Page 4 of Daddy Detectives: Episode 1
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, likewah 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.”
