rashes, and by God, it was cleared up in a day.

  Magic tits.

  Not to mention, they’re a hot button for her and I’ve made her come many times while just playing with them. Nothing gets my dick harder than knowing my wife can be fondled to completion. Actually, no, that’s not true. So much about my wife gets my dick hard. Have you seen her? When she continues touching herself, giving me a fucking hot show of getting herself off, while sucking my cock? The definition of hard doesn’t cut it. She’s a siren. And she’s mine. And she deserves every bit of attention I’m going to give to her tonight.

  My lips curve up as I head back to my desk, although it’s not the only thing that is starting to head up right now. Shit. Baseball stats. Think baseball stats. Hard-ons at work are not okay. I toss the spreadsheets on my desk after giving them a quick once-over, they should be fine—Joe is good at his work—and then I gather my briefcase.

  On my way out the door, I forward Joe’s reports from my phone to the account executive at Gary’s Automotive—medium business—and then call my wife as I reach my sensible, non-flashy red sedan with cream interior. According to my wife, family men drive these types of cars and honestly, I love it. Comfortable seats, easy to drive, and has a trunk that can carry a cooler full of prepared picnic food, five suitcases, and three dead bodies—if you’re into that kind of thing.

  And yeah, it might be a Buick, but for all the judgers out there, Buicks are starting to trend . . . with middle-aged men.

  My phone connects to the Bluetooth as I pull out of my assigned parking spot and Lauren’s voice booms through the speakers after a few rings.

  “Hello, fuck boy.”

  “Jesus. Christ.” I laugh out loud. “Please tell me Chloe is already with Noely and nowhere near you.”

  “Do you really think I would say fuck boy in front of our daughter? Knowing her, she’d start calling you that at school.” In a tiny voice, Lauren says, “Mrs. Venice, did you know my fuck boy gave me a popsicle last night so I didn’t tell Mommy about spilling juice on the couch?”

  “We’d be called into the classroom. Again.” We’re halfway through first grade with Chloe and we’ve been called in for a special teacher parents conference a few times due to Lauren’s obnoxious and unfiltered mouth—and my relentless bribing to keep me out of the doghouse whenever I do something stupid and Chloe catches it. Both actions have bitten us in the ass.

  The last instance was quite special when she called her classmate a douche nugget because he was coloring an elephant purple rather than grey. When he started crying, she tried to bribe him with her half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich to, in her words, “shut the hell up.”

  Not our finest parenting moment. But the positive is that the girl knows how to negotiate, so at least we’re doing something right.

  “Chloe’s all set?”

  “Yup. Noely was excited
to take her for the night. Your sister is my hero.”

  She’s basically my Captain Marvel. Once a month, Noely and her boyfriend take Chloe for a night and give Lauren and me some much-needed alone time. We look forward to this night every month because it isn’t any ordinary date night . . . going out to dinner and maybe catching a movie.

  No, this is next-level date night.

  This is what gets my loins doing an Irish jig. What makes my balls shimmy against my dick. What arouses me more than my wife’s magic tits.

  Date night with my wife is the singular most exciting thing in my life. It’s what gets me through my mundane days at work. And because my wife is the best, there’s always a guaranteed naked finale.

  “Good.” I loosen my tie. “Is everything set up?”

  “You act like this is my first date night with you. I’m no newbie, of course everything is set up. Did you get my email?”

  “Read it, and I’m ready.”

  Every morning of date night, Lauren sends me an email with this month’s theme. I’m responsible for ordering food to be delivered at a specified time, and I’m also in charge of making sure Chloe is taken care of. I’m handed a bag before I leave for work. It’s kept in the car to change into when I get home. Getting changed in the car is not always easy, but I make it work. She always makes it worth the difficulty. More than makes it worthwhile.

  The email I got this morning was simple: Strap on your boots, cowboy, because things are about to get rough on the ranch.

