Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 106948 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106948 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
I wrapped my arms around Leo, the sensation of being completely embraced filling me as another orgasm hovered just out of reach.
“Come on, baby girl, come all over your Daddy.”
I did, and I did it with a smile.
Epilogue
Fifteen years later
Leo
On the stage, a dozen chubby little four- and five-year-old girls twirled around in a disorganized circle, their rounded faces intent on their moves.
Our middle daughter, Carla, twirled from one side of the stage to the other, much to her mother’s chagrin, and my, along with the audience’s, delight. Dressed in a glittering pale jade leotard and matching sparkling tights, Carla beamed a smile at the crowd as she did an odd dance move that utterly lacked any rhythm. Her black pigtails, the same shade as her mother’s dark hair, swung with her lurching moves that were an odd combination of tap, ballet, and maybe an aboriginal war dance.
Next to me, Hannah sighed in exasperation while the dance teacher corralled her wayward ballerina. “She must get her dance moves from you.”
I didn’t dare laugh as I looked over at her seated in a crappy plastic folding chair like the rest of the parents, watching our little dancing dumplings.
That was the name of the dance school.
Dancing Dumplings.
I shit you not.
But Carla had taken one look at the sparkling sign with apple dumplings in tutus on it and decided this was where she belonged.
Next to my always beautiful Hannah, sat our blonde eleven-year-old-going-on-thirty daughter, Tiffany, who was bouncing our fourteen-month-old daughter, Sage, on her lap.
“I don’t know, Mom,” Tiffany said with a smile, “I still remember the dance you did at Uncle Diego’s wedding.”
Hannah flushed and I couldn’t hold back my chuckle, earning a glare from my wife before she turned back to our too-smart-for-her-own-good daughter. “I was just showing people how to line dance.”
“Uh, Mom, usually when people line dance, it’s not by themselves.”
“I was improvising,” Hannah muttered, earning a laugh from both of us.
On the stage, Carla’s group was finishing up their dance and they assembled into a ragged line, dropping into awkward curtsies. Well, most of them did. Carla gave everyone a salute. I was really going to have to have a talk with Mark about letting Carla watch war movies with him whenever he babysat the kids.
Then she began to sing the national anthem at the top of her voice, pushing away her teacher when she tried to stop Carla, and I wondered if Ramón, who was recording all of this from the back of the room for Judith and Jose, was pissing himself laughing yet.
One thing my children did not lack was self-esteem. How could my girls believe they were anything but wonderful when they had literally an entire cartel of people who thought they were the cutest things ever? Hannah and I worked hard to keep the girls from being spoiled, but Carla in particular, with her mother’s big doe eyes, had learned how to expertly manipulate adults into being her minions. It was quite funny to watch, and it pissed off Hannah that I was not so secretly proud of my middle child’s ability to outwit and outmaneuver her Cordova uncles.
Unfortunately, that belief in herself also led to not-so-amusing situations like hijacking the dance recital.
As I shrank down into my seat, the other little girls on stage, a few of them Carla’s cousins, began to follow Carla’s lead as the teachers stood helplessly aside and followed suit, belting out the next verse.
Then Carla yelled out, “You stand up for the national anthem!”
Hannah covered her face as we stood, along with the rest of the audience, while Carla returned to singing the hell out of the song with all of her considerable, and off-tune, voice.
Grinning down at my wife, we sang along while Tiffany rocked Sage as she smiled up at her big sister.
Slipping my arm around my wife’s shoulders, I hugged her close and watched our little rule breaker run the show, already dreading the day when I had three beautiful young women, and the boys who would want to take them away from me.
God help the man who got Carla.
Hannah leaned up, her soft breasts and nicely rounded body pressing into mine. Motherhood had been good to her, giving her womanly curves that I couldn’t keep my hands off of. I wanted to have one more child, try one more time for a boy, but she said her baby factory was closed. I still thought I could convince her otherwise.
“I love you,” she whispered against my lips while Tiffany made revolted noises.
Hannah and I were an openly affectionate couple, much to our daughter’s disgust and my delight.
“I love you too, baby girl.”
She leaned up to whisper in my ear, in a voice I could barely hear, “And don’t think I’m not blaming you for this somehow. When we get home tonight, you get to wear the butt plug.”