Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

Forget a few days. Chloe had been in Hamish's B she was going to have to do her laundry. Here. At Daddy's. The B she could practically feel imaginary grime in the fabric rubbing on her with every step she took.

"There you are," Hamish said, barely glancing up from the stove. "Good timing too. Breakfast's ready."

She looked, but he wasn't wielding the wooden spoon at all. He still had the spatula, but it wasn't half as terrifying when stuck in food than it had been in his hand.

Dishing up two plates of eggs, toast, and thick slices of very dark sausage, he brought them to the table before ducking back into the kitchen, returning seconds later with a pitcher of cold milk and two bowls of oatmeal.

"Salt, or maple and brown sugar?" he asked, setting her bowl in front of her.

"Brown sugar, please, if you have it." Picking up her spoon, she gave the oatmeal an unenthusiastic stir. It wasn't her favorite thing to eat in the world, but she supposed it wasn't the worst, either. Although it would take a bit of sweetening before she'd be able to choke it down.

She crossed her fingers, closed her eyes, and prayed Daddy would let her put the sugar in herself. He might not like how sweet she'd have to make her bowl before she could force it down. In every book she'd read where the Daddy character took the same level of care for their Littles, like Hamish took care of her, they were really kind of strict with sugar, pop, candy… all the good things that made life worth living until something more exciting came along.

Hamish emerged from the kitchen with butter, salt and a small blue china crock with a lid on it. "Tell me when."

Setting the lid on the table with a crockery clatter, he picked up her spoon and dished a heaping helping of brown sugar onto her oatmeal. He paused, then dished her up a second, only not as heaping as the first had been. He paused again. She waved him to keep going.

The third spoonful was not heaping. It wasn't even half as full as she'd have filled it, if only he'd let her do it. Eyeing him closely, she reached for the brown sugar crock, but he pulled it just out of easy reach.

"I think that's more than enough," he said, wryly, "unless your goal is to have a little oatmeal with your sugar."

Dammit.

When he held out her spoon, she took it. "I can make due," she mumbled, stirring. The sugar was so smooth, it melted right in. She couldn't find a single lump, which meant the only good part about eating oatmeal–which was, of course, biting into a hard chunk of brown sugar crystals–wouldn't be present.

Chloe sighed. Pushing the bowl away, she ate off her plate. The eggs were yummy and buttery, but the sausage… she wasn't sure about that. Each was so dark, almost black, and possessed of a strong flavor she couldn't quite place.

"Is this blood sausage?" she finally asked, working on the third and last medallion of meat.

"Aye," he replied, adding butter and salt to his oatmeal. "First time?"

She nodded, popping the last bite into her mouth. She chewed slowly, savoring the unfamiliarity. "It's not bad."

"Splendid. Now how about a few bites of that diabetes-inducing oatmeal." It was not a question.

Sighing again, Chloe reluctantly pulled the bowl back in front of her. She poked it with her spoon. Hamish made oatmeal a little thinner than she was accustomed to, but she really wasn't a fan either way. She'd always thought oatmeal was a lot like a kindergarten art project gone completely wrong. In her mouth, the texture was like chewing on lumps of paste that gagged her when she swallowed. She really didn't want to put the stuff in her mouth. So, she pushed it around in her bowl. But that didn't make it disappear, and worse, Hamish was watching her. A minute ago, he'd been eating, now he was studying her through hooded eyes and from behind folded arms.

Enough was enough, she had to eat, preferably before he got up to fetch that dreadful looking spoon.

Chloe brought the first bite to her mouth and blew to cool the heat.

Leaning back in his chair, Hamish waited.

Her jaw all but creaked like a garden gate, she so did not want to open her mouth. But she slipped the tip of the poisoned spoon between her lips, getting more oatmeal on the outside of her mouth than in. She managed what she hoped was a convincing smile.

"Mm," she said.

Shaking his head, Hamish grinned. "Give me that."

He took her spoon and her bowl and moved his chair closer. Their knees touched when he sat again, and how silly was it that such a natural non-erotic motion could set her tummy to twitching this much? Just like it did when he folded her in his arms and took her to bed at night. Sometimes during the day, too. It was like he couldn't keep his hands off her, and damn if she didn't feel the same way about him.

Stirring the oatmeal, he spooned up a small bite and held it up to her mouth. "Open the hanger. Here comes the airplane. Nnnnnneeerrrrrrrr!"

Seriously? He was trying to feed her?

A flush of heat wended through her, but she was helpless not to respond. He was doing the airplane, after all. How did one simply ignore the airplane?

She opened her mouth and in it went, her first spoonful of oatmeal since she'd grown up enough to announce she would never eat oatmeal again for as long as she lived.

The taste was the first thing she noted–the sweetness more subtle than she preferred, but that almost made it perfect. Gone was the thick pasty glob that hugged her tongue and tonsils and refused to be swallowed. Instead it was creamy, much thinner than she was accustomed to and just that simple change was enough to… well, it still wasn't her favorite meal by any means, but it was fairly delicious.

"Mm," she licked her lips, savoring the improved flavor. "That's not bad."

"You're welcome," Daddy Hamish said wryly.

She flushed, but already he'd filled the spoon again and now it was a train.

"Choo-choo!" He crooned, chugging the spoon straight to her mouth. "Oh no! The tunnel is closed!"

She giggled, covering her mouth with both hands while she hastily swallowed, and then opened both hands and mouth to accept the "train" before there was a wreck.

Chuckling himself, he alternated between trains, planes, and one really bad car ride that ended up crashing into her chin because they were both laughing. All too soon, her bowl was empty and although Chloe truly couldn't take another bite, she didn't want this to end. Apparently, neither did he.

They sat grinning at one another–her empty bowl cupped in his big hand, her dwarf of a spoon clutched in his other–long minutes stretching out between them until suddenly she became aware of the silence, the silliness, and the absolutely overwhelming nearness of Daddy himself. His knee still touched hers. He wouldn't need to lean too much closer for their lips to meet, or for her to crawl back into his arms and lap.

"You'd be cute as fuck in a highchair," he finally said. He put down the dishes, cupping her chin in the palm of his hand. His voice and accent both deepened. "Come to Daddy, my wee little bairn. Give us a kiss."

She melted. Launching herself out of her chair, she straddled his lap, throwing her arms around his neck and resting her head on his broad shoulder for those first few seconds it took her to steel herself for heaven. Holding his face the way he had held onto hers, "Thank you. I already feel so much better than I did."

A slow seductive smile spread across his features. "You make me feel better too."

His fingers combed up through the back of her hair, closing into a first, firmly bringing their smiling mouths together. Touching. Caressing. Nibbling at her lower lip until that bubbly champagne feeling once more swam through her veins.

It was a feeling she hoped she'd always feel for him, especially when they touched. For a few more days, anyway.

"Come on." Daddy lightly swatted her bottom. "Let's go to town."