Page 1 of Daddy's Little Chaos Gremlin

1

ROWAN

“But, Daddyyyyyy, I’m full,” Tristan moaned, pouting up at me with sleepy, honey-hued eyes, a lock of chestnut hair curling against his cheek.

I’d gotten better at braiding it for him at night, but not enough to keep all the long strands from escaping while he was nursing or just wiggling around getting comfortable. My little wiggly worm was always super squirmy at bedtime, when he struggled to set his projects and plans aside to get some much-needed sleep.

Early in our relationship I’d discovered that, when left to his own devices, my boy would rather nap on his workbench than leave his studio, and I’d mistakenly allowed him to continue with that practice until there were dark circles beneath his eyes and I’d been forced to put my foot down and establish a routine for us. No easy feat when I was as much a workaholic as Tristan.

Nursing from me usually helped him settle, but lately I’d been producing more milk than my boy could consume, disrupting our bedtime routine when I was forced to leave the bed to pump.

“It’s okay, sweet boy, your tummy is full, and you look like a feather would knock you out right now. It’s time for you to go to sleep,” I said as I gently eased away and began arranging the blankets around him.

I tucked my pillows against his back as soon as I left the bed, so he’d feel a presence behind him even if it couldn’t be me until I’d finished my nightly task. It also made it easier to get back in, because somehow, my five-foot, five-inch boy would become a 73-foot dangly starfish capable of taking up more space in that Alaskan king than I’d have ever thought possible. It might be time for me to seriously start donating my milk to those in need, though I’d always been hesitant to do so and extremely private about my ability to lactate. It had never been a source of shame or anything of that nature, but when you ran a security firm, you were cautious by nature, and I prided myself on the reputation my company had garnered over the years. Still, as a member of The Lactin Brotherhood, I had access to others who might know how regular, anonymous donations could be made. I was starting to miss falling asleep beside my boy, our conversations growing slurred and dreamy as we drifted off, excited about the day to come.

His fingers latched onto my wrist as I tucked the blanket around him, and the sad look he gave me damn near shattered my heart.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he murmured as he drew my hand to his cheek and nuzzled against it.

“No, you have nothing to be sorry for,” I told him as I leaned to kiss him and peer into his sleepy eyes.

“Wish I had a brother to share with.”

Was that sleepy musing or a real request, that was the question. While we talked about finding him a little brother, we’d yet to meet anyone who’d piqued our interest enough for us to open this part of our lives up to. Of course, neither of us had taken the time to do much searching, as his days were filled with the sculptures he crafted and the events he showed them off at. My amazingly talented boy was not only a talented craftsman, but a skilled Shibari artist who incorporated his love of both arts into the works he crafted and sold.

“If that is truly your wish, then we can discuss it further in the morning,” I assured him as I kissed the bridge of his nose.

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“’Cause I was hopin’ we could find a dancer,” he murmured, voice growing lower even as he struggled to keep his eyes open. “Someone with some fuckin’ grace and flexibility who can hold a pose without twitching and shifting around every thirty seconds.”

Uh-oh.

My boy rarely cursed, so for him to jump straight to an F-bomb was the only clue I needed as to how his afternoon session with his latest muse had gone. No wonder he’d come to bed sulking and pouty. While my nipples where truly beginning to ache from how engorged they were, I didn’t want to miss a word of what he was struggling to say.

He’d clearly given this some thought already.

“You fired him already, didn’t you?”

“Was gonna tell you in the morning,” he slurred.

I chuckled at that and stroked his hair as I finished arranging the pillows beside him. He’d never liked to give me bad news before bedtime and I never liked to receive it, so we’d developed a little system of dropping potential landmines only after we’d each had at least one cup of coffee, two if it was going to be an epic shitshow. For him to break that tonight, well, that spoke volumes about how upset he was.

“It’s okay,” I whispered as I pressed one last kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t like him anyway.”

He was smiling when I slipped from the room, leaving the bedside lamp on its lowest setting, where I knew it wouldn’t disturb him. My pump was in my study, set up beside my easy chair where I could easily hook myself up when necessary. I’d started a new book the night before, a noir style murder mystery with all the atmosphere of a beautifully-shot BBC series. I was a sucker for a good period piece, especially when the mood and tone of it fully encapsulated the time period. I’d had to the foresight to invest in a double pump, allowing me to empty both sides at the same time, but it still took about fifteen minutes, even after my boy had fed, and then there was still the sterilizing to deal with. I didn’t bother with storage. I’d been dumping the excess I produced. Wasteful, I know, but I’d never felt comfortable with the thought of registering at one of the doner banks.

With what Tristan was proposing, there was a chance that I wouldn’t have to.

A slim chance, the little voice in the back of my head reminded me, not that I’d ever needed its help to keep me grounded. I’d grown up watching the best of intentions go sideways as my old man tried time and time again to improve our situation. This sprawling home was proof that he’d finally gotten it right.Unfortunately, he’d passed away less than a year after paying it off, leaving me with a legacy of missed opportunities and a list of regrets a half-mile long. I wasn’t about to add to it. If my boy needed a better muse, a permanent muse that he could rely on to work with him as he sought to bring his visions to life, then I would do everything in my power to find one for him, preferably in the form of another boy I could love and lavish with attention and the milk that wouldn’t stop leaking out of me.

Tonight, it felt like the pumping process went on forever, while I kicked myself for not having the foresight to place a notebook on the table where I kept my book. I’d rationalized it by telling myself that having one at hand would only encourage me to work past the hours I’d set. Deep down I knew that was accurate, but a pad of sticky notes? NowthatI could do.

And maybe keep the Goddess-be-damned thing flipped over so I wouldn’t be tempted to brainstorm when I should be reading.

Of course, there was nothing to stop me from grabbing a legal pad from my desk drawer after I’d finished pumping and sterilizing my equipment. A glance into the bedroom revealed what I’d already known I’d find. Tristan sprawled face down, one foot having already escaped from the covers to drape over one of my pillow barricades. He was peacefully passed out with his favorite bear clutched to his chest the way he usually clung to my arm. Warm flutters danced in my belly as I watched him sleep, reminding me of just how much joy and affection he’d brought into my life. Everything about him was genuine, and he never failed to put me in my place if he felt that I was being needlessly bullheaded about something, or flat out wrong. No fear. He’d just take my hands, sit me down, then plop himself in my lap and clearly lay out his case until I’d stopped resisting the truth that was right in front of me.

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