Daddy Helps When Husband’s Away Chapter 02
The smile on Ethan’s face stayed warm.
He raised a hand and brushed back the strands of hair falling across my shoulder.
His fingertip grazed the curve of my ear, and a shiver ran through me.
“Motherhood is something to be proud of, Sophia.”
“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s just a physical response.”
Just a single line, and yet an ache rose up in my chest.
When my mother passed three years ago, I was only twenty-six, freshly married to Mason.
Ethan had handled every arrangement alone, and then turned and told me:
“You will always be my daughter, Sophia.”
Three years, and he’d never remarried.
A man that devoted — how could I possibly let a thought like that take root?
Maybe he sensed my discomfort, because Ethan turned the conversation smoothly aside.
From the bedroom came Liam’s heartbroken wail.
Grateful for the excuse, I mumbled an apology, cheeks flaming, and hurried back to the nursery.
But this time, the blockage was worse than I could handle.
Liam sucked with all his little strength, and got nothing.
The poor thing turned red with hunger, screaming himself hoarse.
The pressure was going to drive me mad.
The bedroom was stifling, and sweat beaded at my temples.
The silk robe stuck to me, soaked through.
Liam’s cries were getting weaker.
And then — knock, knock, knock.
Ethan’s gentle voice, from the other side of the door.
“Sophia, this isn’t working.”
“Let me help you, sweetheart.”
A brief silence.
“I’m a professional. Do it for Liam.”
Do it for Liam.
In my arms, his sobs had faded from a wail into small, broken hiccups.
I looked down at that little pale face and, trembling, opened the door.
Ethan had already taken off his coat.
His eyes were clear, warm with the concern of a professional — even, perhaps, a flicker of pity.
He’s a doctor. That’s all.
I told myself that one last time.
“Relax, Sophia. Look at me. Slow breaths.”
Looking into his eyes, I nodded — as if I’d lost the will to do anything else.
I laid Liam back in his bassinet, tucked the thin blanket around him.
When I came back to the living room, Ethan had already spread a clean white nonwoven pad across the coffee table.
“Head this way, sweetheart. Right here.”
I half-reclined on the couch, my back against the pillow he’d propped for me.
Beneath the silk robe, my body was trembling.
Ethan took out the oil, poured a little into his palm, and rubbed his hands together.
“Warming it up first. Cold hands only make it worse.”
He explained it gently, the way you’d soothe a startled animal.
Lavender, threaded through with the faintest note of cedar, rose from his hands.
His touch was flawless — pressure exactly right, neither too heavy nor too light.
Because of the angle, he was very close.
His head bent low, brow slightly furrowed, his breath ghosting over my skin.
Low. Scalding.
Some long-dormant part of me — the woman in me — was being called back to life by my stepfather’s hands.
The feeling was so shameful I nearly wanted to cry.
“Good. It’s working, sweetheart.”
His voice was a touch hoarser than before.
“Keep breathing.”
A strange tremor rose from somewhere deep in my belly.
Under the silk, my thighs pressed together, of their own accord.
I was actually — because of my stepfather’s touch — stirring.
And worse still, that large hand at my side, the one anchoring my waist — his fingertips were resting against my hipbone.
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