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“Daddy!” yelled the kids, running at full sprint across the yard to get to me. I dropped to one knee. Randal Junior was in the lead, long and lanky even at five years old. But his little sister Maggie was hard on his heels, with a furious look on her face, tongue sticking out as she ran as hard as she could with fists clenched to catch up to her older brother. So fucking cute. She had her mom’s eyes, and her mom’s hair, and she was tough as nails, just like Iris.
Randal got to me first, wrapping his arms around my neck. His hair was damp with sweat, and he had bits of hay and feed all over his clothes. Maggie, though, not to be beat, launched herself up on top of her brother’s back like a possum, and hung on tight to both of us.
They easily fit in my arms, both of them together, and I hoisted them up off the ground, which they answered with fucking fantastic, ear-splitting giggles. They did it every damned time I got them up in the air. And it never, ever got old.
Taking Maggie under one arm and Randal under the other, I hauled them across the farmyard like bales of hay. “Iris,” I hollered. “Found some old rotten bales. I’m gonna go toss them in the canal.”
“Nooooooo!” Maggie giggle-screamed.
Randal chuckled too, but then panted. “Not the canal, Dad! Not today! One of the heifers is about to have its baby!”
Serious business, indeed. Kneeling again, I let the kids go, and they took off for the milking shed, boots smacking the mud, and Maggie’s skirt all bunched up in her underclothes, showing a peek of her butt as she ran.
Just as they slid out of my arms, I spotted Iris, standing in one of the barns. Since the big barn doors on both sides of the building were wide open, she stood in silhouette—her belly heavy and round with our third. It made me think of the stolen princess of legend, her three children represented by the three stars on our family crest. Would my own children go on to found kingdoms of their own? Not if I could help it. I’d keep them as far away from royal duties as I could, for as long as I could. Watching Iris, I felt my cock respond. Everything about her pregnant body was insanely fucking sexy—that crease between her belly and her hips, the extra softness of her arms, the ripple of extra weight at the backs of her thighs. Fuck. But her breasts especially drove me right out of my skull. Those milky tits. Christ almighty. Just the thought made my damned stomach growl.
Within a matter of a few long strides, I had Iris in my arms. I gave her a kiss and smacked her ass, which she answered with a playful swat of my hand and a smile into the kiss. “Bonny’s right there! Behave!”
I growled into the shell of her ear. “Like I give a fuck,” I said, under my breath.
Iris drew her shoulders back and put one hand on her hip to say she gave a fuck.
“Alright, alright,” I said, resisting the urge to adjust my balls. The erection was real, but as long as I stayed behind Iris for a minute I’d be able hide it. Mostly. But I didn’t miss my chance to hook my arm around her belly, nestling it in between her tits and her baby bump, and leaning in behind her to say, “I’m fucking hungry. Make some milk for me. Right now.”
She stifled a laugh and slapped my thigh, a hot red blush coming up into her cheeks.
Following Iris into the shed, I saw Bonny seated on a milking stool, one hand to the pregnant heifer’s belly, and one ear to her side. It was the same little Bonny who Iris had taught so much when she ran the farm herself. But Bonny was a little girl no longer. She had grown up a lot in five years, and she was now well into the full power of young womanhood herself. Millstone Farm was now hers and she ran it like a well-run ship—everything neat, trim, and organized. Helping her with the calving was a farmhand named Rhys, who watched her with attentive, lusty eyes. Most of the men that Bonny oversaw resented being bossed around by a young little firecracker with hair the color of copper, and bright blue eyes that turned a fearsome sapphire when she was pissed off. But not Rhys. He was a grown man only a little smaller than me, but he’d have done absolutely anything that little firecracker wanted. Smitten as fuck.
“Hello, your majesty,” said Bonny, lowering her head. She knew how much I hated the pomp and circumstance as well as anybody, and I was grateful that she didn’t give me the full curtsy and all the rest of that shit. Rhys, though, stared at me with a stock-still terror like he was a deer caught in a crossbow sight. He began to rise to bow for me and Iris, but Bonny set him straight with a ruthless jab of her elbow into his ribcage. “Sit down, Rhys! Randal will still be the king in twenty minutes; you can bow to him then. But this calf is on its way now.”
