Chapter 2: Tyler

Instantly, Ian's expression morphs into a huge grin. "Me?"

"Yes, you." I swear Ian has no idea how appealing he is. He's attractive, yes, but it's more than that. It's his eternally optimistic personality. The sparkle in his green eyes. It's the whole package.

I pull him onto me so that he's straddling my lap. His smile widens when I run my hands up his bare chest, pausing to thumb his nipples and gently tease his piercings.

Ian leans forward and kisses me as I grip the back of his head with one hand, holding him firmly, while my other hand continues its exploration.

He shivers and moans my name as he scoots closer and presses his erection against mine. Even through our clothing, the friction is exquisite. Ian cups my face and deepens our kiss, his tongue slipping inside my mouth and tangling with mine until I'm the one moaning.

I roll us so that Ian's lying on his back on the sofa cushions. I stretch out on top of him, our dicks aligned perfectly. When I press myself against him, rubbing my cock against his, he grasps my hips and pulls me even closer.

I run the fingers of one hand through his hair as I kiss him, hungry to devour him, to eat him up. Being with Ian is electrifying. Every touch, every breath spikes my arousal. I feel like a teenager all over again, needing and wanting. When I grasp a handful of his hair, a harsh groan escapes him. I know what my husband likes, what he craves. A firm touch. He likes that I'm bossy and a bit controlling—especially in bed. With my other hand, I grip his chin and urge his mouth to open for me. He obeys, surrendering everything. Every breath, every gasp, every shiver.

I can tell when his arousal slips into sheer need. I reach down and slide my hand into his shorts. He's not wearing any underwear, so my hand comes into contact easily with his straining erection. I wrap my fingers around him, squeezing him firmly. He cries out and arches his back.

I kiss my way down his sensitive throat, making him shiver and moan. Then down his chest, over his pecs, and he gasps when I tongue one of his nipple piercings. Even as I'm kissing him, I work his shorts past his ass and down his thighs. Then I make him stand so I can remove them completely. After I toss a blanket over the sofa cushions, I shove my shorts off as well, and now we're both bare-ass naked.

Ian's heated gaze rakes my body. Then he grasps my shoulders and pulls me down on top of him on the cushions. When I align our erections perfectly and rub against him, he groans and holds me closer. I wrap my fingers around him, and he's hot and thick in my grasp. He takes hold of me, too, and we stroke each other, firm and fast, all the while maintaining direct eye contact. His emotions are right there in his beautiful green eyes, honest and vulnerable, and I can't take my eyes off him.

When I think we're both ready, I say, "Come for me, Ian."

Nostrils flaring with arousal, he nods, and then he ejaculates first, on my chest. I follow suit and we both come together, both of us milking out the pleasure without ever breaking eye contact. He collapses on me, and we lie together as we both try to catch our breath.

"Wait here," I say as I stand. "I'll grab us something to clean up with." I head to the hall bathroom to grab two warm wet washcloths and bring them back to the living room, and we wash up.

Suddenly, we hear static from the baby monitor followed by crying. And I'm not talking a whimper—this is a full-out, pissed-off cry.

I press my forehead to Ian's. "Someone's unhappy."

"That would be William, our son." He reaches for his shorts.

I reach for mine and pull them on. "How can you tell?"

"Easy. Lizzie's cries are short and fast, like wah wah wah . Will's cries are slower, more drawn out, as if he needs time in between each cry to suck in enough air. He's also louder."

"Are you making this up?"

"No." Ian laughs as he grabs my hand. "Come on, I'll show you."

We head upstairs to our bedroom, and sure enough, Ian was right. It's Will who's wide awake and in tears. Thankfully, his sister is sleeping through the noise.

"Come here, little buddy," Ian says as he scoops Will up. He cradles our son against his bare chest, and immediately the baby calms down, his cries turning into slightly mollified, breathy complaints. Ian kisses Will's forehead. "What's wrong, baby boy? Your daddies are here."

"Is he wet?" I ask.

Ian pats Will's diaper. "I don't think so."

"Is he hungry again?" I check the time. It doesn't seem like it's been that long since they last ate.

"I doubt it. He's not due for another bottle for two hours. I think he wants cuddling." Ian carries Will to one of two matching padded rocking chairs placed in front of the window, sits down, holds him against his chest, and starts rocking. As Ian pats the baby's back firmly, Will stops crying. "All better now?"

