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Is it possible that I moved too quickly? Jumped the gun?
Shit—just because Mattie all but threw himself at me when I saved him, doesn’t mean he wants me.
Likewise, simply because he’s a Little, doesn’t indicate he wishes I were his Daddy.
He stares at his feet. "I’ve never had a Daddy before. I’ve tried, but it’s never worked out. I'm worried I'll scare you off like the others."
"Don’t worry, Little Mattie."
His cheeks tinge even pinker. "Don’t call me that."
"Awwww. I want to."
"You’re making me shy."
I tuck a strand of hair over his left ear. "That’s not a bad thing. Many Daddies like when their boys get shy. Their cheeks get all cute and pink and they look even sweeter."
Mattie sniffles. "Now, you’re making my insides feel like a gumdrop."
My hand migrates to his lower back. "We can take it slower, sweet one. Christ—I’d never want to rush you into anything.Never."
The memory of cum rocketing through my briefs when I saved Mattie surges through my mind. I claw back a groan, forcing myself not to act like a freak.
Wow. Just wow. Mattie’s worried thathe’sgoing to scaremeoff. Yeah—not happening.
Mattie nods. "Sounds like a plan."
Inside, I get the feeling he doesn’t mind moving quickly—still, I don't want to ride his horse faster than it can gallop. That’s a Southern expression I picked up when I went on a Luciano Mafia mission to Texas once. The old farmhands said it when I went to the saloon to take shots and play darts.
I help Mattie up. "I also don't mind if you and your friends exchange rubbies."
"I doubt we’ll do it again," Mattie drawls. "Cyan and Enzo made it clear they don't want to corrupt me—and Ryder only did it to teach me about stuffy kink."
"Whatisstuffy kink, exactly?" I ask.
Mattie whips his head away from me. "Secret. Can’t share."
Holy. Fuck.Why is Mattie so damn cute? I swear, if he were any more adorable, I’d melt into a s’more.
I smirk. "If you say so."
"Idosay so."
"Let’s grab a fresh lemonade from Nonna," I suggest. "It’ll help us cool off."
He nods. "Not a bad plan."
ChapterNine
Medici
Bang.
The gunshot echoes through the air as my pistol claws back.
The bullet charges across the field before slamming into the practice target.
The velocity shreds the paper printout of Luigi Riccardi’s face we hung on a dead olive tree.
