Page 60 of Iron

I lay back on it, spread eagle, to prove a point, and my hands flop over both sides. I flap them for effect. TJ laughs, actually laughs, the kind that shakes his shoulders, and it’s worth it. Worth looking ridiculous just to hear that sound out of him after the two weeks we’ve had.

Then I turn to the side of the bed, looking for a phone charger, and I find something that is very much not a charger.

I go still.

TJ recognizes it immediately. “Oh.”

“TJ. Does this thing have a remote?”

“It’s got settings.”

“It has more moving parts than my golf cart back home.” I turn it over in my hands, genuinely bewildered. Surprisingly heavy, maybe fifteen pounds. An arm and a small motor and a dildo attached to the end, like something out of a hardware catalog nobody asked for. “Is this… does this plug in?”

“Battery-powered. Very portable.” TJ’s already laughing before I even get the rest of my sentence out, sitting up against the headboard like he’s settling in for a show. “Do you want to fight it? Burn it? I feel like you’re building up to something.”

“I have a very reasonable objection to a competitor being kept in your bedroom.”

“A competitor.” He’s fully laughing now, doubled over a little, one hand braced against the pillow. “Gavin. It’s not a person. I told you about it. It’s Daddy.”

“You call it Daddy?”

“I told you that already! When you were orgasm-torturing me, I specifically mentioned it.”

I set it down on the floor like it’s evidence in a trial. “You did not tell me you call it Daddy.”

“You’re jealous of a machine.”

“Fine, I’m jealous.”

TJ’s grinning at me now, delighted, clearly not going to let this go for at least another ten minutes. “Why?”

“About its title, specifically.”

“Its title.”

“This is humiliating. You don’t even call me Daddy. Get rid of it. Please?”

“Fine.” TJ throws both hands up, still laughing, already reaching over to grab it himself. “It’s retiring. Effective immediately.” He gives it a little wave, deadpan. “Thank you for your service.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Fine, I’m ridiculous. And I love you.” I watch him toss it into the closet and come back to stand in front of me. “Also, this bed is too small.”

“We already covered the bed thing.”

“I’m covering it again. You’re used to sleeping alone.”

“Not anymore, I’m not.”

That gets me. Gets me enough that I forget about the machine, forget about the bed, forget about anything except him standing here in his own apartment for the first time in weeks, pale and tired and grinning down at me like I hung the moon.

“Come here,” I say.

“I’m right here.”

“Closer.”