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Mark proceeds to pester me about my basketball career for nearly forty minutes.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy talking sports, because I do. Get me going on a good night with a few glasses of bourbon, and I’ll chat anyone’s ear off about hockey or Huckslee Davis, the star running back for the Baltimore Ravens. But tonight? After the week I’ve had? Knowing I’m under the same roof as my little doll after not seeing him for nearly two weeks?

It’s maddening. Every muscle in my body is coiled tight, and it’s taking all my strength not to kick down every damn door in this house and demand to know where he is.

This… this isn’t like me at all.

Apparently, Shilo’s father is a full-time Aviation Officer stationed at the base. The family moved around almost every two years until Shilo was about thirteen, when they finally settled here permanently. Mark is midway through showing me his impressive collection of medals when we’re both called to dinner.

The dining room matches the rest of the house, warm and inviting with a sizable six-seater table covered in food. A woman in a flowing blouse, who I assume is Shilo’s mother, greets me with a pretty smile. She pulls me in for a hug that I return stiffly, feeling Declan’s amused gaze on my face. She’s petite, about Shilo’s height, with golden blonde waves and those same pale blue eyes I’ve grown fond of.

“You must be the other boss I’ve heard so much about,” she sing-songs, throwing me a knowing glance. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Sheila, Shilo’s mom.”

My brows shoot up at that, though I force myself not to tense as I take the seat she directs me to. “Oh? And what exactly have you heard?”

“Apparently, between you and your brother, you’re the one who gives my son a hard time,” she chuckles, reaching into a curio cabinet for some wine glasses while I fight the urge to bristle.

I’m fairly certain he’s the one giving me a hard time.

Mark grunts, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Boy could use a firm hand every once in a while. It won’t hurt him.”

The memory of Shilo’s reddened, spanked ass pops into my head, but I shove it away quickly. Not the time or place.

“Where is he, anyway?” Paige strides over to the stairs, shouting at the top of her lungs. “IGGY, COME EAT!”

She and Declan take their seats across from me, and I tilt my head curiously. “Iggy?”

“Oh, gosh.” Sheila sets the last of the wine glasses down before sitting at the opposite end of the table. “We got a pet iguana when the kids were little that liked to bite. Shilo was just a toddler then and picked up the habit, so Paige started calling him Iggy whenever he’d chomp at her. The name stuck, I guess.”

A snort escapes me just as someone comes stomping down the stairs.

“Stop telling embarrassing stories about me.”

The sound of his voice sends a pleasurable jolt through me, and my eyes dart toward the staircase as he comes into view.

The first thing I see is feet. Pale, delicate feet with painted nails and cute toes that make me wonder what sound he’d make if I sucked on them. Have I seen them before?

I’ve never been into feet, but Shilo’s toes are doing something to me.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, and my gaze drags up his bare legs, lingering on the sleep shorts and backwards hoodie he’s wearing. Before I can make it to his face, my attention freezes on something else entirely.

I blink, frowning incredulously. “Is that a rat on your shoulder?”

His eyes widen the moment he notices me sitting at the table. “What are you doing here?!”

The animosity in his tone is unmistakable, and it stuns me for a moment.

Mark’s head snaps up, his expression stern as he scolds his son. “Shilo! Manners. And where the hell are your pants?”

“Those are pants, Dad,” Paige chimes in, rolling her eyes as if this is a regular occurrence.

Shilo ducks his head, muttering something under his breath as he shuffles toward us. The only open seat is next to me, so he hesitates for a fraction of a second before dropping into it with a huff. Immediately, my cock perks up at his presence, remembering what it felt like to be inside of him, and I surreptitiously cross my legs under the table as I look down into his rat’s beady black eyes.

“Is that supposed to be a pet?”

Shilo scowls at me from beneath messy purple bangs. “His name is Master Splinter, from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Why are you dressed like you’re going to a funeral?”

I narrow my gaze, letting it drift over his fraying sweater as the rat burrows into the hood hanging across his chest. “Why are you dressed like you live under a bridge?”