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"Hey there," I whispered against her belly. "It's your daddy."
She smoothed one hand over my head and rested the other on the top of her rounded thirty-four weeks-and-counting belly.
While I rested my cheek against the baby—because the cloth and skin did not exist—my hands slid under her skirt and swept up the back to grasp her firm flesh.
Thirty-four weeks but still doing yoga. I squeezed and then brought my thumbs around the front to meet at the soft, bare V in the front.
"No," she protested, but wasn’t a very robust no. It sounded like acquiescence—more like yes.
I kissed her, scattering love pecks all over the amazing roundness that represented our child. I tucked my thumbs under the cotton to stroke her delicate, very sensitive skin. These days, it took only a few passes to bring her off.
"Yes," I whispered, and then the dress was rucked up, past the thighs, over the head, and onto the floor. Her newly-abundant chest bounced as she panted.
"We shouldn't. We'll be late." Yes, but…
I ignored her and pulled down the panties. Her hands rested on my shoulders, and the heavy weight of her body, weighted down by my child, made my chest widen with pride and joy.
"Open for me," I said quietly, and she did because she hadn’t found a way to resist me, thank God. Her legs parted. It was a good thing I had my hands on the back of her thighs because at the first touch of my tongue, her knees buckled. I caught her and carried her to the couch. I shoved my shoulders between her legs, pushing them wider apart and pulling her lower until she was on top of me. I buried my mouth between her legs, licking and sucking and then undoing my pants and shoving them down to my thighs so I could pull myself free.
I kissed her, my lips still wet from her arousal, and drilled my stiff erection inside her, pushing and thrusting until I bathed her with my seed.
"I can't get enough of you," I whispered as I cradled her in my arms.
"Good thing I'm already pregnant," she answered, running her fingers through my hair, scratching behind my ears just as I liked.
"Good thing." I leered at her.
* * *
We were very late.
"Baby problems," Winter explained to Ivy, who shook her head.
In the living room, I pulled Ivy’s boy onto my lap. "Little man, look at how big you are. You look good, Ivy."
She did. Motherhood had changed her for the better. She gave up all the vices, including smoking, having acknowledged she had a super addictive personality. She was dating again. Winter always liked it when Ivy was dating. It made Winter worry less about her being alone.
I jostled Timothy and then rubbed his white-blond hair.
“You know what a dad joke is?" I said to no one in particular.
Ivy took the bait. “No, what is it?”
Winter groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”
"Tell me a thoke.” Timothy grinned
"You think it's funny to pick your nose? It's snot."
Ivy and Winter covered their faces, and Timothy didn’t laugh until I tickled him. I felt like that was encouragement enough. I tried out another.
"I'm thirsty. Hey thirsty, I'm Finn."
Winter’s shoulders began to shake, and Timothy started to laugh without any prompts. The doorbell rang. It was probably my mother. Ivy got up to answer the door, and I continued,
"What's the last thing each Tickle-Me-Elmo doll gets before leaving the factory? Two test tickles."
"Stop. Stop," Winter cried. "These are terrible. Why am I laughing?"
