Page 168

A knock-out punch of want hits me, hot and bright and almost painful. Fuck, I want to see him in a skirt, too.

I want to see him playing on the floor of my home, lying on his stomach with coloring books and markers spread out around him, and when he shifts his hips I want to see a flash of lace and ruffle peeking out from under the frilly pink skirt I bought just for him.

I can already see him losing track of time, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as he colors—so absorbed, so happy, so completely in the moment that when I walk in, he doesn’t even notice me at first.

He’d only become aware when I knelt behind him, when I put my hands on his hips and kissed the back of his neck. He’d jump, giggle, maybe try to wriggle away, but I’d hold him there and tell him to keep coloring. He’d obey, just like he always does.

I could take him just like that, panties pushed aside, skirt bunched up around his waist, so soft and sweet and perfect.

And after, I’d dress him up all over again.

I want it. I want all of it, and not just for what it does to my cock, but for what it does to the rest of me. For the way it knits together something that’s been loose and untethered in my chest for years. For the way it makes me feel like the man I could have been, if the world hadn’t spent so much time trying to turn me into a weapon.

By the time I finally stop, there are enough deliveries scheduled to make the safe house look like a small child has won a shopping spree.

I stare at the confirmation page, then at Kamden. “I’m going to overwhelm the shit out of you.”

16

Kamden

Consciousness returns not with a thought, but with the steady drag of fingers through my hair.

My thoughts drift somewhere below the surface, as slow and as shapeless as seaweed, while fingertips move through the longer strands on top of my head in an easy rhythm—combing them back from my forehead before scraping lightly over my scalp on the return stroke.

There’s no warmth to the sensation, just a firmness that vaguely registers as Daddy’s prosthetic hand.

I stay exactly where I am, cheek pressed into something that rises and falls, breathing in a scent I recognize before I consciously remember the man attached to it.

Daddy.

My eyes snap open.

I stare directly into the soft gray cotton stretched over Adrien’s chest, close enough to see the individual threads and the relaxed beat of his heart beneath.

I don’t move. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, I can somehow return to unconsciousness and avoid dealing with any of this for another few hours.

Adrien’s fingers keep moving through my hair, untangling a knot near my temple with surprising patience and dexterity.

I swallow. My mouth is dry, tasting of sleep and salt.

The movement must give me away, because Adrien’s hand pauses near the crown of my head before resuming, slower now, his thumb brushing gently along my hairline.

“Morning, sleepy boy.” His voice is still rough from sleep, deeper than usual, yet softened at the edges, and far too close to my ear.

Heat rushes straight into my face, burning across my cheeks and down my neck.

Adrien chuckles.

I feel it through his chest more than I hear it, the vibration beneath my cheek making the embarrassment somehow worse.

“Are you not done yet with using my pecs as pillows?”

I finally lift my head enough to glare at him, though with the redness of my face and pushed-out bottom lip, I’m probably not very threatening.

Adrien looks entirely too pleased with himself.

He is propped partially against the headboard, one pillow folded behind his shoulders, dark hair mussed instead of combed back the way he normally wears it. His beard looks rougher in the morning, shadowed darker around his mouth and jaw, and the sight of him like this makes me want to stay right here all day.