by Shyla Colt
“This dad wants to finish up, so he can get his Christmas present early.”
She bites her bottom lip, and I groan. Three years and one child later, the fire burns between us just as bright. I nip her bottom lip. She hums. Leaning into me, she slips her tongue inside of my mouth. I bury my fingers in her hair and lose myself in her sweet flavor. Christmas gets a little better every year we spend together. Separating for air, I rest my forehead against hers. I massage the back of her neck as I breathe her in.
“What else do we have to do again?” My voice wavers, and she giggles.
“Put a bow on it.”
Releasing her, I rush over to the box full of wrapping accessories. I choose the white bow crafted expertly by my mom, who prefers to be called Mimi these days. Sticking it on the front of the turquoise, fifties-style creation, I try to see it from Neva’s point of view. It’d be just like ours with its fridge, microwave, and oven, complete with realistic burner and sink sounds. We purchased shiny little pots and pans and food. Neva had the entire family wrapped around her chubby little fingers. With brown eyes the same shape and color as her mother’s, and a mixture of both our facial features, she’s a living, breathing miracle.
Standing, I admire our work. “I declare Christmas complete.”
She lifts her arms up in victory and turns to me. “I want to give you that present now. Sit.”
“Right here?” I ask, resting on the carpet.
She nods and sinks down into my lap pressing her back to my front. “Someone’s eager, she said clearly feeling the bulge in my jogging pants. She circles her hips slowly.”
Chills run down my spine.
“Your unicorn onesie leaves nothing to the imagination, little one.”
“I know, that’s why I bought it.” She winks. Leaning forward, she plucks a small box from the pile and holds it up to me. “Here.” She peers up at me expectantly. Arms wrapped around her, I slowly peel back the plaid wrapping paper. She’s all but vibrating with excitement. I lift the lid off the box, and my throat clogs. A pink and white stick with two lines rests in tissue paper.
“We’re going to have another baby?” I place my hand over her belly.
“Yes.” She places her small hand over mine. “I know we didn’t plan it.”
“Hey. I’m over the moon.” I kiss her softly. “The more the merrier in this house.” I caress the side of her face with my thumb. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Let’s go celebrate properly.” I lift her into my arms and stand, ready to worship the body busy at work, making our second child. I pause in the doorway of our bedroom.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Miller.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Miller.”
About the Author
Told once 'You have to be an author, then your craziness becomes eccentrics,' Shyla Colt has always been in love with the written word and possessed a desire to write. Named after Super Girl in the comics, she often mistakes her mortality for superhero status. So, she holds many hats, Mother, Marine Wife, and writer are her top three. Writing allows her to explore new venues, face her demons, and touch others. A huge practitioner of paying it forward, and putting in what you want to get out, she hopes to inspire, enlighten, move, and entertain you with her work. Mixing humor, drama, and strong women, often with a paranormal element, she continues to soldier ahead in the writing field. One of her favorite things is talking to fans. If you'd like to learn more or just drop a line, please check her out at www.shylacolt.net
Follow me on twitter: @shylacolt
Website: www.shylacolt.net
