“I know I was supposed to come up with a story for you to tell me, I just… couldn’t think of anything.”
His stare sharpens, a quiet intensity that pricks my conscience. He doesn’t have to say a word—I can feel him waiting, patient but unyielding, giving me no place to hide. My fingers fidget at the edge of the blanket until I can’t take it anymore.
Why can’t I lie to this man? My Daddy’s a human lie detector!
I reach over to my nightstand and slide my journal toward him. Not quite handing it over, more like… drawing his attention to it. My heart hammers so loudly I’m sure he can hear it.
Keane’s gaze drops to the fuzzy blue cover, then back to me. His expression softens, just a fraction, but the weight of it still steals my breath. He doesn’t open it yet, just lays his hand over it, as if he knows this is me trusting him with something fragile.
“Good boy,” he says quietly, and the knot in my chest loosens just enough for me to breathe again.
Keane slides my journal into his lap as though it’s an official exhibit he’s about to cross-examine. My stomach churns, every nerve on edge.
He flips the cover open. His brows lift almost immediately, and my face burns. Each page turn makes them climb a little higher—an arched brow here, a tiny quirk of his mouth there, a low hum that tells me he’s more than skimming. He’s seeing everything.
“Mm,” he says finally, tapping one page with his finger. “This one.”
I bury myself deeper under the covers, wishing the earth would swallow me whole.
“You can’t?—”
“I can,” he cuts in smoothly, not looking up. His lawyer voice again, but threaded with warmth that makes me shiver. “You wrote it. You wanted me to see it.”
My lips part, but no words come. He’s right. I did.
Keane clears his throat, adjusts his glasses, and begins. It’s such a Daddy thing and makes me absolutely mushy for him. His voice dips low, wrapping around the words I scribbled late at night when I thought no one would ever see them.
As he reads, the world tilts. My words, my secret fantasies, sound so different in his deep timbre—weightier, sharper, truer. As though they were always meant to be his.
I grip my blanket tighter, breath coming shallow, heat curling in my belly with every sentence.
Keane doesn’t falter. He reads on, calm as ever, as if he’s telling me a story I asked for. Because I did. In my wildest dreams, I pictured my Daddy reading dirty stories to his boy, and making each one come true.
Keane’s voice deepens, thick like honey, as if he’s tasting the words as much as speaking them.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy who couldn’t sleep unless his Daddy tucked him in just right.”
I bite my bottom lip, biting back a whimper. He pauses just long enough for me to squirm before continuing.
“The boy wiggled under the covers, wide-eyed and restless, until Daddy sat on the edge of the bed. Daddy smoothed the blanket up to his chin and kissed his forehead. Still, the boy pouted. ‘Too tight,’ he whispered. So Daddy loosened the covers. The boy pouted again. ‘Too loose.’”
Keane’s brows rise as he flicks me a glance over the top of the journal. He knows exactly what I’m doing—how I’ve written myself into every inch of this—and then he keeps going.
“Finally, Daddy sighed and said, ‘I suppose the only way to get it right is to climb in beside you.’ So he did. The boy curledagainst him, cheek resting on his chest, listening to Daddy’s heartbeat until it was all he could hear. And still, the boy whispered, ‘Not enough.’”
Heat surges through me, my face burning, but I can’t look away. His voice strokes over me like velvet.
“So Daddy kissed the boy’s temple. Still not enough. Kissed his cheek. Still not enough. Brushed his lips over the boy’s ear and said, ‘Tell me what you need, sweetheart.’ And finally, the boy sighed, ‘I need everything. I need you.’”
My toes curl under the blanket. The words hit different now, bouncing between us in the dim room as opposed to when I wrote them, all alone.
Keane closes the journal but doesn’t break eye contact. His lawyer-serious stare pins me in place.
“Is that what you need, Oren?” he asks softly.
My throat tightens. I nod, small, almost shy. “Yes, Daddy.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite.
“Good. Then I’ll read you more tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep.”
And somehow, with my cheeks on fire and my chest bursting, I actually can. When he finally sets my journal aside, I expect teasing. Or worse, silence.
Instead, he smoothes a hand over my hair. “Tomorrow,” he says in a slightly commanding voice, “you’ll read one of these to me yourself.”
My stomach swoops, nervous and fizzy, but I nod. “Okay.”
Keane leans in, kisses me softly, just enough to scatter the rest of my thoughts into a dreamy blur—and then slips under the covers beside me.
I curl against his side, breathing in the clean scent of his shirt, and for the first time since the messages started, I feel brave. Like maybe tomorrow won’t be so scary after all.