  Fuck, I hope she plans on riding me like a majestic steed. Knowing Lauren, it will come true, as she has some pretty fantastic plans.

  In a seductive voice, Lauren says, “When you get home, change, and then knock on the front door, I’ll be waiting for you.” She hangs up before I can respond.

  A fire ignites inside of me as I clench my hands tighter around the ten and two marks on my steering wheel.

  Oh yes, things are about to get rough.

  I line the windshield of my car up with the tennis ball I have hanging in the garage, letting me know I’ve parked my car perfectly, just enough room all around where nothing will get hurt. I cut the ignition and quickly grab the bag Lauren packed for me. There is a note attached to it.

  Leave your shirt undone.

  What my lady wants, my lady gets.

  Causal Friday at the office made this outfit change a little easier since I’m already wearing jeans, but when I pull out the “shirt”, I question my wife’s fashion sense. Blue and red plaid button-up, cut-off sleeves, and letters ironed on the back that spell out badass cowboy.

  I am pretty badass. I adjust my jeans, suck in my gut—dad bod is real—and slip my arms through the sleeve holes after folding my light green polo and setting it in the bag. The shirt is a bit snug and barely covers the front of my chest and beefy man pecs. At least that’s what I like to think of them as.

  Back in college, I was a weightlifter. I had definition for days, muscles you’ve never seen before. My triceps poked people in the eyes, my pecs were pillows for my drunk friends, and my abs were used every weekend as a shot luge.

  But something happens to you as you get older, get married, and have a kid. Those muscles are now coated by a cushion of food comfort. Instead of defined abs, there’s a small swell to my stomach, nothing too big, but enough to know I’m not the man I used to be. And I’m okay with it, because Lauren still looks at me the same as when we were in college. She likes the pudge, which makes me love her even more, if possible.

  Just for the hell of it, I lay a towel on the garage floor and quickly do thirty pushups—this dad still has it—and work up a nice sweat. A glisten for my lady will go well with this theme. I haven’t shaved all week, which is unheard of for this straight-and-narrow accountant, but when Lauren hid my shaver, I knew there was a reason. I have a fresh coat of scruff, and when I put on the hat Lauren provided, I’m completely ready to rock her world tonight. Fuck, I love my wife.

  Gently, I place my briefcase and the bag of clothes next to the garage door that leads to the house and then head to the front door, thankful for a quiet night in the neighborhood. The last thing I need is for Ned with three cats from across the street to come outside to water his lawn and ask me about the fancy fedora on my head, or why I haphazardly forgot to button up my shirt.

  Taking a deep breath, I pull on the brim of my hat, channeling my inner Clint Eastwood, and press one hand against the molding of the door before knocking. If only I had a piece of straw I could be chewing on. I scan the bushes and quickly spot a twig. I pick it up and stick it in my mouth just as Lauren answers the door.

  I don’t notice the leaf hanging off the end of the twig until Lauren’s brow pulls together in confusion.

  “What’s with the twig?”

  “Thought it would be perceived as straw.”

  She doesn’t even give a second thought before saying, “Ditch the twig.”

  I spit it out and then turn on my steamy eyes. It’s when I squint and try to tell her sex is in the stars for us . . . through my eyes. Works like a charm, and tonight doesn’t fail me because when she takes in the steamy eyes, her cheeks flush.

  I take the moment to give her a smooth once-over. Cut-off jean shorts showing off her beautifully white legs from never getting out of the house, a brown cut-off T-shirt—that she must have cut just before I got home, because the hem is jagged and torn—and her hair is braided loosely on either side of her head with a bandanna cinched around her neck. But the best part of the entire outfit is the neckline of her shirt that is barely being held together as her bra pushes her magic tits up into her neck. Total MILF.

  She glances behind me looking for neighbors before, in a flash, her face transforms from my beautiful wife to total damsel in distress.