I take a seat on the side of the bed and watch Ian with our son. He's such a natural. It's like he was born to be a parent, which is especially amazing when I think of the horrific conditions Ian experienced early in his life.

He's certainly better at it than I am. I second guess everything.

I'm not inexperienced when it comes to babies. Not at all. My sister, Beth, was only six months old when our father, a Chicago police officer, died in the line of duty. I was eighteen then, still a senior in high school. My mother grieved terribly after the loss of my father—the love of her life. I stepped in to help her around the house, especially with taking care of Beth.

For many months after my dad died, there were days when Mom couldn't even muster the strength to get out of bed. It seemed as if she'd almost lost the will to live. I think it was knowing she had an infant daughter who needed her desperately that kept her tethered to this life.

So, yeah, I've changed a lot of diapers in my life. But Ian? He's a baby whisperer.

I find myself watching him comfort Will. Before long, our son is quiet again, completely relaxed in Ian's arms. I walk over to them and run my fingers through Ian's hair, smiling when he leans into my touch. "You're a good daddy, Ian."

He smiles, clearly pleased with the compliment.

We decided before the babies were born that Ian would be called daddy , and I would be papa .

Ian glances up at me. "Want to put him back in his bed?" Will has fallen back to sleep once more.

"Sure."

Ian stands and carefully transfers our son to me. I carry him to his bassinette and carefully lay him on his back. As I attempt to wrap him up tight again, his eyelids flutter open for a brief moment, his sleepy gaze unfocused, but then his eyes close, and he's still.

Ian slips his hand into mine, and we both take a moment to watch our sleeping babies. Even after two weeks, it still feels unreal to the both of us, but especially to me. As a forty- something-year-old bachelor, I'd pretty much given up on ever finding love, let alone a life partner—a soulmate. It wasn't until I met Ian and realized I was developing feelings for him that I began to hope it wasn't too late for me.

"I'm so glad Will has your hair color," Ian says wistfully as he reaches down to stroke our son's dark hair. "I think he's going to have your eyes, too."

My sister and I have eyes that are an unusual shade of blue-green, courtesy of our Swedish mother. They're not unexpected on my sister, not with her pale blonde hair. But on me, with my darker complexion courtesy of my dad, they are rather unusual.

Will indeed has my hair color—a brown so dark it appears black. When we started thinking about surrogacy, Ian insisted that I be the sperm donor. I thought we should both provide sperm and let fate decide who the biological father, or fathers, would be, but no, he insisted it be me. I'll never forget his words. "I want to have your baby, Tyler." His words made me choke up.

And that's what he got. Two of my babies, in fact.

If we do it again, I'll insist that Ian be the sperm donor the next time.

My husband yawns as he slips his arm around my waist. "Let's forget about the movie and go to bed. We don't have much time before they'll be hungry again."

I follow Ian to the bathroom, where we brush our teeth at our his-and-his sinks. Our shorts end up in the laundry basket.

Once we reach our bed, Ian grabs my hand and pulls me down beside him on the mattress. He rolls onto his side, and I spoon him, wrapping my arm around his waist. He presses back against me and sighs as he relaxes into sleep.

* * *

The inevitable happens about two hours later. Lizzie wakes first, letting us know she's at risk of starving to death. Will follows soon after, and now we have babies crying in stereo.

"I'll make the bottles," Ian says as he hops out of bed and pulls on a clean pair of boxers before he races out our bedroom door.

When Ian returns, both babies are wide awake, hungry, and wearing clean diapers.

The babies are lying in the center of the bed, and I'm seated on the edge attempting to entertain them, or at least distract them. "Perfect timing. They're getting restless."

Ian hands me one of the bottles, and then he tosses a burp cloth over his shoulder before he picks up Will. I do the same with Lizzie. Then we carry them to the rockers by the window and feed them.

Half an hour later, after burping and cuddling and washing their faces, we have both babies back in their beds and asleep.

I glance out the window to see it's still dark out. "Back to bed," I say, dragging Ian down onto the mattress with me. I pull him into my arms.

As usual, Ian falls asleep first. I lie awake enjoying the feel of him in my arms. I figure this must be what parenting is like—stealing a few hours of sleep when and where you can. And I wouldn't trade this experience for the world.