Man of My Dreams(4)

“Okay, girls, thanks lots.”

I grab my phone, ignoring the early hour. Grace insisted I text her the next time I had the dream. So I do.



Again! 2 in 1 month. What the hell is wrong with me?



What the hell is wrong with me? For the past ten years, at least once every few months, I have dreamt about hot, steamy, glorious sex with Noah. Where our hands roam each other’s bodies, leaving no flesh untouched. Where he claims me as his own and I let him wrap his arms around me and tell me how much he loves me.

But I digress.

That is not my life. And it’s not that I object. I’m happy. I’m in love. I have a great life. Okay, fine, I’m semi-happy, with my semi-eventful life. I know I shouldn’t be so ungrateful; there are people out there who would give a right arm for my life, but it’s just so…ordinary.

Grace’s text interrupts my recurring thoughts.



Hot and steamy again? Did you…?



I waste no time texting back.



Nope! Not this time :( Woken too soon!



An unexpected heat pulses through me, reminding me of what I was ripped away from. Grace breaks me free of that fantasy too.



Don’t worry. Declan will be home soon. LOL



She’s right. And I plan to plop the kids right off at their Nana’s so that I can jump his bones. Is it crazy that thinking of sex with another man makes me want to jump my husband’s bones? Something’s wrong with me.

I wash my face again, needing the cold sensation. “There’s nothing wrong with you. It was just a dream,” I reassure my reflection, wishing I actually believed it.

I would believe it, if it weren’t happening so damn frequently. I have no reason for these subliminal messages to be intruding my dreams. I haven’t even had contact with Noah since…See? I can’t even remember the last time.

Besides, Declan is a good man, a hot man. Damn great…at least, it is when we actually manage to find time for sex. When the kids aren’t lodged in between us in our bed, or when he isn’t away on business. It isn’t the glamorous life he’d promised me when he proposed to me in college, but almost five years of marriage and two kids will do that to you. The monotony of reality will suck the glamour right out of any desperate housewife’s life.

It’s not that the effort isn’t there. I try every chance I can to get a piece of my husband. Declan is gorgeous. Tall, broad, and muscular. Jet black hair that sometimes falls casually against his forehead and crystal-blue eyes to match the ones he’d given his daughters. He’s a catch and I’m reminded of that, often. I’ve even gotten used to being asked by former co-workers or PTA moms how I managed to land such a stud. Yup, I’ve been asked that. Multiple times. It doesn’t bother me anymore. But on occasion, when I don’t like the way the person is eyeing my man, I’ll tell them it’s my kinky bedroom skills that won him over.

As if his incredible looks weren’t enough, the man has a heart of gold. Compassionate, attentive, and loving, he stole my heart on our very first date. And every day, I’m reminded of how lucky I am when I see what a good father he is to our girls. Although I hate to admit it, sometimes I get upset that those little rascals absorb a lot of the love that was once focused solely on me. I never thought I’d be jealous of my own daughters, but there are times when I secretly wish that I could have him as wrapped around my pinky as Cara and Charlie do.

I smile at my tired reflection in the mirror, realizing that I am in desperate need of a revamping before my hottie comes home tonight. Maybe an impromptu blow-out and a mani-pedi with the girls? Of course, that’s if they feel like cooperating. As I think about my day of pampering, I’m suddenly eager to be wrapped in Declan’s arms. Tonight can’t come quick enough.

“Moooommmmmyyyyy.”

“I’m coming, ladies.” I grumble and whine the whole way downstairs as I am suddenly reminded of the fact that it’s not even seven in the morning. I’m not prepared. I didn’t have enough sleep for this. The breakfast mess, the midmorning snack mess, followed by the lunch mess, the after-lunch snack mess and the dinner mess. The fact that all my kids do is graze like cattle throughout the day is physically, mentally and monetarily exhausting.

I walk into the kitchen, see the girls’ mismatched table setting and smile. And just like every other day, all the disgruntlement melts away. “You girls did such a nice job!” Then I do my best impression of a grizzly bear, “But where’s my breakfast? I’m hungry!” I lunge at them with makeshift claws, roaring and chomping in their directions.