Page 69 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
KEANE
Oren’s cheeks are pink, and not from the chocolate. He’s trying to disappear into my shirt, mumbling curses about his friends, while I keep my hand balanced at the small of his back. He’s warm, jittery, vibrating like he might either bolt or melt if I press too hard.
The care package is absurd—lube, socks with eggplants, and those bonbons that definitely weren’t just chocolate. His friends aren’t subtle. But beneath the embarrassment, there’s truth.
Have I been so focused on keeping him shielded that I was blind to his needs?
I tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at me. His eyes dart everywhere but my face, and God, he’s so sweet when he’s flustered.
“Baby boy,” I say, low enough to make him still, “your friends can be loud and pushy. But this—us—it’s not their place to decide.”
He swallows. “I didn’t ask them?—”
“I know.” My thumb strokes across his cheekbone, coaxing, not cornering. “That’s why I’m asking you. Not them. Not what they think. Not what they sent in a box with ridiculous socks.”
His lashes flutter; his breath is uneven.
“I need to hear it from you,” I say, firmer now. “Do you want this? Do you wantme? More than cuddles and forehead kisses?”
For a heartbeat he just stares, lips parted, color flooding his skin. Then he gives the smallest nod, shy but certain, and whispers, “Yes.”
The sound punches straight through me. I kiss him slow, deep, savoring his sweet mouth. Oren loses himself in the kiss, sliding his tongue along mine with a soft moan. When I finally pull back to catch my breath, I rest my forehead to his.
“Then that’s all I needed. Not candy. Not socks. Just your voice. Go fetch the other sock,” I tell him, loosening my tie. He blinks, clearly not expecting the command. “The one under the couch.”
Oren scrambles off, crouching down on his knees and elbows, muttering about dust bunnies. When he comes back, triumphant with the sock in hand, I drape my tie over the back of a chair and take both socks from him.
“Place these on the bed,” I instruct. “We’ll save them for later.”
His eyes flicker with uncertainty, aroused and flustered all at once. God, he’s beautiful like this.
Dinner is easy. We order pizza. He groans over the greasy cheese-pull from his dripping, gooey slice, and I laugh at the sauce smeared across his face. By the time I clear the box away, Oren’s warm and pliant, already halfway in that place where he listens without argument.
I turn the shower until the water sits somewhere between hot and warm and gesture for him to step in. Oren hesitates in the doorway for half a second, clutching the towel like it might save him, then lets it drop.
I’ve seen him nervous before. I’ve seen him brave. I haven’t seen this—this quiet, breathless awe that steals over his face when his eyes land on me.
He freezes. “Oh,” he says softly.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That good or that bad?”
His gaze travels slowly, curious and unguarded, cataloging every inch as if he’s trying to memorize something important.
“No one warned me,” he mutters.
“About what?”
“That Daddy comes in… deluxe edition.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
But he’s still staring, cheeks going pink, eyes wide in that earnest way that always twists me up inside.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say.
