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Wren’s brow creases. His lips move soundlessly. He shakes his head and half closes his eyes before staring at me. “His boy—?” he whispers.
“Ah, fuck, sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest that you were or that you’d want me to be—” I hang my head. “I’m sorry, Wren. For everything. For breaking your heart five years ago and for making an arse of myself right now.”
“Tanner.”
I lift my head and meet his earnest stare. “Yes?”
“Stop talking.”
I half smile. “I can do that.” I pat my thighs and stand. “I can leave you alone so you can enjoy the rest of your night.”
“No.”
I arch an eyebrow. “No?”
“I don’t want you to go.”
“What do you want?”
He stands and looks up at me. He was always shorter than me, but when we hit puberty, the difference in our heights became more pronounced. I hit a lofty six feet two, while Wren barely reached five feet seven. Looking down at him, the urge I felt to protect him as a teenager surges up within me. But now, as a man, another desire joins it: the need to call him my boy. I bite my tongue. He isn’t mine. I let him walk out of my life five years ago and didn’t fight anywhere near hard enough to stop him or get him back.
His mouth quivers. “Kiss me. Please?”
I gasp. “I—”
“Please?”
I cup his cheek, lean down, close my eyes, and press my lips to his. The sensation of kissing him is both old and new. Familiar and exciting. His soft, tender lips respond to every slight movement of mine. When I touch the tip of my tongue to them, he parts them and grants me entry to his mouth. He tips his head back so I can kiss him deeper. Butterflies flit in my stomach. Electricity shivers up and down my spine. Kissing him is like coming home and embarking on a new adventure all at once. It is everything and more, but it also has to end.
I stand tall and stroke his cheek with my thumb. “What do you want?”
He touches his fingers to his lips. His pupils are huge, swallowing the brown of his irises. Did he feel it too?
“I—” He reaches up and touches my beard, running his fingers back and forth through the short, dark hair.
I bend my knees to minimise the height difference between us. “Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me what you want, Wren.”
He smiles. Light springs into his eyes, and his dimples—those gorgeous dimples that make my heart quiver—slash down his cheeks like brackets on either side of his lips. “I want to call you Daddy tonight.”
Chapter 4
Wren
* * *
“I’d love that.” Tanner’s wide grin fades into a more serious expression that makes my heart stutter.
“I sense a but.”
“I want to spend the evening with you, Wren. I want to call you boy and hear you call me Daddy.”
“But?”
He sighs. “But we’re both emotional right now. Too emotional to make sensible decisions about consent.”
“So you’re saying we can hang out together, but you won’t take me home for sex?”
He nods.
