He nodded, fast. “Yes, sir,” he breathed. The words tumbled out of him in a rush. “I…I read it. Sometimes.”
Something in me went still. The bashful look, the way he twisted his napkin under the table, desperate to hide how much he cared. Was that it? Was that why submissive sometimes seemed wrong on him? Like he was hiding? Was Clayton aLittle?
I’d spent years keeping that side of my work separate—professional success and private desire, the boardroom and the club. But sitting across from this man with my coat around his shoulders and the candlelight catching the soft worry in his eyes, those walls didn’t feel quite so steady.
He was blushing so hard I wanted to tell him to breathe. To stop apologizing for being himself. The truth was, I understood him far too well.
I hid behind my wine glass, trying to gather myself. He wasn’t supposed to get under my skin this easily. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at that little girl earlier—the gentleness in his handswhen he’d called herhis fairy assistant.Maybe it was the way he’d saidsir,like he didn’t think he was allowed to want comfort, only permission.
Whatever it was, it cracked something open in me that had been locked tight for too damn long.
I set my glass down carefully and said, “You don’t have to hide that, Clayton.”
He looked up, startled.
I waited.
He swallowed, and when he finally looked up, there was no mask left. Just Clayton. Want so deep it almost hurt to see.
“I like the stories,” he murmured. “Mostly the gentle ones. Where the Little…gets taken care of. Not just the play part, but all of it. The rules, the routines, the patience. The way the Daddy makes everything feel okay again.” His cheeks flushed. He tried to hide it, but I watched it climb his throat anyway. “I always wanted something like that, but…it never happened.”
His voice went softer. “My old Dom, he wasn’t like that. He liked control, but he didn’t want to take care of me. Not really. Not the way the…the Daddies do.”
The napkin was nearly shredded. I reached over and took it from his hands, slow, deliberate. He let it go instantly. Good boy.
He looked at me, eyes huge and dark in the candlelight. “I guess it sounds ridiculous. I’m too old for that stuff anyway.”
There was a tremor in his voice that made my pulse thrum. I leaned in, letting my voice drop to the space between us, just for him.
“You’re not too old for anything. Littles come in all shapes and ages. If you want that—you could have it. You just need someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.”
He shuddered. I watched it move through his whole body, a wave of hope he didn’t want to show. He stared at the wine, buthis hands were steady now. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out, stroking my thumb over the back of his hand.
He flinched, then relaxed, sinking into the touch. Like he’d wanted it forever.
“Have you played that way before?” I kept my touch light. He shook his head, not quite meeting my eyes.
“No, sir. Not really. Jason…he said it was weird. Or childish. He didn’t want to help me, enforce bedtime, or…even nicknames. Not the safe ones.” His voice thinned out. “He’d get mad if I asked.”
“Bastard.” I didn’t bother hiding it.
He smiled, tiny, but it was there. “I got used to it. But sometimes after a scene, I’d read the stories. The good ones. The ones where the Little could just…rest.” His fingers flexed under mine, needy but hesitant. “I don’t sleep great, sir. Not since Mom died. But in those stories, the Littles always sleep okay, because the Daddy looks after them.”
I let that hang between us. He was shaking, but it wasn’t from nerves now. It was from letting something out that he’d never trusted anyone with.
I felt it cut through me, sharp as anything I’d ever had in the club. The want to take care of him. The want to be the one he trusted with this, except I knew that wouldn’t work.
I stroked his hand, slow and heavy. “You want that for yourself.” Not a question.
“But how pathetic is that? A forty-six-year-old man wanting to be treated like ababy?”
“Except it isn’t,” I corrected gently. “And yes, Littles come in all ages, including infant ones, but the real need is care. The need to be taken care of by someone they trust.”
I should have been able to think this through rationally. I always could. But nothing about Clayton felt rational.
I tried to picture him with someone else.Some faceless man, older maybe, with kind hands and patient eyes. Someone who’d tuck him under a blanket, call himgood boyin that tone that made his whole body melt. Someone who’d give him safety.
But the thought clawed at me. The air went sour.Because I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else hearing the soft sounds Clayton made when he relaxed, or watching that tentative smile appear.
