Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 182(@200wpm)___ 146(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Truthfully?
I don’t mind.
Assisting in this department seems to be one of the only things I can still do right.
Our rather large group settles into seats in the third row with me leaving the end one open for my wife who has yet to appear.
But she will.
She’d never intentionally disappointment our little ballerina.
Or punish her for my shortcomings.
While Wendell and Rosa struggle to get their children properly straightened out, I playfully bounce a fussy Vlad around in my lap, hoping to counterattack the cranky cries brewing just beneath the surface. “What wrong pikkumies?” My palm gives his navy polo covered back a gentle pat. “Hampaat?” Opening my mouth is done at the same time I repeat the Finnish word in English. “Is teeth?”
“No!” His little khaki wearing legs unhappily kick against mine beginning a violent thrashing fight for freedom. “No!” More flailing is accompanied by an angrier tone. “Down!”
“Net,” I quietly argue in return. “Not down. Have to sit.”
He frantically shakes his head.
My additional fussing in Russian is firm, “Sidet'.”
“Net!”
“Da.”
“Net! Net! Net!”
All of a sudden, bright red material catches the corner of my eye split seconds before my crabby son is shifted from my lap to his mother’s. “Enough.”
Vlad’s light yellow brown face completely freezes.
“Papa said sit.” She adjusts him in her lap so that she can wind her arms around his stomach while he faces the stage. “You will sit, Vladislav.” Remy reaches casually into the diaper bag wedged between our legs and pulls out his popping planets fidget toy. “Igrat'.” She gives him a tiny bounce, a peck on the top of his curl filled head, and sweetly repeats the command. “Play.”
He immediately wiggles himself into a more comfortable position and begins to push at the bright yellow circle in the middle.
A heavy sigh of defeat is followed by a quiet grumble, “YA dazhe ne mogu byt' khoroshim ottsom.”
Remy runs a hand through Vlad’s hair at the same time she playfully states, “Tell Papa he’s not a bad father. He just doesn’t have tits.” Our son snuggles the back of his head deeper into her cleavage. “And tits make everything better.”
It’s impossible not to cock a wicked grin. “Is true.”
Against her volition she snickers alleviating the first ounce of agony in days proving that there’s hope.
And much like when our path’s first crossed, I’m going to cling onto that hope.
Let it be my light.
My beacon.
My reason to fight for her.
Us.
Jordan Lee, the lead choreographer and owner of the dance academy our daughter attends, takes the stage, front and center, slim figure doing its best not to shake under the vast amount of attention she needs to redirect to herself.
She’s a soft-spoken woman who just so happens to be even more talented than she is kind.
Her problem?
She’s not much for public speaking.
Dance is her language she’s been quoted saying, which is what makes her school the best on the island and the perfect instructor for Kat to learn under, but her inability to verbally command a room – like now – is what has the love of my life constantly searching for other options in this department. Remy’s afraid our tiny dancer will inherit the woman’s shyness instead of her mother’s fierceness.
I’ve told her multiple times she worries for nothing.
There isn’t a timid bone in our daughter’s body even when perhaps there should be.
For instance, when coming face to face with an actual baby shark.
She refused to believe they weren’t as sweet in real life as the song made them out to be.
Thankfully, this one was, and we made it out safely.
“Um…excuse me?” Jordan meekly squeaks in the microphone. “Uh…Can um…everyone um…” She tucks her long black hair behind her ears at the same time she fumbles, “Can I have your attention please?”
The boisterous audience continues their clamoring until one very loud, very forceful throat clearing from my wife starts ripples of silence.
Informs others to sit up straight and look forward.
Pay attention to the individual they had deemed unworthy of their time.
What’s interesting is that most people are intimidated by one person exuding that much power with such little effort, yet for me, it always makes my cock swell.
My mouth water.
My primal instincts to claim and conquer and be conquered claw their way to the front lines.
Beg to be used.
I know now is not the time to be picturing her putting me on my knees over the spanking bench while she yanks me into her freshly waxed pussy for the feasting, but in spite of my animal like nickname, I am only human.
And having been without vaimoni for so long in my favorite ways makes it impossible not to think about.
Especially in a room packed with people who long to do the things to her she allows me to.
Adjusting myself in the khakis that match my son’s is intended to be casual, but unfortunately for me, Wendell is much too observant to let it go unnoticed.