Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
We went over the house and new office plans – which included eventually hiring help so they could be present in our child’s life.
We talked about baby names, baby prep, and lastly what sort of celebration we wanted for both our bundle of joy – who managed to survive all the trauma unscathed – and for uniting us.
We came to the collective consensus that what we wanted was something small but away from the town itself, so over dinner one night, when Garcia suggested his parents’ beautiful backyard – the backyard to the place where we got engaged – it sounded perfect.
We were so grateful when they said yes, but flabbergasted when they offered to pay for it all.
Our refusal fell on deaf ears yet our requests – blue velvet cake, bright colorful bouquets of flowers, a limited number of guests – were all welcomed with open arms.
Jokes that their kids may never get married while they’re still alive to witness it were at the forefront of everything, but honestly?
It was easy to see that they have always viewed Nolan like an additional son.
And caring for him, giving him a special day, was all they were trying to do.
Which they definitely succeeded in.
As grumpy as he is now, he’s been all smiles the rest of the day.
The only time I’ve seen him smile more was when we discovered I am actually having a boy.
Ugh.
The amount of gloating I suffered through had me threatening not to walk down the aisle with them at all.
They immediately called my bluff creating a very long, very sticky drive back to Death Canyon that afternoon.
I actually don’t mind that we’re having a little guy.
You know…as long as no one tries to name him Jr.
“Mutt…” leaves me in a soft, sweet, seductive tone alongside a small sway of my lace front, boho gown that flatters my five-month pregnant stomach. “Please…”
Grumbles of unhappiness precede another sip of his beer. “Promise you’ll beg me like that later tonight, you dirty, little whore, and I just might.”
It’s impossible not to whimper, but thankfully, the person approaching is one welcomed to hear it. “I love when our wife makes that sound.” Kid slides an arm around my lower back and flashes our husband a mischievous grin. “Have her make it again, Sir.”
This time it’s Nolan who releases a low note to express unsated hunger.
We didn’t wake up all together in our bed this morning.
In fact, we slept in three separate locations prior to getting ready in the same fashion to “build to the big moment”.
I would definitely put the big jaw-dropping reveals in the “worth it” file; however, I wouldn’t have minded being breakfast rather being brought breakfast.
What can I say?
This pregnancy thing keeps me feigning for multiple orgasms like some sort of drug addict.
Thankfully, there’s always someone willing to offer a hand.
Or tongue.
Or cock.
Or a vibrator if they’re just totally wiped for the day.
“I wanna dance with both of you,” I state while wiping away wedding cake crumbs near the corner of Kid’s mouth, “at least once tonight.”
Kid lovingly grins at my cleaning gesture. “Like all together?”
“Yes.”
“We can do that,” he warmly announces prior to shifting his stare to our partner. “We can be good husbands and dance with our wife at our wedding.” The abundant use of the terms gets underneath Mutt’s skin like he knew it would. “Right, Sir?”
“Forfuckssake,” grouses Nolan at the same time he abandons his bottle of beer. “Fine. You can have one dance, Rabbit.”
“Wife,” sassily escapes on a sexy smirk.
“Fuck, I love the sound of that too goddamn much.” Mutt grumbles during the rising to his feet.
“So does your husband,” Kid playfully pokes, grin matching mine.
“Fuck, I love the sound of that too,” the man who put back nine mini burgers in between photos contentedly murmurs against his own volition. “Like a C8 Corvette, you two have too much fuckin’ power.”
Mirth-filled eyebrow wiggles are given as I guide them both by the hand towards the fake-wood dance floor space in the middle of the yard. “Just wait until the first time you hear our son say dadda.”
“Fuck. Me.” He huffs in tandem with Kid laughing. “I’m never gonna have balls again.”
“You’ve got the best balls,” our younger hubs teases on a wink. “And I can’t wait to put them in my mouth later.”
Nolan groans and sloppily smashes his mouth against Kipp’s for a less than chaste kiss.
Once we’re on the dance floor, the DJ changes the song that I specifically picked for this moment.
I did the math.
Weighed my options.
Calculated the timing.
I knew Mutt would only give up one dance tonight – once he had successfully eaten a full plate and chugged back at bit of beer – so I wanted the song to be one he not only knew but would appreciate.
Familiar notes from Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together” begin flowing out of the speakers, instantly pulling the corners of his lips upwards.