Page 76 of Bedtime Stories
I exhale slowly, letting it slide. He’s glowing, happy, relaxed—and that’s the point. I can buy a new couch. I can’t buy this look on his face.
The credits roll, the ducks get tucked to the side, and I’m just about to suggest bed when Oren shifts, climbs into my lap, and stares me dead in the eye.
“So,” he blurts, cheeks pink but jaw set, “when are we gonna fuck, Daddy?”
Popcorn lodges in my throat. I cough, pounding my chest, eyes watering as Oren pats me between fits of nervous giggles.
Of course he thinks this is funny. Of course he drops it on me like a bomb after an hour of slapstick animals and spilled snacks.
And yet… his wide eyes behind the laughter, the tremor in his voice, tell me it’s not a joke. Not really.
I trace the sharp line of his jaw with my thumb, amused despite myself.
“You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”
His grin is wicked, eyes sparkling like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Know what else is blunt?”
I school my face into patience, clinging to it by a thread.
“Please don’t say my dick.”
Oren doesn’t even flinch. Just lifts his brows, all smug and satisfied, like he doesn’t need to say it because I already did.
The little menace.
I exhale through my nose, trying to keep a straight face while every part of me wants to laugh—or toss him over my knee.
“That’s not exactly the seduction strategy you and your friends plotted, is it?”
He bites his lip, unrepentant, and leans closer.
“Worked, though.”
Yeah, it worked. Everything Oren does works.
His eyebrows are still raised, smug as hell. Damn it.
I rub a hand over my face, fighting the smile tugging at my mouth. He thinks he’s clever. Heisclever. And the worst part? He’s right.
“I should make you wait,” I mutter, voice low, controlled, like I’ve got an ounce of control left. “I should tuck you in, read you a chapter, and let you squirm.”
“Yeah,” Oren says, grinning wider, “but you won’t.”
And just like that, I fold. Every ounce of lawyerly resolve, Daddy discipline, careful timing—I watch it collapse as neatly as Theo’s tent did at camp. I cup the back of Oren’s head and drag him into a kiss that leaves no room for smug little smirks.
When I finally let him breathe, his eyes are bright with mischief.
“Race you to the bedroom,” he whispers.
Then he takes off down the hall, bare feet slapping softly against the tile. I hear the bathroom door click shut and take a moment to straighten the popcorn disaster on the couch—my poor, beleaguered upholstery—and when I glance toward the coffee table, my patience and self-control meet their latest executioner.
His journal is wide open. Strategically. Oren being as subtle as a brick.
I don’t mean to look, but hell, it’s right there, bold handwriting dancing across the page. And the story? Jesus Christ.
A boy who talked too much. A Daddy who shut him up the best way he knew how. Not with scolding. Not with discipline. But with a mouth plug, custom-made. Daddy’s own cock.
My pulse slams into my throat. Heat burns my gut. Of all the ways he could have hinted…
When the bathroom door creaks open, he leans against the frame, towel draped casually around his neck, as if he didn’t just leave bait in the middle of my living room.
“Find something good to read?” he asks, tone feather-light, but his cheeks pink and his eyes burn hungry.
I hold his gaze, one brow climbing slow, deliberate. “I found something,” I murmur, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “You planning to talk a lot tonight, boy?”
Oren bites his lip, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
Because we both know exactly how this ends.
