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Copyright 2023 Dylan Allen



I know every inch of my wife’s body intimately. I can connect the dots on the network of beauty marks and freckles that grace her elegant shoulders with my eyes closed. 

But whenever I watch her working—so absorbed in her art, the world around her seems to fall away and not even I can distract her—I discover something new.


Today, it’s the way her tongue darts out every time she lifts onto her toes to reach the top corner of the large canvas she’s painting. 

She has her earbuds in and is singing Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” at the top of her lungs. Beth can’t carry a tune to save her life, but she puts as much passion into her performance as she does everything. 

She sashays over to her supply cabinet and bends to look inside, and it only takes three shakes of, what is still, the sweetest ass I’ve ever laid eyes on to motivate me. 

I crane my head out of the door peering up the sun-drenched walkway that connects her studio to the rest of the house. There’s not a peep coming from the house. I close the door quietly and rush to enjoy the rare and fragile peace of alone time with the miraculous treasure of the amazing woman I’m married to. 

She yelps in surprise and spins around when I close the door with a firm thud.

Her eyes, my personal pools of paradise, light up when she sees me. 

My lungs constrict. I’ve looked into her face more times than I can count, yet every time feels like the very first time, when she captivated my imagination and my heart. I can’t believe I get to spend the rest of my life with her.

“Baby! I didn’t hear you come in.” She cranes her neck to look past me and frowns, then shifts all the paints she’s carrying to one arm and pulls her earbuds out. “I thought you took Ella to Max’s party. Why are you back so soon?” 

“Because five minutes after we arrived, we were asked to leave. And Ella was happy to oblige because she hates Max,” I inform her and while she blinks at me in disbelief,

I take the paints from her and walk them over to the table in the center of the studio. 

“Since when does she hate Max? What did you do?” Beth comes to stand beside me, arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

I chuckle at the accusatory tone in her voice and give her an unrepentant grin. 

“I’ve earned that.” I won’t apologize for telling my badass daughter that she shouldn’t settle for shitty friends. 

Even if they’re only six years old.

Assholes are born that way, and it’s never too early to start putting them in their place. 

I finish arranging her paints just the way she likes them and turn so we’re face to face. I meet her scowl with a self-satisfied smirk.


“It wasn’t me this time. He has a gigantic fish tank.”

Her eyes roll up to the ceiling and she groans. “What did she say when she saw it?” 

“That it was cruel to keep fish as pets. He called her a hater. She called him an eco-terrorist. His mother asked us to leave. We did.” I brush my palms together and wink. “And that’s all she wrote.” 

Beth groans and wraps her arms around my waist and presses her face into my chest. “Is our kid weird?” 

I hug her back and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah, but she’s also pretty fucking awesome. He followed her outside to the car and begged her to forgive him. She told him her forgiveness should be the least of his concerns before she rolled the window up. He was still standing there when we drove off. She didn’t look back once.” 

She laughs and ends on a contented sigh. “Of course she didn’t. That’s our girl.” 

We’re both artists who always lead with our hearts. Our seven-year-old daughter, on the other hand, is a pragmatic, slightly aloof scientist who thinks emotions are unnecessary.  Unless they’re spent on conquering villains - her warrior heart shines when she’s defending someone or something she loves and it’s undeniable that she’s her mother’s daughter.

“So, where is she now?” Beth peers around me toward the door. 

“In her room. She’s reading the book your mother sent.” 


She nods absently and then her eyes slide to mine for a second before she looks back at the table. A small smile teases the corner of her mouth. 

Oh, yeah. 

Our minds are on the same track.

Her body, all long lines and compelling curves, presses against mine, I wrap my arms around her and erase every last sliver of space between us.

“And…what are you doing?” Her voice is a breathless, husky, suggestive siren song. 

Her gaze is an azure lasso, and I couldn’t look away from her if my life depended on it. 

“I’m thinking about all the ways I want to fuck you but planning for the only way I can right now.”

“And how’s that, baby?” Her hot, blue eyes turn turbulent with need, and I take a mental snapshot of her like that before I move to stand behind her. “Hard and fast. Deep and dirty.”

She leans back into me and rubs her ass on my already hard dick.

“Hard, dirty, and deep is exactly what I had in mind.” 

“What about fast?” I press a kiss to the small freckle on the back of her neck. 

She sighs softly and grips my hips. “I’ll take it. But you’ll have to make that up to me later.” 

“I promise.” I kiss her shoulder and then reach around her to cover one of her hands with mine. 

“I love this blue.” I press my palm into the blue paint she’s just poured. 

“It’s the one I used for your piano.” She jumps when my paint-slicked hand slides under her shirt and covers one of her small, soft breasts. 

