Epilogue
Tre
“How’s your back, chiquita?”
“Sore. You’d think I’d be used to these false contractions by the third time around. But they still hurt.”
Joaquin stands beside me, rubbing my lower back.
We look out at the sparkling aquamarine water that laps beneath our hut on stilts in the Maldives.
I’m seven and a half months pregnant, and we’re on our third babymoon.
It felt extravagant to go on a second one, but Joaquin and I quickly realized it was Mamá’s chance to instigate trouble with Mom.
Luciana Diaz and Kathleen Vizzini shouldn’t be allowed near children unless the parents want the kids to come back spoiled rotten.
Bedtime? What’s that?
Vegetables? What’re those?
In true grandparental fashion, any rule they imposed with an iron will goes out the window the moment the grandkids arrive at their house. Hell, the moment they arrive at your house.
But Joaquin and I aren’t really complaining. With what’ll be three kids under six, the time alone together is a rare treasure. I turn toward him and cup his face.
“I’m glad you suggested this place for our honeymoon. I appreciate your family insisting we have a babymoon each time. It’s nice to come back three more times.”
“With the way we are, perhaps we should just buy a property here, chiquita.”
“I thought we said three was enough.”
“And I thought you said four’s a nice even number.”
“Humph.”
I love that no matter how big my belly’s gotten—and I’d say huge considering our first two sons were both nine-six—Joaquin’s arms still reach around.
He was right when he reassured me that if he can carry his brothers, he can carry me when I’m preggers.
It’s awkward at the end because my belly’s in the way, but we seize any opportunity for sex, even if it’s on the way to the kitchen during naptime.
That’s how we’re having baby number three.
Pretty sure that’s how Madeline and Javier are on number three too.
Turns out, I wasn’t having the first member of the next generation.
It was Madeline who was already pregnant.
They were going to tell the family at the Sunday dinner after Alejandro and Toria’s housewarming party, but Joaquin and I stole the show.
After that, with everything that happened with my pregnancy, they didn’t feel right announcing something joyous when someone was trying to kill Joaquin’s and my baby.
Madeline and Javier’s son Josue is three months older than our Alfonso.
We named him after my brother. We had another name picked out, but the moment the doctor held him up, we knew Alfonso was the right name.
He looked like the spitting image of my brother in his newborn photo.
However, at three, Lonso’s lighter hair darkened.
He already had brown eyes. With each year, he’s grown to look more like Joaquin.
Those damn Diaz genes.
Tía Margherita pulled out Pablo’s high school genetics project to show us after Lonso was born. Josue came out a carbon copy of Javier. They named him Josue after Luciana’s father. Of all Tres J’s, Javier apparently bears the closest resemblance to their grandfather. It’s truly astonishing.
“What’re you thinking about, chica? Picking out a property?”
Joaquin’s hand continues to rub my lower back as the other comes to rest on my belly. I lean my head against his chest and sigh. I close my eyes, utterly content. Besides being with our children too, life doesn’t get better than when I’m with my husband.
“No. Just wondering if I might get a child who looks even a little like me.”
Joaquin turns me toward him, and he slides both hands down to my ass, kneading the sore muscles. I moan in pleasure as it eases my discomfort. He moans as I feel him hardening.
“Blond hair, green eyes, with a permanent tan. Sounds cute.”
Joaquin kisses my cheek before leading me to the steps into the ocean.
Floating is far more comfortable than standing these days.
This is one of those times where I can wrap my legs around his waist without my belly in the way because I lean all the way back into water that’s more like bathwater than ocean.
“You’re really sure you’re okay?”
“Daddy, you’ve been like this every time. I hit seven months, and you start to panic if I walk past the mailbox.”
I knew we had to take this trip now, or the opportunity would pass us by. Reasonably, flying any later into my pregnancy was risky. Joaquin would’ve flipped out if I suggested even a week later than now.
“It’s not panic. It’s preparation.”
While my pregnancy with Lonso progressed smoothly, and there were no signs that we needed to worry, it remained high risk. As soon as Joaquin heard those two words, he was ready to bubble wrap me. I get it though. My first delivery went a bit sideways.
