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He hesitates, then, voice just a thread, “I want to be good for you, Daddy.”

I pull him back by the hair, just enough to see his eyes, not enough to hurt. “You are, baby. You’re perfect.”

I kiss him, and he opens for me like a flower, sweet and wanting. I don’t let up, not until he’s straddling me and making those little whimpering noises I love.

I can feel his cock through both our jeans, hard and twitching. “You want to show Daddy how grateful you are for his investment?” I murmur into his mouth.

“Yeah,” he gasps, breath hot against my lips. “I really do.”

I haven’t even finished unpacking, but I carry him to the bedroom anyway, one hand curved under his ass, the other steadying Rabbit, because I know he’ll scream if I drop the damn thing. I lay him out on the bed, then unbutton his jeans with a practiced flick.

He’s trembling all over, pupils black and greedy. I get him out of his jeans and boxers in one smooth move, then drop to my knees at the foot of the bed.

“Daddy, please—” he starts, and then I have him in my mouth, hot and heavy on my tongue, and the rest of his words dissolve into a moan. I look up at him, watching his face go soft and slack, his hands fisting the blanket.

I suck him slow and deep, teasing the head with my tongue. He’s so sensitive I can feel him shaking, trying not to cry out.

“You can be loud,” I tell him, pulling off just long enough to say it, voice a little hoarse.

“But—”

“It’s my payment, baby. Make some fucking noise.”

24

Adrien

It takes Kammie exactly eight days to make my house unrecognizable, and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.

Eight days ago, the bungalow looked like what it always had—a place where I slept between jobs, ate when I remembered to, kept weapons in strategic locations, and owned exactly enough furniture to keep anyone from assuming I had recently moved in.

Now a pink throw blanket sits folded over the back of my couch.

There are three framed photographs on the console beneath the television, a ceramic dish full of beads on the dining table, two fashion magazines beside my armchair, and Kamden’s lavender sippy cup sits upside down on the drying mat next to glasses that have never once been lavender or cute in their lives.

I found Bear lying face down in the hallway yesterday morning and briefly considered whether that constituted a crime scene. Kammie padded out of his room, took one look at my expression, and informed me Bear had “fallen.” Highly suspicious, but whatever. Rabbit probably had something to do with it, and that furry bitch gets away with everything.

There is now a fine layer of silver glitter embedded in the grout between my bathroom tiles. I do not craft in my bathroom. Kamden swears he doesn’t either. Yet here we are. At this point, I’ve accepted it as an invasive species.

The house smells different. Took me a few days to place it. I’ve concluded it’s the thick vanilla lotion he slathers on after he showers and the vaguely tropical scent of whatever he uses to style his hair.

There’s a lot more food, too, because I cook more now. Actual meals. Things involving vegetables, because apparently if I expect Kamden to eat like a functioning human being, I have to model the behavior instead of living on coffee, protein bars, and whatever Quillan orders when he shows up uninvited.

Kamden’s room is far from finished, but most of his things are at least in there now.

I made the mistake of suggesting pale blue walls because he said he liked blue, and he looked at me like I’d proposed putting a toilet in the kitchen.

He said pale blue is “fine.” But the way he said “fine” made it clear that pale blue is not fucking fine, so now we have paint samples taped to half the wall.

Blush.

Dusty rose.

Soft peach.

Some weird color marketed as ballet slipper.

Another called rosewater that looks almost exactly like blush to me, though when I made that observation, Kammie stared at me until I apologized.