Page 77 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Thirty
OREN
Keane’s sitting on the bed when I come back in, my journal propped open on his knee, thoroughly engrossed in my filthy fantasies. His sleeves are rolled, his tie draped carelessly over the headboard, and his eyes find me like I’ve just walked into court about to testify against myself.
My stomach flips. My throat goes dry.
“Interesting reading.” His voice is smooth, casual. He taps the page with one long finger. “Tell me, Oren. Was that just a story? Or was that a request?”
I want to melt into the carpet. My mouth opens and closes. I can’t lie, not when he’s looking at me like that.
“It was—” My voice squeaks. I clear my throat. “It was kind of a request.”
“Kind of?”
His brows lift. He’s savoring every second of this, the bastard.
“Because it sounds very specific. A custom Daddy mouth plug. That doesn’t read like fiction to me.”
Heat burns my face. My knees wobble.
“I was just—just writing.”
“Mm.”
He leans back, studying me, lips twitching as if he’s fighting a smile.
“So you don’t want me to shut you up? You don’t want me to fill that smart little mouth until you can’t talk anymore?”
A strangled sound escapes me. I don’t know if it’s a protest or a plea. All the bravado I felt earlier when I was flirting drains from my body in my next breath.
Keane pats his thigh. “Come here.”
My legs move before my brain catches up. I stand in front of him, staring at the way his gaze sharpens, heavy and knowing.
“Say it,” he murmurs, low enough to curl straight into my belly. “Tell Daddy what you want him to do.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out. My face is so hot it could catch fire.
He waits, patient, silent, until I squirm, my heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.
“Keane—”
“Not my name.” His voice hardens, and it shoots straight through me. “Try again.”
My knees nearly give. “Daddy,” I whisper.
“Better.” His hand cups my jaw, gaze falling on my lips. “Now use your words. Tell me what that dirty little brain of yours was begging for when you wrote it down.”
“I…” My throat is tight. Embarrassment and need are warring, twisting, tangling. My voice cracks when I finally force it out. “I want you to shut me up.”
He tilts his head, not satisfied. “How?”
God. He’s going to make me spell it out. My heart’s about to beat its way out of my chest.
“With—with your—” My breath hitches. I can’t believe I’m saying it. “With your cock.”
