Emery and I hit up the jogging trail, as we do at least twice a week now.
When we get back, he calls Aly and I take a shower. I see him watching me through the door we never bother closing, so I put on a show. Soaping my dick, I give it long, luxuriating tugs until his head snaps away with a scowl and he grudgingly asks Aly to repeat herself.
By the time I get out, a vegetable rice is frying on the stovetop and Emery is stirring it with one hand while flipping his textbook pages with the other. I take over so he can shower.
"Can you rub my shoulders?" Emery murmurs distractedly when he returns in his pyjama pants. "I mean the left one. Violin hurts."
"Rub your own shoulders. I'm eating."
"I thought I was your wife," Emery hisses, glaring contemptuously.
"I never said I'd be a good husband." Rolling my eyes, I drag his chair in front of mine and set to work.
I guess I'm really good, because he ends up falling asleep in his chair. I gently pluck the papers from his hands, pick him up and take him to his bed, lay the blanket over him and tuck it in at the sides before kissing his head and leaving him for some much-needed rest.