Page 100 of Hush, Little Baby

“That’s what you want to do to celebrate your birthday?” I ask.

He sits up just enough to lean on one elbow. “Mhm. Part of it.”

I arch an eyebrow.

He fidgets again, voice earnest as he continues, “The craft store has those little kits—like painting kits and build-your-own volcano kits and stuff.”

“Volcano kits,” I repeat, as if tasting the words.

He nods, delighted. “And then maybe we could stop at a grocery store.”

“A grocery store?”

“For snacks.” He laughs, small and breathy. “And ice cream cake.”

“Anything else?” I ask, pulling him close.

His entire face brightens. “We’ll come home and do the kits and eat the snacks.”

“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. We could even have the crafts and snacks delivered if you’d like to skip the trip to the stores.”

He looks affronted. “Noooo. I want to pick them out in person. It’s better that way.”

I find myself grinning back at him, not so much at the childishness of the request, though that is irresistible, but at the way he’s becoming comfortable enough to express his wants. I press a light kiss to his temple, and he squirms in that happy, self-sabotaging way—desperate for affection, equally desperate to pretend he’s not.

“You are absolutely right,” I tell him. “We’ll go to the craft store and the grocery store. You can pick whatever you want.”

He glances up, squinting with sudden suspicion. “Even if it’s expensive?”

“Anything you like,” I promise, holding in a chuckle. He’s in a $17mil penthouse, concerned that I’ll be stingy with his birthday craft budget. God, he’s so fucking perfect.

He seems to weigh my response, then wraps his arms awkwardly around my neck and buries his face in my shirt. I feel his whole body loosen, all that helium-bright, fizzy energy leaking out in a sigh. If he’s aware of the ways he tests my boundaries—pushing, retreating, desperate not to overstep—he doesn’t let it show. I’ve learned not to take it personally. His entire life, he’s been trained to expect less, to ask for less.

I want to teach him extravagance.

I want to turn him into a spoiled little prince.

Fuck, why does that make me so hard?

Charlie notices and gasps. “Daddy, your thing is poking me in the tummy.”

Lord, have mercy.

“Is it?” I glance down, feigning surprise, and Charlie lets out a peal of giggles, a sound so pure I want to bottle it. He’s soft and heavy in my arms, the faintest hint of post-bath warmth clinging to his skin, his face still damp at the temples, hair curling at the edges. He’s naked aside from his diaper, and looks up at me with those trusting, mischief-lit eyes.

He’s not the least bit self-conscious, not now—not even as I palm the roundness of his belly and tap my fingers there. “It’s not my fault you’re so cuddly,” I tell him. “Daddy has a hard time controlling himself.”

He wriggles with pride, beaming. “Is it because I’m cute?”

I lean in, my beard tickling his cheek. “So fucking cute,” I rasp. “What am I supposed to do? I’m only human.” I graze my teeth along his jaw, and am rewarded when he shivers and buries his face in the crook of my arm.

He’s so easy to please—he nearly vibrates with anticipation just from the threat of my touch. I carry him to the daybed and have him lie back, then kneel above him, my palm spanning his chest. His hands grab at me with the clumsy insistence of a toddler, and he’s all giggles and gasps, legs bicycling in the air as I tickle and nuzzle at the soft skin beneath my hands. The crinkle of his diaper is loud in the quiet room, and I trace the edge with my fingertips, letting my thumb dip under the waistband.

Charlie’s laughter softens, dissolving into a hiccupy whine. “Daddy…”

“What is it, baby?”

He looks up at me, wide-eyed and greedy, lips already parted as if tasting what he wants but not quite able to ask. He’s so open like this, so honest. He doesn’t know how to hide anything from me. “Can I have snuggles, please?” he whispers, though the word “snuggles” is already loaded, trembling with more.