Lonso was a big baby. That came as a surprise since one of our greatest fears after the poisoning was that he might be premature or that he could have a low birth weight.
We knew there weren’t any tests that could definitively tell us whether the thallium would cause developmental challenges, but I was monitored for my own thallium levels, which remained exceedingly low.
With wealth comes privilege, and that meant I received far more high-res ultrasounds that most women.
They tracked placental health and my amniotic fluid.
The excessive amount had nothing to do with the thallium—I’ve just always been an overachiever.
Even with my broad hips, he managed to turn himself the wrong way at the last minute. At thirty-seven weeks, Tía Margherita and the obstetrician—who was fine, but Tía was far better—had to perform an external cephalic version and induce me.
“Mhmm. And that’s why you have an obstetrician on call here, Joaco.”
Joaquin didn’t panic during my delivery.
He would never. But he’s far more empathetic than anyone could imagine.
Basically, they pressed on my belly to nudge Lonso back into the right position.
By nudge, I mean press on me like they were trying to deflate a basketball in record time.
The first sign of my son’s stubbornness should have stood out that day.
He flipped back around because I had an excess amount of amniotic fluid.
They did a second version. Fortunately, I dilated fast enough to push before he could swim around a third time.
Then there was the wait to see what state he would be in.
If there would be any recognizable conditions or complications the testing couldn’t pick up on. There were none and have been none.
“Yes. Why not take precautions if we can, chica?”
All this is to say, my poor husband loves getting me pregnant, loves seeing me pregnant, loves being a father, but has a near-debilitating phobia of deliveries.
For a man who survives on being in control, feeling that helpless as he watches his wife in labor is nearly more than he can manage.
He hides it well. He never makes it about himself.
If I didn’t know him like I do, I’d never be able to tell.
But this may be our last child because I don’t think I can put him through this again after this baby’s born.
“I do appreciate it, Daddy. You know I’d plan for all of these what-ifs even if you didn’t.”
“But it’s one less thing for you to worry about, chica.”
“I love you.”
I say it so unexpectedly and in a tone that I guess surprises him.
“I love you, chica.”
He supports my back as he pulls me upright.
“I’m feeling better now. Want to go back in?”
I waggle my eyebrows at him. He holds me tighter and immediately makes for the ladder. We enter the hut through the bathroom and shed our wet suits before drying off.
“Come here, chiquita.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I stand in front of him as his gaze skims my body. He makes me feel beautiful no matter what. He always has.
“Climb onto the bed.”
I follow his instructions, getting on my hands and knees. I hear a bottle snap open, then his oiled palms massage my ass and lower back. It’s fucking divine.
“Mmm, Daddy, right there.”
He finds a particularly tight and tender spot where my spine meets my hips. He works that until I feel it release. I shake my ass at him. He playfully slaps it.
“Yes, Daddy. That’s right. Give me some more.”
I tease as I push my hips back as though I’m chasing his hand. He obliges, and I moan. I widen my legs and tilt as far forward as I can. He changes the angle of his hand this time, so he nails both cheeks.
Another bottle snaps open, then I feel a warm liquid dribble along the divide between my ass cheeks. I relax as I shift to turn my knees inward slightly. I feel the plug pressing against my entrance. I make it as easy as I can for Joaquin to slide it in.
After the mortifying experience of having that removed right before getting my stomach pumped, it was nearly two years before I was comfortable leaving the house wearing one.
Just like the first time, I didn’t realize it vibrated until Joaquin turned it on.
He did it as we were walking across our circular driveway to get into a waiting town car.
Thank goodness the privacy glass is always up because he toyed with me the entire way to the charity gala for one of the child development centers our family sponsors.
When I looked around, I noticed I wasn’t the only syndicate woman shifting in her seat from time to time.
We’re all kinky fuckers—literally. We had a hotel room for the night, so we disappeared during Tío Enrique’s speech.
That did not go unnoticed, but that was mainly because Pablo and Florencia came back into the ballroom just as we were leaving.
“How’re you feeling, chica?”
“Full.”
“Can you take all of it, or do you want to go down a size?”
“All.”
He presses a little harder until it slips all the way into my ass.
He helps me shift on the bed until I’m comfortably resting on my side with a pillow under my belly and one at my lower back.
