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I loved even more that I’d been the one who’d caused it.
And I really loved the idea of making it happen more often.
“You don’t have to buy me anything,” he said, a little quaver in his voice.
He didn’t move away, though.
“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” I said firmly, even though the flight I had to catch out of La Guardia made a lie out of that statement.
Although I could miss it, if I just delegated—
No.
Jesus.
I didn’t do that. I’d always run my companies with an iron fist. Loosening the reins wasn’t in the cards. My infatuation with this pretty young thing was getting ridiculous.
That didn’t stop me from pulling him a little closer when someone brushed by us, though, sliding my hand around his hip before I gave myself time to think about whether or not that was even remotely appropriate.
Not, my conscience quickly supplied. The answer was that it was most definitely not appropriate… but ask me how many fucks I gave at the moment and you’d get an answer of a lot less than one. Especially when the boy’s eyes widened at the contact, that little hitch back in his breath as he leaned into me, once again making no effort whatsoever to move away when I wanted him near.
So quick to let me take charge.
So eager to please.
And sue me but it was true, my cock—and every other part of me—liked those particular attributes quite a bit.
Maybe Jackie had been right about what I’d been missing in my relationships all these years. Of course, that didn’t mean I could have it with…
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked the boy, the endearment slipping out without my permission for the second time today. And just like before, the boy let it slide, acknowledging it only with another pinkening of his cheeks as he blinked those baby blues up at me.
“Dash,” he said, sounding wonderfully breathless. “It’s Dash, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Um, my name? It’s Dash—Dashiell Davis.”
“Well, isn’t that pretty,” I said without thinking, because it was.
His eyes widened again, but not necessarily in a good way this time.
“P-p-pretty?” he repeated, looking... worried?
Well, shit. He was pretty, and so was his unusual name, but of course I knew that a lot of boys—a lot of men; because yes, he was young, but at nineteen, he did qualify as a young man now—wouldn’t take kindly to being called “pretty.”
And what if I was wrong about what I thought I’d seen on his face the week before, about the interest I kept telling myself was there? What if he wasn’t even gay?
But then, so quietly I almost missed it—
“Do you like pretty things?” he asked as the line shuffled forward ahead of us.
“I do,” I admitted, letting a wolfish smile split my face as I moved my hand from his hip to his lower back, subtly urging him forward. I wasn’t sure what had caused his distress over the word “pretty,” but there had been definite longing in that tone… and if that question of his wasn’t flirting, it was definitely moving in the right direction.
Or the wrong one, offered my conscience.
I ignored it, because I’d clearly lost that battle the minute I’d gotten out of the town car.
“I like pretty things a lot, Dashiell,” I murmured quietly. “Do you?”
