#erik johnson

as you walk by the water now, broken shells under your bare feet, you think back to that day. it feels like forever ago, especially when a tiny squeal erupts from a few feet in front of you—the baby who was once growing inside you, now toddling beside erik. her chubby fingers squeezing the life out of his forefinger.

erik walks slower than he normally would. not because he's tired—because after a year with your babygirl, and countless years of an athletes schedule, he's used to early mornings—but because every few steps, your daughter finds something that absolutely must be investigated.

a seashell, or a feather. a patch of seaweed that looks suspiciously like 'monster hair.' she gasps and squeals at each new discovery, her tiny rosebud mouth falling into a perfect little o before she looks up at erik with wide, blue eyes—matching her dads.

"dada," she says.

"what you find this time baby?"

your daughter crouches, well, more like squats with all the grace of a baby still figuring out how knees work—and plucks a smooth white shell from the sand. she thrusts it skyward, all gummy smile and squinty, "pretty!"

"it is pretty." he squats down as well, although more stable than your baby. his hand hovers behind her tiny back automatically, ready to catch her if she falls. "you wanna bring it home?"

she nods, "for mama."

your heart melts, and erik's does too because you're his two favourite girls. "oh," he notes softly. "mama's going to love that one."

she nods once more, completely satisfied with herself, before toddling back toward you with determined little steps. when she's close, her tiny hands smack your thighs, broken piece of shell scratching your sun kissed skin.

"'s yours."

you fake surprise, "oh my! it is?" your daughter giggles, and you grin widens, "thank you, sweetheart." crouching down to her level, you brush wind blown curls from her bear head before pressing a kiss against the tip of her tiny, button nose.

she scrunches her face and dissolves into giggles—and oh, those giggles. the most joyful, belly laughs that never fail at making you tear up. because you made her. she's real and she's here and you just love her so much.

slowly, erik makes his way towards you, a look of nothing but pure affection in his gaze. his two girls—the one year old in her patterned, frilly bikini. leg and arm rolls on full display. sand on her diapered bum from falling over all up the beach. and you. you. hair blowing in the morning breeze, sunshine yellow bikini straps peeking out from your slinky coverup, and then, the round of your belly, full and glowing.

another baby on the way, this time, a boy. you're almost 7 months along, and erik thinks you've never looked more beautiful. but yet, he thinks that every new morning when he wakes up to the sight of you.

when he gets close enough, you look up and your eyes meet. you send him knowing smile, and erik can't help but mirror it. "so spoiled," he murmurs, though the smile tugging at his lips gives him away.

you just laugh, slipping your fingers into his free hand as he extends it out towards you, helping you out of that godforsaken squatting position. your daughter once again claims his free hand, index finger nestled into her small, sandy palm.

the three of you continue along the shoreline, ocean lapping gently at your ankles every now and then. behind you, footprints stretch across the wet sand in an uneven line—yours, erik's, and a trail of impossibly tiny prints accompanying them.

when another wave, stronger and bigger as the tide slowly begins to come in, rushes towards the shore. it splashes your ankles, finds your daughters tiny toes before she can step away or ask her dad for uppies. and when it does—she lets out the brightest, surprised squeal you've ever heard.

she hops backward so dramatically that she nearly lands on her bottom. thankfully, erik catches her before gravity has the chance.

"silly girl, it's okay." your husband soothes her as a small pout begins to take over her face, a small gathering of tears threatening at her waterline. the sudden rush of water, and almost tumbling, giving her a little fright.

she throws both little arms around his neck, murmuring, "dadda."

he looks at you over the top of her sandy blonde head—because your daughter is his perfect double—one eyebrow raised. one big hand braces on her back, he rubs soothing circles into the nylon of her one piece.

you step closer, hand covering the back of his. the climbing sun hits the diamond of your ring, sparkling between you. "let's head back for some breakfast. baby's hungry." you then gesture towards the bump under your coverup, and erik adjusts your daughter so he is able to rub your belly. slow. grateful. happy.

he squeezes your daughter, not hard—never hard—just to get her attention. and it works, because she pulls her blonde head out from his tanned neck, peering at her dad like a puppy.

