We’re sitting in beach chairs in our backyard, which is a gorgeous white sand beach on our own private island, sipping on drinks and watching our kids enjoy the finer things in life—the ocean, sand, sun, and all the little creatures scurrying around.
Delia picks up a crab and shows it to us.
“She’s amazing,” Bridget says as she watches our little wild island girl toss the crab back into the water and run along the shore. “I wasn’t brave enough to do half the things she does when I was six.”
“You lived in the city,” I say, remembering her stories of growing up in Atlanta. “She grew up in the island wilderness. I’m sure you were brave in your own way.”
She turns and smiles at me. God, that smile… After all of these years together, I still can’t get enough of it.
I still can’t get enough of her.
I’m still amazed and mesmerized by this goddess who washed up on my island shore all those years ago. I still don’t know what I did to deserve her.
“It’s time for them to come in,” she says as she glances up at the airplane approaching in the sky. “Mason! Delia! Let’s go!”
When you live on a private island, you have to get creative when it comes to bussing your kids to and from school. I bought a plane and hired a pilot to bring them back and forth. Bridget normally loves to do it, but she’s a little large to fit in the cockpit with her eight-month-old pregnant belly.
Mason spots the plane, catches the next wave, and rides it to shore on his surfboard. Delia skips the starfish she has in her hands along the water and then runs back to us.
“Wash off and get changed please,” Bridget says as the plane flies over our heads, heading for the runway on the other side of our house. “Quickly.”
“Yes, quickly,” I add as I grin at my girl.
Because as soon as these wild kids are off on that plane, I’m going to be all over my wife, enjoying the privacy of our private island.
And enjoying the warm sweet feel of her beautiful pussy.
Just like we do every single morning…
…in our own little paradise.
* * *
THE END!