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“Holy f—the head is out! I can’t believe it,” Wyatt says with awe after a particularly long and brutal push.
“It is?” I burst into tears, then scream and push again with all my strength, and for much longer than before, until I’m hit with an indescribably enormous sense of release and relief as our baby is born.
Wyatt chokes on a breath, dropping his phone on the tile floor. He scoops them from the water, tears streaming down his cheeks, and places them on my chest.
“Oh my god, Wyatt! I did it!” I half cry, half laugh as I cradle the newborn on my chest. We both hold our breaths until our baby takes their first and lets out a piercing wail—it’s music to our ears.
“You did it, Dolly,” he whispers with admiration as he cradles the baby’s nearly bald head with one palm and the back of my head with the other. “You’re so strong. I love you so much. So damn much.” He leans over the tub to kiss their crown and then mine.
“I love you too,” I whisper, hoping my eyes and voice convey the depth of my love for him. We share a sweet kiss on the lips, and then I tilt the baby enough to check their sex. “A boy. Wyatt, we have a son!”
He bites back a sob and holds us both in his arms, uncaring of the water or mess from the birth. “Our son,” he whispers reverently. “Our son, William Davis Roberts.”
William after Wyatt’s Pops, and Davis after the man who made it possible for Wyatt to switch to local jobs so he could come home to me every single night.
There’s banging at the front door, and Wyatt kisses us each again, then leaves to let the EMTs into the house. I trace William’s nose with the tip of my finger and lean down to kiss his wrinkly forehead.
He’s so big and handsome, just like his daddy, and maybe, just maybe, Wyatt will be able to talk me into doing this again if they all come out this cute and precious.
“Welcome home, William. Mama and Daddy love you.”
Chapter 32
Wyatt
“Absolutely not. No birth control, ever.”
Dolly’s OBGYN, Dr. Patel, sighs with exasperation when I answer for Dolly after she asks her if she’s thought about what kind of birth control she would like at her six-week postpartum checkup.
Dolly huffs. “Wyatt—”
“Ain’t happening, babygirl.” I shake my head, my body already vibrating with the need to fuck her ‘til she’s pregnant again.
And again.
And again.
It’s been a long six weeks since she gave birth to our son, though I’d go six years if that’s what it would take for her to heal from birthing our vagina-breaking nine-pound-four-ounce baby.
I smile, thinking about what I’m going to do to her tonight as I rock William in my arms. It’s getting close to his nap time, and he’s starting to get a little fussy. I’m sure he’ll want to nurse again soon for the hundredth time today. Our big boy has a big appetite, just like his daddy.
He lets out a little cry, and Dolly groans. “It’s happening again.”
There are two small, growing wet spots on the front of her shirt, and she reaches for William. I hand him over and grin as she pulls her shirt up and unclips her nursing bra. She sighs in relief as our son roots around and latches onto her engorged breast. Her nipples, which were already large to begin with, are even larger and darker now. I can’t get enough of them and can’t wait for my turn to play with them.
Dr. Patel speaks up again, and I tear my gaze away, trying to focus on what she’s saying. “Wyatt, it’s important to know that Dolly is at her most fertile right now, and—”
“Good to know, Doc.” I wink, and Dolly rolls her eyes, exasperated with me, too.
“And”—she stresses—“it is advised to wait eighteen months before getting pregnant again. It’s for her health and safety, Wyatt. I’m sure you don’t want her to experience any complications from getting pregnant too soon.”
That gives me pause, and I turn to Dolly, my wife and love of my life. The thought of putting her health in jeopardy because I’m too much of a selfish bastard to let her heal properly doesn’t sit right with me. She and our son are my whole world—my literal dream come true—and I’d never forgive myself if I did anything to hurt her.
I nod my assent, and she beams at me and mouths, “Love you,” before going over birth control options with the doctor. She opts for the kind you get as a shot every three months, starting today.
“Best believe I’ll be counting down the days ‘til I can fuck another baby into you, Mrs. Roberts.”
“Wyatt!” she whisper-shouts. “You can’t just say stuff like that in front of people!” She slaps a hand over her face before apologizing to the doc for her caveman husband.