"you hungry baby?" erik asks, "we're gunna go back. wash the sand off your legs and have some yummy food. does that sound good?"

she nods, that familiar gummy smile making its slow return at the mention of food.

the walk back feels slower somehow. not because the beach house is far away, but because mornings like these always seem to ask you to linger.

the breeze grows warmer with every passing minute, carrying away the coolness that had settled over the shoreline before sunrise. sand clings stubbornly to damp ankles and the hem of your cover up, while your daughter babbles endlessly from erik’s arms in a language only she understands. every few words are punctuated by enthusiastic pointing—at gulls circling overhead, at a passing dog farther down the beach, at absolutely nothing in particular.

he hums along as though every babbled sentence makes perfect sense. to him, maybe it does.

by the time the house comes into view, sunlight has spilled across the weathered deck, warming the wooden steps and making the white railings glow. the sliding doors stand open, letting the ocean breeze weave effortlessly through the rooms. somewhere inside, the coffee maker has already finished brewing, filling the house with the comforting smell of fresh coffee that somehow mingles perfectly with the salt air.

shoes are kicked off by the door. seashells—your special shell—are carefully placed into the little glass bowl your daughter insists is her "treasure bowl," despite forgetting about it almost immediately afterward.

your husband disappears briefly to rinse sandy feet beneath the outdoor shower before carrying your daughter inside wrapped in one of the oversized beach towels that practically swallows her whole. she peeks out from the hood, cheeks pink from the morning air, curls damp and sticking every which way. the cutest sight you’ve seen, and you immediately smother her in tickly kisses.

breakfast is simple—fresh fruit cut into tiny pieces. toast. yogurt that somehow ends up decorating more of your daughter's face than actually making it into her mouth. she proudly feeds erik half a strawberry she'd already taken several bites from, and he accepts it without hesitation.

“mhmmm,” he hums, animated, and you shake your head, laughing into your water.

"you’re unbelievable."

he only shrugs, chewing dramatically.

an hour or so later, the house has settled into that hazy summer quiet. the windows remain open, curtains billowing lazily with each breeze rolling in from the ocean. somewhere outside, waves continue their endless conversation with the shore while cicadas begin humming beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun.

the excitement of the beach has worn off, and your daughter is visibly wearing down—replaced with sleepy blinks and tiny yawns she stubbornly tries to hide. she pokes absentmindedly at pieces of a baby puzzle before climbing into erik’s lap on the couch without a word, resting her cheek against his chest.

he catches your eye from across the table, and your nod—wordlessly deciding its nap time. after a quick bath, of course. so, warm water washes away the last traces of sand tucked between tiny toes and behind little knees. your daughter splashes just enough to soak the floor, giggling every time erik dramatically pretends she's created a tidal wave.

when she's finally lifted out, she's all soft pink cheeks and sleepy eyes, wrapped snugly in a fluffy towel reserved specifically for bath time. the familiar scent of baby shampoo fills the hallway as you carry her toward her room—clean, warm, safe.

she barely protests while you wrestle her into a fresh diaper and soft cotton pajamas decorated with little whales. your husband dims the curtains while you rock her gently against your shoulder, your hand absentmindedly smoothing damp curls from her forehead.

her little head grows heavier with every minute, and your nuzzle the crown of it as she falls asleep. you can catch whiffs of orange scented baby shampoo. and sunshine. and the faintest trace of saltwater that even the bath couldn't quite erase. and you continue to breathe her in like you always do—like somehow you'll forget if you don't memorize this exact moment.

erik presses a kiss against the top of her head before leaning down to kiss your temple. "so little," he whispers.

you don’t respond, because you don’t need to.

by the time she's lowered into her crib, she's properly asleep, ready for her hour long afternoon snooze with ken tiny fist curled beside her flushed cheek.

without speaking, the two of you slip quietly out of the nursery, easing the door closed until it clicks.

the house feels impossibly still afterward. only the distant crash of waves and the rhythmic ceiling fan turning overhead fill the silence. you wander into the kitchen together. he tops off your water before pouring himself another coffee.

leaning against the island, you absently tub your growing belly while watching him move around the space that has become your favorite place in the world. your home. your family. your life. a life after years of hockey and trade rumours and constantly being away from one another.

but in this moment, in your summer bubble, all of that seems worth it.

when erik catches you staring, the corner of his mouth lifts. "what?"

you simply shake your head. “come here,” you tell him softly—not urgently. just wanting him to be closer.

with a half knowing grin, he crosses the room and steps between your knees where you sit perched on one of the stools. his hands find your hips automatically, thumbs brushing slow circles through the thin fabric of the cover-up you still haven’t managed to change out of.

he kisses you softly in greeting, then once again after he’s already pulled away— because he can never have enough of you. one of his hands drifts lower, spanning carefully across the curve of your stomach, where your son gives one lazy kick beneath his palm.

a quiet laugh escapes him, "think he's awake."

