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Me: Have you been thinking about my fingers inside of you like I asked you to?
Babydoll: Tedddddddy.
God, he’s perfect.
Me: Have you thought about what else you’ll feel inside of you once that plug is gone?
His call comes through, and I answer with a grin.
“Mean, mean man,” is Kipp’s greeting. “I’m supposed to be eating lunch right now. Not fighting a boner.”
“I think you can multitask.”
He sighs. “We’re not going to be able to do this all the time, okay? I’m seriously having trouble concentrating today.”
My chest rolls with heat at the assumption that we will have the opportunity to do this again at some point, followed by worry that maybe this is pushing him too far.
“Do you need to call it quits?” I ask seriously.
He scoffs. “No. Fuck, no. I’m not saying…the b word,” he practically whispers. “You know which one I mean. This is not a plantain-adjacent situation.”
I huff a laugh.
“I wanted this,” he goes on. “And I’m managing. Sorta. But if I have some big meeting or an important deadline or something—”
“You say no, and it’s a no,” I remind him.
“Yeah,” he answers. “I know. Now distract me while I eat. What are you doing?”
“Well, I just finished working out.”
He groans. “Are you sweaty?”
“Little bit, yeah.”
Kipp whimpers. “Fucking hell, Teddy. Are you wearing those loose shorts?”
“Mhm.”
“God,” he mutters. “And that tank top that shows off your nips? Actually, no. Don’t answer that. This isn’t helping one bit. Be disgusting. Say something horrible. Tell me you secretly hate puppies or children.”
“Would you believe me if I did?”
“No,” he says immediately. “Because you’re perfect. You probably love puppies, and kids think you’re the coolest because you’re like a big teddy bear. They don’t know how wicked you really are.”
“And you?” I ask. “Do you like puppies?”
“Who the fuck doesn’t like puppies?” he says. “I thought about getting one, but I’d feel kinda bad leaving it at home during the day. Besides, I should find my own place to live first.”
I hum, not liking the idea of him in his own place. “And kids? Is that something you want?”
“Eh,” he hedges. “Not for myself, I don’t think? I like kids in a peripheral way. I wouldn’t mind being the cool uncle or something, but being a dad? Dunno. I can barely take care of myself.”
“You’re more competent than you think, sweetheart.”
He makes a sound, not really agreeing with me but maybe not disagreeing, either. “It’s probably your thing, though, isn’t it? Being a dad? You’re good at that whole…caretaker thing.”
I’m not sure how Kipp and I ended up on the topic of hypothetical children, but I answer honestly. “I never saw myself with kids. I like them, sure, but having my own was never a dream of mine.”