  “Clyde, I’m so glad you came.” My name for the night. In the email she sent, I was also given my alias, Clyde Weatherbottom. Ace when working with my hands, a devil in the sheets, and has a strong southern drawl, which I tried to practice during my lunch break while enjoying my cobb salad, but it was subpar at best. Clyde fancies himself a damsel in distress, is addicted to Mary Sue’s cornbread, and doesn’t wear underwear. I shucked mine at lunch time as well, regretting that decision after an hour of sitting in jeans and my bare balls rubbing against the coarse cotton.

  And who is Mary Sue? She’s standing right in front of me looking fine as hell with her crop top and fluttery eyelashes. Daughter of the rancher Clyde works for, she’s been harboring a crush for Clyde for quite some time now and has gained the courage to make a move, but something stops her. I think I’m about to find out exactly what that is.

  She fans her face, feigning distress, and whispers, “There’s been a murder on the ranch.”

  “A murder?”

  But before I can wrap my head around this new morbid twist, she’s yanking me inside and pinning me against the door with her ass. Taking both my hands, she wraps them around her waist and sinks into my heated chest. “Shh . . . did you hear that?”

  Getting into character, I whisper, “Was it Old Bessy out in the barn?”

  “She’s been ornery lately, but I checked in on her ten minutes ago, and she’s tucked in for the night.”

  “What about Carl, the stable boy?”

  Twisting in my arms, eyes wide, Mary Sue grips the lapels of my shirt in pure panic. “Carl was the one who was murdered.”

  “Dun, dun, dunnnn,” I singsong while scanning the house, taking in the setup Lauren spent most likely all day putting together. Since our house is already decorated in the currently trending farmhouse style, it didn’t take much for her to set the scene, but as I notice the touches she’s added, a smile pulls at the corner of my lips.

  Six hay bales—yes, six—are scattered in the living room. There’s a life-size cutout of a horse leaning against the wall with a blanket draped over its back, and scattered down the hall and in the entryway are two wheelbarrows full of . . . is that manure?

  Breakin
g character, I drop the accent and say, “Did you bring cow shit into the house?” I sniff the air, already confirming my suspicion.

  “Authenticity, boo.” She pats my chest and then goes stiff again. “We’re not safe. The killer is still on the loose somewhere on the ranch.” Squatting, she reaches out to the side and secures two Nerf guns to her chest while slowly moving back up my body. Keeping her eyes fixed on the fake horse in the living room, she says, “For protection. It’s locked and loaded, so don’t get trigger happy.”

  “Darlin’, I’m never trigger happy.”

  From the corner of her mouth, she says, “You were a week ago.”

  “Hey,” I snap at her. “You used a vibrator in my . . . dark area.” I swallow hard. “I was bound to shoot off in seconds.” And I did, literally seconds. It was embarrassing, and I spent a good ten minutes repaying the favor with my tongue, but it was worth it because I blacked out from euphoria that night.

  Giggling, she presses a quick kiss to my chin and once again, gets back into character. “Should we look at the crime scene?”

  Errr . . . did she make a crime scene? I love my wife and her creativity, but a crime scene? All I can think of is our kitchen sprayed with fake blood, cow intestines bought from the butcher scattered about, and crime-scene tape wrapped around the island. Out of sheer morbid curiosity, I take the bait and say, “Maybe we can search for clues that will lead us to the murderer of the well-loved stable boy.”

  “There very well might be,” Mary Sue answers with a twinkle in her eye, which leads me to believe that Lauren set up some clues.

  Nerf gun held out in front of her like she’s a professionally trained spy, she works her way down the hall, her back lining the wall and beckoning me with the nod of her head. I follow suit, mirroring her Nerf gun readiness and glance around for surprises.

  The first time we had a role play date night, Lauren set up a haunted house. I was a vampire—Edward Cullen style—and she was a bewitched college girl looking for love. Every move I made through the house, something popped out and startled me. It got to the point where I was so terrified, my penis was flaccid for a good portion of the night. Lauren quickly learned her lesson after that, but I still fear something is going to pop out that I’m not expecting.