"I think he wants attention."

"like his sister.”

you raise a brow, "like his father."

he grins, unable to argue before leaning back in for another kiss. it starts soft, like the last two, unhurried. the kind that only exists after years together. he tastes faintly of coffee. you like the peaches you’d consumed during breakfast.

that kiss turns into another, then another one—longer, lazy, dirty. you keep going like teenagers, making out in the kitchen until you’re both smiling into it.

erik brushes a strand of still-damp hair from bath time behind your ear, eyes lingering on your face with the same expression he'd worn on the beach that morning. like he still can’t quite believe this is his life. his wife. his babies. his everything.

“let me make you feel good honey,” he murmurs only for you to hear, kissing the sensitive spot below your ear afterwards. the feeling makes your belly swoop, heart fluttering with anticipation.

your fingers curl around the front of his shirt as he begins leading you toward the hallway, all the way to your bedroom. the door closes gently behind you, muffling the sound of the ocean beyond the open windows.

he brings you to the bed, lays you down against the pillows so that you’re comfortable despite the pull of your growing belly. your knees, previously bent, automatically part, making room for erik to crawl on the mattress to settle between.

leaning down, more kisses or exchanged. slow yet needy. tongues moving together in a rhythm they’ve been entangled in for years. since you were both baby faced and clueless, sitting beside him on draft day with your hand tucked tightly with his.

the hand he’d been caressing your hip with slowly inches between your thighs, slipping down to where you’re most sensitive. the most needy. your lisp part, heavy breathes mingling together. damp foreheads brushing.

your lips part as erik nudges your bikini bottoms to the side, exposing your already soaked folds and throbbing mound. everything achy and wet and begging for him. pregnancy always has you like this—horny and always prepped for your sexy, caring husband. god, you love him so much you could cry right now.

“need you,” you whine, lisp brushing his with every syllable. and of course, erik is already half heard beneath his trunks. has been ever since he woke up this morning and saw your naked chest this morning. nipples flushed and hard. breast swell with new milk for the your unborn son.

his baby. his seed, keeping you full and plugged with love and the creation of new life.

your hands fumble to tug erik out of his bottoms, small hand wrapping around his length. the weight of him in your palm hot and heavy and familiar. he watches through half lidded eyes as you guide the head to your entrance, notching the pink tip against your quivering hole.

erik curses, low and desperate as his most sensitive area comes in contact with yours. the slick that has been pooling there immediately lubricating the tip, preparing him for sliding completely inside.

and he does, slowly yet sure. the exact pace that has you gasping, back arching as high up as possible. wanting to feel more. feel him deeper. need him deeper. when his balls, heavy and full, plap against your ass, do you both shudder. letting out matching, satisfied groans

your manicured nails dig into the muscles of his broad shoulders, finding solace there. “please,” you beg, walls already beginning to clamp down around him. “I need it so bad, erik. please.”

he begins fucking you then. practiced, shallow strokes that have you seeing stars and holding your breath. desperately trying to hold onto every little moment. every time his tip hits your fluttering cervix. every time he grinds into you, fingers flexing on your thigh to keep himself from loosing it, and his pelvis stimulates your clit. when his free hand reaches up, takes your swollen tits out of your bikini, fiddles with your borderline painful nipples until you’re crying with it.

“so fucking pretty for me,” erik grunts, one thumb still at the peak of your breast. hard length still rolling in and out of you like it belongs there. you think it truly does. his gaze drops down, “so pretty and full. stuffed with our baby boy. god, you’re a fucking dream like this.”

you whine, scratching at his back while he feverishly rocks into you. the mattress springs beneath you begin to creak with it, mixing with the background noise of the ocean waves rolling.

his blue eyes flick back up to yours, something undeniably fond in your matching gazes. “I love you so much,” he moans, both of your reaching that edge of climaxing. erik swears, drops his forehead to yours again, thrusts becoming slightly frantic, “my pretty wife.”

“oh erik,” you mewl, “i’m cumming.” and just as you do, your husband follows suit, pumping you full of his creamy, sweet seed. the very same seed that has given you both a family—a beautiful, growing family—and the feeling, and knowledge, of that has you in complete euphoria.

just as you seemingly catch your breath, you can hear the familiar call for mama down the hall, behind the closed door from your daughter.

you and erik share a look, laughing breathlessly into one another. in a blink of an eye, erik slips out of you, careful of the sensitivity of your body, and tucks himself back into his shorts. you know he’s going to get your little girl and bring her for a cuddle, because he’s a sucker for her. and for you.

for his family.