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With Tilly out, I've taken the opportunity to prepare dinner—homemade spaghetti sauce, thanks to a recipe and guidance from my mom during a video call. I'm no chef, but I wanted to do something special. Celebrating the next step in our plan is a must. I might go crazy if we don't at least pretend things are progressing.
The table set, I'm looking forward to a few days alone with her. Miranda's absence, off at a hotel, has left me daydreaming about the intimacy Tilly and I will share in every corner of our place. My phone dings, signaling Tilly's imminent return. Inspired by a sudden, playful idea, I dash to the bedroom, strip down, and slip into Tilly's apron—the one she got as her belly began to demand more room.
Hearing the door, I rush to strike a pose in the dining room, foot propped on a chair, just as she walks in. Her laughter upon seeing me fills the room, igniting my joy even further. I wave her over, playing the part of a proud chef eager to present his creation.
"Come here, my love, see what I've made for you," I beckon with a smile.
As she approaches, I pull out a chair for her. "Oh, a gentleman!" she exclaims, playing along.
In my best exaggerated Italian accent, I introduce our meal. "Ma’am, we have the spaghetti Bolognese, with the garlic bread and a Greek salad."
"Greek?" she questions, her amusement clear.
I shrug off the culinary mismatch. "Italian salads are boring." Seated across from her, sans pants and feeling slightly ridiculous, I serve us both generous portions of the sauce. The breadbasket is still warm, prompting me to toss a piece her way with a laugh.
This moment, stripped down and serving dinner in an apron, is as surreal as it is perfect, a reminder of the lightness and joy amidst our ongoing challenges.
We start eating, and Tilly gushes about my cooking skills. “Blame Ma. I’ve been on the phone with her all day. She’s now convinced that I am not her son since I have no cooking common sense, as she so lovingly put it.”
Tilly laughs. I love the sound. Like soft music playing on a spring day. Pure sunshine and calm. My heart melts. It’s perfect. Living with her, seeing her stomach grow, I couldn’t be happier.
But Tilly’s face suddenly droops, and I can tell something is wrong. “Til?”
She buries her face in her hands and starts sobbing. I push away from my chair and hurry to her side. “What is it?”
“Greg called right before I got home. He said the check from Tia was clean. We have to keep up this ridiculous charade. I thought I could forget about it for the night, but I can’t, Tommy.”
I rub her back. “Oh.” But I don’t really see what the problem is. “And that’s bad?”
She glares at me. “I want this over! I want to have you every night just like this without this looming threat.”
“Looming threat? Tia seemed thrilled with you. She has no idea.”
Tilly rolls her eyes. “You really don’t know Tia. She’s…”
I want to say a heartless bitch but keep it to myself. “While I was out with Sam, I saw Keaton. He was following us. He doesn’t do anything without her say-so. Then she gave us clean money, like she knew we were going to do something with it.” My gaze drifts to the ground. That does seem to make things more complicated. “I called Andy, and she said she would talk to Tia.”
I raise both hands up. “So that’s it then. Miranda will figure it out.” I kiss her cheek, but the news unsettles me. I pull my plate over and sit right next to her. With one hand on her knee, we both keep eating, but all the fun has been sucked out of the room.
When we’re done, I leave the dishes for later and take her to the couch. She sits on the edge of her cushion, and after putting on a pair of sweats, I climb behind her. As she finds something to watch, I start massaging her shoulders. I feel the tension ease out of her as I rub. She puts on a comedy special, and we both laugh at the TV. I start kissing gently at her neck, and she leans against me. My hands reach around and brush against her breasts, testing if she’s more in the mood than earlier.
She grabs my hand and holds it there. I feel myself start to harden instantly. It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed my woman’s supple curves and I'm all for it.
I press my face to hers, enjoying the lingering taste of spaghetti on her lips and her scent. Tilly has such a distinct smell. Like lilies and salt, so fragrant, especially since she got pregnant. It makes me feel drunk to inhale too close to her. She kisses me back, long and deep, her tongue splitting between my lips and exploring every corner of my mouth. I pull her to her feet, then tuck a hand under her knees and lift her off the ground. She squeals in delight, and I start walking toward our bedroom.
Once inside, I set her down gently and crawl over her. I let my cock—still trapped in its prison of tight boxer briefs and sweats—brush against her thigh, and she moans.
I smile. “You like that, babe?”
She only whimpers in response. I try not to press into her stomach too much, but she grabs onto me and pulls me down. “Erm, Til. Maybe you—” She presses her mouth to mine and kisses me deeply, then pushes me up to lay on her side. I stand, pull my pants off, and snuggle against her. She’s wearing a loose-fitting sundress, and my hand slides up under the thin fabric.
Just as I’m ready to plunge my hands between her legs, there’s a knock at the front door. Tilly slaps the mattress, her face contorted into a mask of frustration. “Can I just fuck my boyfriend for god’s sake?”
I’m already up, sliding my sweats back on. I kiss her forehead and hurry to the door. Miranda is standing on the porch, one hand rubbing her opposite elbow. “Hi Tommy. Sorry, but can I come in?”
I look over my shoulder, then step outside. “Is it urgent? I kind of just got her… calm.”
Miranda seems to read between the lines. “I’ll bet. But yes, it’s important.” I cross both arms against my bare chest. She is not ruining our night, no matter what news she brings. Realizing I won't let her in, she scoffs. “I talked to Tia. She says she never told Keaton to follow us. I’m really worried, Tommy.”
