Page 82 of Repluse

We’ve never done DNA tests because we don’t care. Mila is Mum, and to keep it simple, Sam and I are both Dad, and everyone, including Sam and me, has the surname Grace.

It caused a few raised brows when the kids first started at kinder, but not as many as we expected.

Just over five years ago, when Mila first found out she was pregnant, we made the decision to sell the club and move up the coast. We found a beautiful property set on a macadamia farm in northern New South Wales. It houses eight bedrooms and is set on eight acres of land, with three extra bungalows positioned close to the main house. We can walk to the beach, and we’re just a fifteen-minute drive to Byron Bay.

Life here is a world away, a lot warmer, and a lot less judgmental than the suburbs of Melbourne.

We’ve explained to the kids in the most age-appropriate way possible that they’re lucky. They have two daddies who both love their mummy, they love all of them, and they love each other. No doubt, as they get older, we’ll have to have a more in-depth and detailed conversation with them, and no doubt, the way wechoose to live might cause embarrassment for them amongst their friends. No matter what, though, our kids will always know that they’re loved and we’re doing our absolute utmost to give them the best childhood, as well as equipping them with the best tools emotionally to face whatever adulthood might bring their way.

Except FiFi, because our princess isn’t allowed to grow up. She’s to remain our blonde-haired, grey-eyed, almost three-year-old ruler of the house forever.

With Wilder, our eldest, being olive-skinned, green-eyed, and darked-haired, it made it easy to guess which one of us is biologically his dad. With Bear, our middle child, being tall, blond, and blue-eyed, he’s an absolute clone of Sam. But Princess Sofia is the image of her mum, without a hint of Sam or me in her DNA, making it anyone’s guess.

It makes no difference anyway. We each treat the boys like they’re our own, and FiFi like royalty—something that pisses her mother off on a daily basis.

“Where’s Mils?” Sam asks as he lifts Feef out of the pool.

“Not sure. What was mummy doing when you came out?” I ask my daughter as she climbs onto my lap.

“Omitting,” she replies around the raspberry icy pole I just handed her.

“What?”

“Vomiting,” Wilder explains. “She did it yesterday as well.”

My eyes meet Sam’s, who’s already lifting himself out of the water. He rises like a god from the pool, water running down his tall, toned body, dripping from his nose, jaw, and hair. He grabs a towel and starts drying himself, then catches me watching. He pauses, his eyes darting between the kids, and obviously decides little ears are too close to say anything inappropriate, even though we both know what he’s thinking about.

Last night.

Last night, when something happened that, in all our years together, never has.

Mila wasn’t feeling well yesterday, either, so she went to bed early. Once the kids were all settled, Sam and I had sat out here by the pool and had a few drinks. More than a few, actually, because we were celebrating the sale of a racehorse from our stable, the profits from which were greater than the national debt of some small nations. By the time we went to bed, I was still revved up on the adrenaline of the horse auction and was feeling horny. Sam obviously felt the same. Because Mila was both unwell and out cold on one side of the bed instead of the middle, between us, where she usually slept, I climbed in beside Sam. The instant I did, his hands and mouth were on me. We kissed, we stroked, I licked, I sucked, and finally, without Mila between us, for the first time ever, we fucked.

We were silent the whole time, and when we were done and both cleaned up, I expected him to slide Mila to the middle, putting her back between us, but he didn’t. We climbed back into bed, and although not a word was said, when I spooned Mila, Sam spooned me, and I woke this morning with his hard dick pressed against my arse.

Unfortunately, Feef’s little faced appeared between us, declaring, “I’m hungry.”

I swear this kid eats more than the boys combined. We test her on the regular for worms. She’s always clear, but just like her mum, she’s also always hungry.

Sam got up and took her to the kitchen. Mila barely stirred, so I left her to sleep in and got up with Sam to sort our ravenous tribe out.

We haven’t had a chance to talk since, and knowing Sam, we won’t. But I know—we both know—that lately, there’s been a shift. I don’t know what’s caused it, but Sam finally seems tohave decided he wants more from me—more than what we have with Mila, something that’s just ours, and I’m here for it.

And sitting here with our kids, watching the man I love walk into the dream home we’ve created for our family to go check on the woman we worship, I’ve never been happier and more content in my life.

Sam

I walk to the ensuite of our bedroom to find Mila draped over the toilet, her head resting on her arm.

“Babe?” I call out.

She raises her free arm and gives me a peace sign. Why? I’ve no fucking idea.

“You doing okay?” I grabbed a water on my way through, so I unscrew the lid and squat down next to her. “What’s going on?” I ask, already having half an idea.

I hand her the water, then, lifting up her hair, I place the bottle I grabbed for myself on the back of her neck.

“I haven’t felt right since I ate those skewers yesterday lunchtime,” she says before sipping from the bottle. Her face is pale except for the dark circles under eyes.

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