“Are you decorating me… oh, baby,” she moans when I pluck her nipple between two fingers and squeeze. 


“No, I’m decorating the paint.” I cup her other breast. “What’s this color called, again?” I ask, my lips pressed to the soft curve of her neck. Her head falls back to rest on my shoulder. Her eyes are closed; her lips are parted and wet.

“Lapis.” She breathes the word up like a praise. “It’s become my favorite shade of blue.”

“Then it’s my favorite, too.” I press both of my palms into the wet paint. 

I press them, splayed against her bare shoulder blades. They nearly meet on either side of the delicate gold chain that dangles down the center of her back. 

“Giving me wings?” she asks, her smile lifting her voice an octave. 

“Not that you need them to fly… I like this color on you.” 

I slip my hands down and under her shirt again. I cross them on the velvet skin of her stomach. She melts into me—her body making a home of mine. 

I press my nose into the dark halo of her hair and breathe in the sweet sunshine and wildflowers of her shampoo. 

“You ready?” I whisper into her ear, and she moans and rolls her hips so that her ass grinds into my very hard, very sensitive dick. 


“Are you sure we have enough time?” she whispers, but her hands are already reaching behind her back and cupping me. 


“No. But I’ll take what I can while we’ve got any.” I keep one hand wrapped around her waist, unfasten her tiny shorts, and yank them and her panties down in a single, swift motion. 

I free my erection from my boxers and drag the head of my cock through the wet, plush heat between her legs.  She presses her thighs together and slides back and forth on me. “Oh shit, Beth…” I slide down until I’m lined up with her entrance and nudge in a fraction. 


“Yes, please.” She rocks back, her pussy pulses around me, urging me forward. 

“You feel so good, baby.” Like mercy, and relief, and pure pleasure.  


I press my hands onto the table on either side of her body and let it take my weight as  I find my way home inside her.

I savor sliding into the hot, tight, soft grip of her body. “I’ve been thinking about your pussy all day.” 

“It’s been thinking about you, too.” She pushes her hips back, grinds down at the same time I thrust up. 

“Damn,” I hiss at the satisfying friction of our bodies in common purpose.

She arches her back and throws her head back. I grab her neck and turn it until her mouth is where I need it to be. 

My tongue plunges into her hot honey-pot mouth, and in seconds, I’m drunk on her. 

I close my eyes and let the unmatched bliss of fucking my wife’s sweet, hot cunt carry me away. We don’t talk when we’re making love. Our bodies compose a symphony of moans, curses, praise, and declarations of love.

The abrupt pause in the roll of her hips as she breaks our kiss brings the wave of lust I was on crashing down. 

She leans forward and presses a hand to my thigh to push me back.

My eyes snap open. “What’s wrong?” I pant and grab her hip to stop myself from slipping out of her. 

“Get off! Hurry,” she huffs with a backward glance over my shoulder. 

I follow her panicked gaze to the door.

The telltale sound of feet coming toward the door springs me into action. 

“Fuck.” I stuff myself back into my boxers and fasten my jeans.  

She pulls her shorts back up and fastens them just as the door swings open and our daughter, Ella, walks in with her book over her face.

“Why did Ariel have to give up everything for Prince Eric?” she asks in a pained voice, oblivious to our flushed faces and heaving chests. 

The blood in my body has drained to my dick and I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Who are Ariel and Prince Eric?”

She thrusts a book up at me. “From The Little Mermaid.” 

“Oh. You mean… book characters?” I frown at her. 

“They’re people too, Daddy,” she says and plucks the book out of my hands as if she’s just decided I’m not worthy of holding it. 


“They’re not real people, baby,” Beth says with a comforting stroke on Ella’s head. 

“They’re real to me. And I don’t understand why she has to be a total doormat just to make him love her.” Her disgust and dismay give her the cutest pout ever. 

A smile tugs at my lips, but I hold it in. 

She’s a serious, earnest little soul and sometimes thinks we’re laughing at her instead of admiring her incredible little mind.


“What do you think she should have done instead?” Beth asks.


She purses her lips and looks up at the ceiling while she contemplates her answer.

Beth and I exchange a  quick glance full of amusement and pride.


“I know!” Ella crows, and we look back to find her eyes alight with discovery. 


“Let’s hear it.” I walk over to the small settee in the corner and pat the cushion next to me.  She drops down next to me and Beth sits on her other side and she holds court.


Her eyes twinkle and she smiles up at me. “Well…since they can use their magic to turn Ariel into a human, they could have turned Eric into a merman.”  


