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"Knock knock, cutie." When I finish cooking, I plate the meal and set it on a wooden tray. It's a tray I got at a B&B in France; the maids bring their masters croissants and coffee on it, and the place where I stayed had extras.
I haven't used it since I was with my ex, mostly because I didn't have anyone to cook for. It sucks, because cooking is one of my favorite activities. Besides rescuing abandoned puppies and kicking bad guys’ asses, of course. I'm glad Wesley inspired me to use it today. "Your breakfast is ready."
"Come in, Daddy." The voice that emanates from inside the bedroom is so happy, so sweet, I can't help but melt. "I'm just reading the morning paper. I'm hungry."
I open the door and spot Wesley on the bed. He's buried in covers, his hair sticking up in every direction. He wears no shirt, so the sunlight breezing in through the window illuminates his skin. I take in his slender body, so soft and smooth in every way, and feel protective instincts well up in me.
Christ, I'm so lucky. Wesley is the ideal boy I’d pick out at the Little Bunny Club. Of course, I struck out every time I came onto boys at the club, and they didn't even want to snuggle on the beanbag chair with me, let alone share my bed.
The fact that Wesley loves my big, hairy body—and thinks of me as his teddy bear—is a dream come true.
"I brought you scrambled eggs, hot chocolate, granola, yogurt, and strawberries." I set the tray on the bed, then walk to his side. "Anything else my prince desires?"
Wesley brings his hands to his cheeks. "Oh my God." He picks up a strawberry. "You even dipped them in white chocolate. This is so luxurious."
I sit down next to Wesley. "Only the best for my sweet boy." Leaning in, I dust Wesley's cheek with a kiss. "You inspired me to don my chef’s hat this morning, boy. It's been a long time since I've cooked."
Wesley picks up his hot chocolate. "And this smells amazing." He closes his eyes and sniffs the drink, then rubs his belly. "It's been a long time since I've had hot chocolate."
I chuckle in amusement. "I take it they didn't serve you fancy beverages at the warehouse."
This is supposed to be a joke. After all, his captors obviously didn't make him homemade hot chocolate. I hope he doesn't take it the wrong way.
Wesley shakes his head. "We got water and soda when we were good. And coffee and go-go juice to wake us up in the morning. But that's it."
I crack my neck. "Go-go juice?"
Wesley bites his lower lip. "It's a combination of Red Bull and Coca-Cola." He makes a face. "Yeah, it’s as gross as it sounds. I stuck with coffee."
"So that's why you're such a big coffee guy." I wrap my arm around his slender shoulders. Good Lord, he's so delicate and dainty. I could crush him if I squeezed too hard, so I'll be careful. "I was curious when I saw you down that mug of coffee the other day. Most Littles don't enjoy coffee."
"Well, I'm not like most Littles." Wesley juts his chin out. "Being trapped in a sex dungeon does that to you. You can't be precious when your choice is between coffee and go-go juice."
I point to his breakfast. "Which breakfast food do you want to eat first?"
Wesley picks up his fork. "Gosh." He stares into my eyes, then touches my shoulder. "It all looks so good. Thank you for doing this."
A feeling I can't place ripples across my insides. I stare into Wesley's eyes, those luminous orbs of blue, and nod sternly. My ex-boyfriend never thanked me when I cooked for him, not once. Even if I made a pot roast packed with vegetables, he treated it like a meal from McDonald's.
Not that there's anything wrong with McDonald's, of course. There's a time and place for everything. But gratitude isn’t a virtue his future children will engrave on his tombstone.
“Thank you for saying that." I swipe a speck of lint off Wesley's cheek. "I enjoy cooking, cutie. It's something that gives me purpose."
Wesley picks up a strawberry and pops it in his mouth. "Did you cook for your ex-boyfriend?"
"No."
Wesley furrows his brow. "That's not very fun. You look like you enjoy cooking."
I stare at my feet. "He… preferred eating out. I tried to cook for him, I really did. I purchased Mary Berry's cookbook from theGreat British Bake-offand bought a nine-inch fluted tart pan with a removable bottom just for him. I'd never been a big baker, but I was inspired to create key lime pies and raspberry tarts because I knew he loved fruit."
Wesley groans as he rubs his belly. "Wow, Daddy." He sinks into his pillows. "Those sound delicious."
"He pretended to enjoy my creations at first. But after a while, he started bitching about calories and whining my meals would fuck up his skinny frame."
Wesley's eyebrows slam together. "That's terrible."
"It felt mildly fatphobic." It's the truth. "Every time I baked—even if it was vegan and organic—he judged me. I'd make a big batch of vegan biscuits and gravy to eat while watching Shark Tank and I’d feel his side eye burning into me from across the room."
