Page 28 of Knox's Boy

“If you don’t say you liked the ice cream I bought you, I’m going to be very upset,” he said and I chuckled.

"I loved it. Thank you," I said. “You’re too honest for your own good.”

He looked up, a smear of vanilla on his lip. "I get that a lot."

"Most boys I've known are always performing, always calculating what I want to see. But you, you're just... present. Real."

"Uh? You think I'm not faking it?" he asked, looking offended. “I'm doing my best acting!”

I laughed, but I meant what I said. He went quiet again for a second.

"I really want to impress you,” he said. “But I'm not good at pretending. It doesn’t mean that I don’t really, desperately, want you to like me.”

I leaned forward, elbows on the sticky table. “You do impress me, Florian,” I said, keeping my tone light, easy, as if acknowledging it too seriously would make him cry again. “That's why I'm here.”

I’d told myself for years that I didn’t need real intimacy, that I was better off keeping people at arm’s length, especially after a lifetime of being valued more for my money and statusthan for who I actually was. But sitting across from Florian in that noisy food court, watching him blush and fidget and try so desperately not to care, I realized with a jolt that none of those careful defenses mattered anymore. The way he looked at me, open, vulnerable, and completely unaware of the effect he had, made me feel something raw and terrifyingly hopeful. I couldn’t believe my luck. That, out of everyone, we met. I kept my tone light, afraid the truth would chase him off, but inside I’d already surrendered.

I wanted him to be mine. Completely, totally, I wanted him to be my boy and allow me to care for him, entirely.

Chapter 14. Knox

The days that followed became a study in willpower, or the total lack thereof. The kid had rewired my brain. Every hour that I wasn’t in a meeting, I was hunched over my phone like a degenerate, waiting for Florian’s next message. My work-life, once disciplined and controlled, was now taken by his bratty, insatiable presence. I kept it professional on the surface, signing contracts, hosting video calls, but beneath that was the knowledge that at any moment, Florian might drop a photo, or a text, or a string of emojis rude enough to turn my face beet red in front of the entire M&A team.

He was relentless. He sent me selfies from beneath the library table, tongue out in agony, eyes pleading for rescue. He sent me photos after exercising, sweat beading along his collarbone, the waistband of his shorts riding so low I could see the line of hair vanishing into the elastic. He sent voice notes, short and obscene, the soft sound of him breathing "Daddy" into the speaker at odd hours of the night.

He delighted in tormenting me, and I let him, let him flood every rigid crevice of my life with his chaos.

A package arrived at my office one Tuesday, rainbow-bright and addressed to “The CEO” in a messy scrawl that made my assistant raise an eyebrow. Inside: unicorn and dolphin stickers, holographic, and glitter. Tons of pink glitter. It would take me weeks to get rid of all the glitter. ‘Mark the days of our dates with these,’ read his note.

“Do you think you can tell me what to do, brat?” I immediately texted him. A moment later, a new text arrived. “What’s with all this damn glitter?!”

“Maybe if I bat my lashes and look at you with my best puppy eyes. Enjoy the glitter!” he answered. I couldn't stop smiling and, of course, I got one unicorn sticker and placed it on the next Saturday.

That night he sent me the first video. I was sitting in my home office, reading the latest reports on the new container terminal in Long Beach and sipping a rye whiskey. The clip was only nine seconds. No warning. Just Florian, sprawled shirtless on a heap of tangled sheets, the phone angled above his face. He looked up at the camera with that infuriating mix of innocence and challenge, then stuck two fingers in his mouth and sucked hard, moaning softly as he rolled his hips up against the mattress. He popped the fingers out with a wet, obscene sound and whispered, "Bet you wish that was you, Daddy," then ended the recording.

I watched it four times before I could bring myself to breathe. Then I called him.

He picked up on the first ring, the laughter already in his voice.

"Hi, Daddy."

"You're out of control," I said, pretending to be stern, but I was smiling.

"Isn't that what you like about me?" he countered. "Besides, you never said I couldn't send videos. You said I couldn't touch without permission, and I'm not touching."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to laugh. "I suppose I didn't, and that you aren't. Do you want a new rule of no teasing?”

"You wouldn't. You like it too much." I could hear the grin in his voice. "Are you going to punish me, Daddy?"

I exhaled, sharpening my tone. "You're going to wish I could reach through the phone," I said. "You keep this up, and next time I'll make you beg for it."

He made a low, desperate sound. "I can beg now if you prefer."

"Take your hand," I said, "and run it down your stomach. Tell me what you feel."

He hesitated, then did as I asked. "I'm kinda cold. And... I'm hard. I'm always hard, now, thanks to you," he complained, but there was no heat in it.

"Good boy," I said, and listened to the catch in his breath. "Now slip your hand under the waistband. Touch yourself, but slowly. You don't get to finish until I say so."