Author: Tracy
Category: drabble-ish DRR, fluff, humour
Summary: John needs a hand.
Notes: For Kate. Happy birthday to my nagger, encourager, and kindred spirit. I hope this is somewhat what you envisioned when you asked for a birthday treat. Big birthday hugs to you.
XxX
"C'mere, Mon. I wancha."
Monica took one look at her husband and snorted. "No way, John. You're all sticky."
He leered at her - actually leered, which given their age and marital status made her feel both giggly and just a bit ridiculous at the same time. "I thought you liked sticky," he said in that raspy, seductive tone that made shivers race the course of her spine every single time he used it.
Oh, she did. She loved sticky. She loved sticky and John in the same context. But unfortunately, much to her dismay, she couldn't do sticky today. "I do, but I've just showered."
"So you'll shower again," he cajoled, unbuttoning his shirt and shrugging it into the laundry hamper.
She sighed regretfully. "No, John."
He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans, letting them fall to the floor. "If you come here I promise not to stickify you."
"Stickify? That's not even a word!"
"Sure it is. It means to cover in goo. Now, c'mon baby, please?"
She wanted to. She really did. But she had things to do and places to be, and if she started what he wanted her to start then she'd never get out the door. But it sure was tempting.
He could see that she was wavering, so he pressed his advantage. "What if I promised to keep my hands to myself?"
Yeah, like that promise would hold up. Still . . . "Nah uh," she said quickly, shaking her head to clear the haze.
"But I need you," he wheedled.
She turned away from him and opened a bottle of lotion. If she wasn't looking directly at him then he couldn't affect her. At least, that's what she told herself. His reflection seemed to have other ideas though. "You're a big boy. You can take care of it yourself."
"You can be so heartless sometimes, Mon," he accused.
She rubbed the lotion into her arms, taking care not to glance in the mirror. "Is that supposed to make me feel bad?"
"Does it?" he asked hopefully.
She smiled. "Nope."
"You're killing me over here."
"You'll live," she retorted, smiling wider.
"You know," he said, coming to stand behind her, "You did promise to love, honour, and keep your husband satisfied wherever and whenever it was warranted. So far you're only scoring two out of three."
God, she loved it when he played with her. "I don't recall saying that last bit in our vows."
"It was implied," he grinned smugly.
"Oh, implied. How is it that I missed that?"
"You wouldn't want to dishonour your wedding vows, would you?" he asked, ignoring her question.
She laughed then, and met his eyes in the mirror. "It's not working, John."
"Not even a little bit?"
"Sorry."
He sighed mournfully. "I guess I'll just have to do it myself then."
"I think that's the best course of action, yes."
He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder and whispered into her ear, "Pity, Mon. It could've been fun."
And then he let her go and regretfully stepped under the shower to wash away the remains of his daughter's breakfast.
Monica watched his reflection as he soaped up. "Raincheck?" she called out, already making a mental note to get the baby down early.
"You betcha," was the triumphant reply.
End.