This isn’t our first rodeo here, so Joaquin’s already configured our restraint system.
He ensures my arms are at a comfortable angle and height before he lifts my top leg, bending it slightly before pressing it forward to attach a cuff that suspends my leg in the air.
He leaves my lower leg alone, knowing anything else doesn’t feel good for more than a couple minutes.
He eases the vaginal spreader into me. He fits the metal oval inside my opening and presses me open, not expanding it nearly as wide as he does when I’m not pregnant. It’s more symbolic than anything else. This and vibrators were something we definitely asked Madeline about, not Tía.
He sets the plug on the second level as he turns on a vibrator with a clit stimulator. I’m breathing heavier from excitement. He teases me as he slowly inches it inside me. He makes it halfway then stops, tormenting me until I’m begging.
“Please, Daddy. Please.”
“What do you want me to do, baby girl?”
“Give me all of it.”
“Hmm.”
He moves slower than I thought possible until it’s all the way in.
But rather than place the extension against my clit, he spins it and presses against the area between my pussy and ass.
We’ve discovered during pregnancy, that area’s particularly sensitive and arousing.
We haven’t looked up why. We just go with it.
As he moves the vibrator, he leans forward and latches onto my nipple.
While it’s not his favorite thing, he likes my milk.
I’ve always had a healthy supply, so I’ve never worried about him having some.
It’s not like he’s requesting to have it in his coffee or cereal.
It’s only ever when we’re having sex or sometimes at the end of a particularly stressful day. It’s just something we’re into.
Right now, he tongues my nipple before nipping at it and sucking again.
He edges me for what feels like forever, until my cunt’s dripping and getting sloppy.
He adjusts the restraints slightly, so I can roll a little onto my back without it being all the way, and the pillows are in the right place to support me.
He removes the spreader before he climbs onto the bed and settles between my thighs.
He licks me dry, and I watch him slip his hand beneath him. I know he’s stroking himself. When he looks up at me, he knows I know what he’s doing. He’s teasing me. He knows I want my hand around his cock not his.
“Soon.”
He dives in, licking, sucking, flicking, grazing. All the ways he can arouse me with his mouth, he does it.
“Daddy, please.”
In response to my plea, he turns up the vibrator and the butt plug. I moan as I strain my body to bring on the looming orgasm. It’s just beyond my reach. He ensures the vibrator’s little arm rubs my clit just how I like it.
“Come.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I close my eyes and surrender. The orgasm washes over me as pleasure begins deep within my cunt and radiates into my belly and upper thighs.
“How’re you doing?”
“I’m well. What’s next?”
I waggle my eyebrows at him.
“Impatient.”
“Always.”
“Greedy.”
“Always.”
He removes the vibrator, then the restraints.
He helps me sit up, waiting a moment to be sure I don’t get dizzy.
Then he eases me to my feet. I’ve definitely entered the “it’s hard to get up on my own” stage.
I’m pretty certain I’m waddling too. Joaquin says I look cute when I do. I feel ridiculous.
He adjusts the swing into place before helping me get situated, then he pulls on the straps to lift me to the height that allows him to fuck me.
He eases into me. Gone are the days of his hard thrusts and pounding sex.
They’ll be back six weeks after the delivery. We both marked it on our calendars.
“I feel so full, Joaco. It feels amazing.”
With my pussy and my ass stuffed, I feel like I can’t take any more.
It’s the feeling I love best during sex, short of coming.
When he’s all the way in, he pushes on the straps to rock me.
He thrusts every time he brings me closer and withdraws as the swing moves me away.
I grip the straps and use the stirrups to help it sway.
The hut has sliding glass doors two hundred and seventy degrees around it, letting in a much-needed and greatly appreciated cross breeze.
The glass floor allows us to watch the sea life beneath us as we make love.
There’s something earthy and primal about being this close to such active parts of nature.
Fucking against a tree or in a river or lake is great.
But to see the vibrant coral and bright fish swim by, oblivious to what you’re doing, adds another dimension to the sex.
“Chiquita, you bring out the devil in me. The things I would do for you.”
The things he has done for me that I’ll never know about.
“And just when I thought you were an angel bringing me to heaven.”