Page 31 of Daddy, Take Me Away
“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!”
