And then it hit me. My club didn’t have a Little room, but the one south of Charlotte did—Adrian’s place. Adrian was a good man, solid and kind, and the Little room there would be perfect.
Clayton was staring at me like he thought I might bite. And yeah, that lip of his was begging for it, but scaring him was the last thing I wanted. I dropped my stance, softened everything about my voice.
“Here’s what I think,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I was clear. When I said I was going to be your Daddy for the holidays, I meant you were to stay with me. So we’ll go home. Warm up. Shower. Eat. Then—if you’re up for it—we’ll drive to Charlotte. There’s a club I know that has a Little room. You don’t have todo anything, but I’d like you to see it. Maybe talk to a few people. No pressure.”
His brows drew together like he was trying to find the trap in my words. But when I put my coat around his shoulders because his own jacket was way too thin and gestured toward the door, he followed. He shivered the second the cold air hit him, and I bit back the instinct to just wrap him up and carry him inside. Instead, I kept it easy—steady hands, steady voice.
By the time we reached the car, his shoulders were locked tight, and he moved like someone bracing for impact. He didn’t speak on the drive, just clasped his hands in his lap and stared out the window.
I waited until the silence settled deep enough for him to hear me. “Why’d you leave this morning?”
He startled, then ducked his head. “The realtor. I just… I didn't want to be a bother.”
I swallowed the curse that rose. That one sentence said everything.
The rest of the drive passed quietly. When he started to curl in on himself, I nudged the heat up a notch.
“Warm enough?” I asked.
He nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
When we got to my house, he hesitated at the front door like it might swing open and swallow him. I touched his elbow, light, guiding him in. The heat hit us both, and I didn’t give him the chance to argue.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s get you thawed.”
He didn’t resist when I steered him toward the bathroom. His clothes came off slowly, like the movement hurt. I turned the water on, tested it, and caught him watching me—quiet, uncertain, like he didn’t know what to do without being told.
The sudden urge to just get in there and wash him myself nearly knocked me off balance. I covered it with a quick smile.“I’ll start dinner,” I said, backing out before I did something that meant too much.
In the kitchen, I let myself breathe. We’d already been intimate, but this—this felt different. Permanent. Dangerous.
I focused on the food. Something warm and grounding—pasta and roast chicken. I worked on autopilot, mind circling back to the club. The Little room there wasn’t just for play; it was for belonging. And that was what Clayton had never been allowed to have.
When the water stopped, I forced myself to stay put. He needed space to choose, not someone hovering over him.
“Clothes on, then come eat,” I called, keeping my voice gentle.
“Yes, sir,” came the small reply.
He emerged a few minutes later, hair damp, dressed in soft gray sweats that made him look younger, more breakable. He lingered at the edge of the kitchen like he didn’t know if he was allowed in.
“Sit wherever you like,” I said, motioning toward the counter stool.
He obeyed, tentative, and I set a plate in front of him—pasta, chicken, steam curling up between us. “Eat. You need it.”
His hands trembled, and I softened the tone before it turned into an order. “Take your time.”
He nodded, then started. Slow at first, then faster, as if the warmth itself reminded him what hunger felt like. Watching him ease notch by notch, seeing the tension drain from his shoulders, did something strange and quiet in my chest.
When he’d nearly finished, I said softly, “You did well.”
He froze. The fork clattered against the plate. For a second, I thought he’d shatter.
“Sorry,” he whispered, wiping at his eyes.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I said, leaning in just enough that he had to see I meant it. “You never have to apologize for needing something. Ever.”
He gave a shaky nod. I handed him a glass of water, and when he drained it, I passed him another. Then, without thinking, I brushed a bit of sauce from his cheek. He leaned into the touch. Just a breath, but enough to make my throat ache.
