Kylian
Two Years Later
Tiny eyelashes catch in the stubble of my neck each time she blinks. A contented hum rumbles from my chest as I catalogue the sensation and make a mental note to remember this feeling forever.
“Okay, Daddy?” Dylan leans back and places her warm palm on my cheek, awaiting my response.
She calls me Daddy. All the kids do. Thankfully, I’m excellent at compartmentalizing.
The first time Archie called Decker “Daddy” instead of “Dada,” I nearly went over the edge. Up until then, I had only ever felt that level of possession with Jo. But “Daddy” as a moniker is mine. In all forms.
“Okay?” Dylan repeats, her brow furrowed and her lips turned down in concern.
I nod, cupping her little head and guiding it back onto my chest. She snuggles closer, and a warmth I never knew I’d have the privilege of experiencing blossoms inside me.
Jo has trained all our children to check in with me like this, especially at the end of the night.
Kids in general are loud. Unpredictable. Overstimulating without meaning to be.
And yet, I rarely need to mask around my own kids. They accommodate me more than what’s required of most parents, but there’s a natural cadence and deeply rooted authenticity to the care and concern we show each other in this family.
Research shows that our kids will be more inclusive and empathetic than their peers because they’re being raised by a parent on the spectrum. I take great pride in my contributions to raising good humans.
Dylan is nearly asleep when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I fish it out with one hand.
Jo: You’re spoiling her
Daddy: You can’t spoil a child. I read that in a parenting book. Babies don’t keep.
Jo: She’s almost four
I don’t bother arguing. Jo’s weaponizing logic and reason, and for once, she’s wielding it against me.
My phone vibrates again before I can reply.
Jo: I’m getting tired. Why don’t you come spoil me instead?
That’ll do it.
I seamlessly transfer Dylan into her bed, then sneak out of the room to find my girl.
She’s sprawled out on the bed, resting on her left side.
“Hi, baby,” I murmur as I climb in and spoon her from behind.
The hint of a smile graces her face, and it only widens when I run one hand up her thigh and smooth it over her swollen belly.
She’s pregnant again.
And this time, the baby is biologically mine.
All my opposition to procreating vanished the day Archer was born. I’ve never felt such an acute shift in my sense of self as I did then. That was the moment I realized my capacity to love can grow right alongside our family.
After that day, I started to consider what a biological child might look like, how they might act. Statistically they’re guaranteed to have blue eyes. The moment I spoke my desire out loud, Jo was all in. So were the guys.
Kendrick and I had vasectomies years ago, confident we wanted to grow our family without contributing DNA. Though I was not fond of having a stranger slice into my testicles twice, I had the procedure reversed.
Jo made Decker and Nicky wear condoms while we were trying to conceive.
Nicky was fine with it. His excitement for another baby trumped everything.
Decker was not as patient, and very vocal about his displeasure.
It only took two months for me to impregnate our girl, so we didn’t have to listen to his complaining for long.
“Hi, Daddy,” Jo murmurs. She catches my hand and lifts it to her lips, kissing the tips, then swirling her tongue around two of my fingers.
“Say it again,” I grunt, my cock swelling at just the heady sound of her voice.
I love all versions of this woman, but now that her breasts are swollen and her stomach is expanding because she’s pregnant with my child? I’m absolutely feral for her.
“Hi, Daddy,” she repeats, sucking two of my fingers into her mouth.
She shifts like she’s going to sit up, but she’s six months pregnant, and the doctor wants her lying on her left side as much as possible.
“Stay down,” I murmur, kissing along her body and smoothing my hands down her sides. I find the hem of her nightie and lift, exposing her glistening cunt.
“You’re so wet,” I praise. “Such a needy, horny thing when you’re pregnant.”
She groans when I tease one finger through her pussy lips.
When she moans, I bend low and pierce her with my tongue.
“Fuck, baby. You taste so sweet.”
My girl’s always insatiable, but pregnancy hormones are something else.
“Play with your nipples. I’m sucking those next.”
I adjust her legs so they’re pressed and bent at the knees. This way, I have unbarred access to her center. Then I dive between them and continue to assault her hole with my tongue. I alternate slow, languid licks with blunt, pointed thrusts, building her higher and higher.
“Daddy,” she whimpers, flailing one arm in search of me, even though she can’t reach me at this angle.
The first spasm takes hold, and I grin into her center, lapping and savoring every sweet drop she gives me.
A series of low moans informs me that she’s nearly done. She’s hypersensitive when she’s pregnant, so I ease up earlier than usual.
A resounding “Oh!” fills the room.
My mind freefalls into a flurry of considerations and panic. “What’s wrong?” I demand, sitting up and swiping her essence off my face.
Her hand is on her stomach—off to the side, above her hip.
“Are you in pain? Is it your back? Or your sciatic nerve?”
We’re all well-versed in the side effects of pregnancy by now, no one more so than Jo.
Growing a child with Nicky’s DNA resulted in a nine-pound, twelve-ounce baby.
If that wasn’t enough, Jo birthed twins next.
Though they were five pounds, two ounces each, the pregnancy and delivery wreaked havoc on her body.
I search her face, but when all I find is a serene smile tugging at the corner of her lips, I let out a breath of relief.
“I’m okay. Better than okay. But someone else wants to say hi to Daddy, too.”
She reaches for my hand, and I’m quick to offer it, then she guides my palm to the side of her stomach and presses until the skin compresses slightly.
After two seconds, a jolt pushes back.
“Is that—”
“It’s the first time I’ve felt him,” she confirms, her eyes welling with tears as she searches my face. “Say hi to your son, Kylian.”
My throat clogs with so much emotion I can’t speak.
But then our baby kicks again, and the reality of the life we created propels me into action.
Bending low, I kiss the spot he kicked. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper to my wife’s stomach.
Another kick.
A sigh from Jo.
It slams into me then—the realization that I’ve never, not once in my life, felt the spectrum of emotions I’m feeling right now, in this moment.
It’s stupefying to think a life we created is growing and flourishing inside Jo’s body.
Everything in existence can be broken down into logic, reason, or facts, and yet pregnancy never ceases to amaze me.
I understand the biology, of course, but the shift that has to occur to spark new life into existence is nothing short of cataclysmic.
I can’t help but marvel at the magic a baby brings to the world.
Just like I can’t help but marvel at the woman I get to call mine. The woman who has fought like hell to help me see more than just black and white so I can live life to the fullest in technicolor.