She claps her hands together and turns to her mother.  “Then they could have spent some time with her family and some with his. That’s fairer, right?” she asks looking back and forth at us with genuine horror. 


I give Beth a ‘this is all you’ look. 


She gives me a narrow eyed scowl that morphs to a smile when her eyes move to Ella.  Her expression is full of serious contemplation. “Well, sweetie, if Ariel hadn’t wanted her legs so badly and didn’t love the prince so much, then maybe it would feel like giving up the only life she’d known was unfair. But it was her choice.”


Ella shakes her head. “No. Eric should found a way to become a merman. You wouldn’t want Mommy to give up everything for you?” 


I choke on the chuckle the first part of her statement sparked. “No.”


I assure my sweet baby girl with kiss to the top of her head. Beth’s eyes meet mine.  A stream of memories splattered with love, pain, bliss, fear, hope, loss, and so much fucking longing pass between us in the blink of an eye. 

My whole body clenches. “No,”  I repeat. “But I’d give up everything for her.” 

“That’s toxic, Dad.” 

“What?” I sputter and lean away in surprise. “No more youTube for you.”

Beth clears her throat and bring us back to attention. “Okay. Think of it like this. Remember how much I loved pomegranate?” 

Ella nods. “Yes. But you don’t eat it anymore.”

“Do you know why?” Beth asks.

Ella's nod is quick and sure. “Because they stopped selling it, right?”

Beth’s smile widens. “Nope, they stopped selling it ready-to-eat. I could still buy the whole fruit but I would have had to get all those seeds out myself.  And I don’t love pomegranate enough to do all that work.  Now, if they stopped selling mangoes ready-to-eat, I’d buy those whole. Because I love mangoes so much, they are worth the work. Do you understand?” Beth asks.

Ella's nod is a less slower, but just as sure. “So, not all love is the same.”

My wife grins with pride at our clever kid like she just solved a quantum physics problem. “Exactly. And that to get to the delicious parts, work, sacrifice will always require work. How you feel depends on whether the delicious thing is a pomegranate or a mango.” 


Ella sighs and looks down at her lap. “So…Daddy, Mommy is your mango?” She peeks up at me with large, expectant eyes. 


“Mango cheesecake,” I amend. The inside joke sails right over Ella’s head and puts a smile on Beth’s face.


“Well, when I fall in love, I’ll just skip to the part where we kiss and get married.” She crosses her arms and gives us each a satisfied smile. 

Oh, to be seven again. 

“Trust me, the kissing will be so much better if you don’t skip those hard parts.” her mother says. 

I throw my head back in a bark of laughter at how offended Ella looks. 


She slumps back into the couch. “Fine. Maybe if you could tell me a story that’s happy even before it’s over, I’ll feel better about the sad ones.”

“Hmmm…” I wrack my brain’s limited knowledge on fairytales and can’t think of one where they didn’t have some struggle. “I’m not sure I know a story like that.”

“Of course you do. Tell me your story.” She throws her hands up in exasperation. 

“No way,” I guffaw and share a wide-eyed glance with Beth. 

“Please, Daddy. You never talk about life before me. I wanna know.” Ella clambers into my lap, winds her little arms around my neck, and presses her round cheek to mine. When it comes to bending my will, my daughter has had an excellent teacher in her mother.  


I sigh with resignation.  “Our story is happy now…”

“But it has plenty of heartbreak in it,” Beth adds. 

Ella gasps and pulls her face away from mine and says, “What did you do, Daddy?” 

I whip my head back and gape at her. “What does that mean?” 

“Mommy would never do anything to break your heart,” she says in a scolding voice. 

I sputter an incredulous laugh. 

Beth frowns. “I resent that laugh.” 

I smirk. “I resent my broken heart.”

She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t break his heart.” 

“You’ve got selective amnesia,” I quip. Glad I can think about our past without feeling like I’d swallowed hot coal. 

I pick up the book Ella abandoned and inspect the spine. “No wonder…This is a fairy tale. That’s different from a love story.”


“Nuh-uh…she gets married at the end.” 


I raise my eyebrows in confusion. “So…?”


She presses the book closed. Her little brow is furrowed and her arms are crossed. “That’s how love stories end, Daddy.”


“Not all of them, baby,” Beth murmurs and our eyes meet over our daughter’s head, again.


We went to hell and back to write our own story. 


But for perfect moments like this, I’d do it again a thousand times. 

“How else can a love story end?” Our daughter’s eyes are full of questions she’s asked more than once in the last year. 

 “Baby, real love stories—the kind worth telling—they never end.”

She smiles at me. "I'm listening. Tell me everything."

Beth and  share a nod of agreement.

She’s not a baby anymore. 

It’s time to tell her the truth.


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