Girl power is her new motto. I blame Erika—Riley’s daughter. There’s a reason Emmylou is sporting a yellow tutu and a baseball cap backward. She’s even sporting tiny kneepads. It’s her go-to outfit of the week after church.
Our baby girl is convinced she wants to be a ballerina and a professional baseball player when she grows up. I’m not about to crush her dreams.
A couple weeks ago, she wanted to ownallthe banks in the countryand be President at the same time. Erika is training her to become a boss lady.
“No, it’s not––”
“Settle down, kids.” I interrupt Marlon. “We’ll have more girls later to even out the score.”
I love Carina pregnant.
I love to see these little people who are a perfect blend of both of us––a reflection of our love—running around carefree.
I love knowing we’re creating this incredible family together.
And my God, I love her body when she’s expecting… especially those swollen tits. Damn, I could spend my life latching onto her heavy tits after she gives birth.
Carina’s breasts were something else before the pregnancies, but now… they’re spectacular.
I pretty much only fuck her while she straddles me so I can get an eyeful of her heavy tits swinging all over the place as I thrust into her pussy.
And when she sucks on her nipple while I’m worshiping her pussy, that’s a guarantee I’ll come like a fucking animal.
I’m all for more kids.
Such wishful thinking could be the equivalent of signing my own death warrant––or at the very least, a detriment to the family jewels––but what the hell. As a former rodeo star, I have balls of steel.
“More girls?” Carina scoffs. “I don’t think so.” She wags a motherly finger at me. “After these two, it’s over. No more babies for you, Rhett Sullivan.”
In the early days of her pregnancy with the triplets, she was gung-ho on doing it all.
The boys wouldn’t have it.
She had to give up working at Happy Belly when she was four months pregnant. It was too much. She shifted her attentionto her popular website and top-rated YouTube cooking channel. Her audience loved keeping track of her new recipes—and the pregnancy’s progress.
As her belly kept getting bigger and bigger, it was more difficult for her to muster up the desire to maintain a regimented production schedule. Eventually, her attention waned.
Once the boys were born, her focus was solely on our kids.
From day one, I was a fully committed and involved dad, but we were outnumbered. Even with help from my grandparents, her family, and the people I hired to lighten her load, it was a lot to handle.
The theory that multiple births skip a generation doesn’t apply to us.
Reminding her of the sore subject when she’s six months pregnant is ill-advised, so I settle for, “You’re the boss.”
She flashes me a cocky smile.
I return it.
Madoc, Marlon, and Maxson are our four-year-old triplets. They look just like Carina’s side. They even have the blue eyes to match. Emmylou is the little dark-haired princess with the big green eyes, matching her daddy’s. She’s three years old, cute as a button, and she wants to run the world. She arrived eleven months after the triplets. Within a year, we had triplets with an Irish-twin sibling.
My desire for Carina hasn’t faded over the years. If anything, it keeps growing.
After the obligatory post-birth wait time once our triplets were born, I was dying to get inside her again. We were careful. The one time I forgot to wear a condom, she got pregnant.
Neither of us regret it, though. Emmylou is a gift.
More kids. More blessings.
