Page 24 of Master Daddy

Mason cleans up, then helps me dress. After, he pulls me in for a slow, deep kiss that leaves me dizzy. When we finally step out of the private room, my legs feel like jelly and my ass is deliciously sore in the best way.

As we walk out of the gym together, I can’t stop smiling.

Tonight I’m going to Mason’s cabin.

And something tells me this dinner is going to be a whole lot more than just food.

Chapter 8

Mason

“Oh, hell, he’s here!” I chuckle to myself, a big smile on my face.

I listen to the soft crunch of tires on gravel and glance at the clock above the mantel.

Right on time.

My pulse kicks up a notch as I wipe my hands on a dish towel and head for the front door. The cabin smells like slow-simmered beef bourguignon, garlic, and fresh rosemary—nothing fancy, but hearty and made with care.

I want tonight to feel like home for my boy, and getting this meal right is a big part of setting the tone.

I pull the heavy wooden door open just as Luke steps onto the porch.

Fuck. He looks absolutely edible.

A soft pale blue sweater hugs his shoulders and upper body, the neckline dipping just enough to tease the definition in his pecs.

And then the boy’s jean shorts show off those strong, toned legs I’ve been watching in the gym, and his white Converse hi-tops give the boy that perfect playful Little energy.

Luke’s hair is shiny as ever, and he’s carrying a small canvas bag with what looks like a bottle of wine peeking out.

“Hi,” he says, smiling up at me with those big eyes that always seem to see straight through my gruff exterior.

“Hey, little one.” I don’t waste a second. I cup Luke’s face with both hands and kiss him—slow, sweet, savoring the way he melts into me right there on the porch. He tastes like mint and cherry lip balm.

When I pull back, the boy’s cheeks are already flushed.

“Something smells amazing,” Luke murmurs, stepping inside as I hold the door wide.

“You or the food?” I tease, closing the door behind him and sliding the deadbolt. “Come on. the kitchen is this way.”

The vibe is easy from the start.

I’ve got Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue spinning low on the record player in the living room, the warm crackle of vinyl filling the cabin. Luke’s eyes light up the second he hears it too…

“So What,” Luke says, tilting his head as the opening track drifts in. “Classic. I love this album. My dad used to play it on Sunday mornings when I was young.”

I raise an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. “Didn’t peg you for a jazz boy.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet, mountain man,” Luke shoots back with a sassy little grin, bumping his hip against mine as we move into the kitchen.

We fall into a rhythm like we’ve been doing this for years. I stir the bourguignon while he chops parsley for garnish and steals tastes of everything.

When Luke dips two fingers into the hot sauce I’m reducing for the side dish—one time, then again and again—I finally grab the big wooden spoon from the counter.

“Third time’s the charm, huh?” I growl playfully, landing two firm swats on his jean-clad ass.

Thwack. Thwack.