For a while, it was easy to keep things separate. At work, we were just colleagues. I focused on my job, and he focused on his. We communicated through reports, schedules, and project notes like nothing had changed.
But pregnancy had a way of rewriting everything, especially when hormones entered thepicture.
The deeper I got in my second trimester, the more I felt like a waddling contradiction of cravings, emotions, and arousal. My body had its own mind, my appetite doubled, and my patience was half what it used to be.
There were days I couldn’t even look at James without my heart racing, my nipples hardening, and my pussy creaming. He would be standing at the other end of the conference room, sleeves rolled up, explaining logistics, and all I could think about was how his moans pushed me through an orgasm this morning as Calla pounded into me. He feasted on my pussy until I cried out my pleasure. I was so fucking insatiable these days.
So I kept my distance. Some days, it meant working from home. Other days, it meant keeping my camera off during virtual meetings, just to keep myself from staring at him too long. I loved him, truly, but love and professionalism were constantly fighting for first place in my head.
Calla thought it was funny. “It’s normal,” she’d said one afternoon while we were in her office, sipping tea instead of coffee like a good mommy-to-be I am. “Your body’s catching up to your heart. Just be gentle with yourself.”
“Gentle,” I’d repeated, rolling my eyes. “That’s easy for you to say when you’re not crying over cereal commercials.”
She had laughed until she almost spilled her tea, then bent me over her desk and spanked me until I gushed all over her office for rolling my eyes.
Still, beneath the chaos, I felt complete, loved, and seen. There was something sacred about this season of my life. I was growing something new, not just inside me but around me as well. A new rhythm, a new family, a new version of myself that wasn’t afraid to feel everything.
Sometimes, when I sat in the quiet of my office, one hand on my constantly growing belly, I thought about the day we found out the sex of our baby, and it still felt surreal.
The ultrasound room was dim, with soft white walls and the steady hum of machines. I had been nervous, holding my breath even though I didn’t realize it until James slipped his hand into mine. Calla stood on the other side of the bed, her expression calm but her eyes glassy.
When the doctor told us to look at the screen, I swear the world stopped. There was our baby, moving, stretching, real.
Then came the moment that made everything sink in.
“Would you like to know the sex?” the sonographer asked, smiling.
I looked at James, who looked at Calla, and Calla looked at me. We all nodded at the same time.
The ultrasound tech gently told us with her eyes beaming with love and a smile big on her face, and that was it. Calla covered her mouth, tears spilling instantly, and James laughed, one of those full-body laughs that breaks halfway into a sob. I started crying too, mainly because they were crying.
It was the kind of happiness that made noise; it was loud and joyous and, in the best way possible, overwhelming, like it filled the whole room and spilled out into the hallway.
The nurses and doctors were smitten with us, you could tell. I caught one nurse whispering to another, grinning as she said, “They’re the sweetest trio I’ve ever seen.”
The whole staff had been so kind, so open. Maybe it was because we didn’t try to hide anything. From the beginning, we’d been upfront aboutwho we were and how our family dynamic worked. There was no shame in our love.
And, honestly, most of them seemed more fascinated than judgmental. A few blushed when Calla spoke because, well, Calla Black could make anyone blush. The nurses practically tripped over themselves when she smiled and thanked them. I even heard one say, “I know she keeps them satisfied, she’s walking, talking sex.” I couldn’t even be mad about it. Who didn’t have a thing for Calla?
When the appointment ended, we all sat in the car for a long time, none of us speaking, just letting it wash over us. A baby, our baby, was healthy and growing exactly how they were supposed to.
We talked about names for weeks after that, scribbling lists on napkins, in notebooks, on the backs of receipts. James leaned toward traditional, Calla wanted something strong and elegant, and I wanted something that sounded like sunshine.
Instead of a big gender reveal, we decided to keep it quiet, to make it ours.
We agreed to share it with everyone else during our family pregnancy shoot once we got back from our baby moon. Calla’s idea, of course, but James and I fell in love with it instantly. Something about it felt right, intentional, intimate. It wasn’t about balloons or confetti. It was about love and having a say in the kind of family we were building, one that didn’t need anyone else’s definition to be real.
Sometimes I still couldn’t believe it.
I had spent so long being afraid to want a life like this, and now, every time I caught my reflection, every time the baby kicked, every time James and Calla’s hands met on my stomach at the same time, I felt it all over again.
This wasn’t a dream anymore; this home was my reality.
Packing for the baby moon felt like preparing for a seduction disguised as a vacation. I knew Curaçao was going to be beautiful, but I wanted to look and feel beautiful in it too, even with my swollen ankles and belly that seemed to grow every morning like it had its own agenda.
I stood in my closet, hands on my hips, eyeing the pile of clothing I had put aside: lace, silk, mesh. Lingerie in colors that made my skin glow. I had gone a little overboard, but pregnancy had turned me into something soft and needy and bold all at once, and I wanted to drive Calla and James insane for the entire trip.
I held up a sheer black slip that barely covered anything. “Yeah,” I murmured to myself, tossing it into the suitcase, “you can definitely ruin somebody’s life in that.”
