Page 12 of Knox's Boy

"Eat," I commanded, grabbing a fork and a bottle of sparkling water.

“I’m so fucking hungry I can’t pretend anymore to be polite, is that alright?” he asked before attacking it. I chuckled again.

“It’s what I prefer. I told you: I love honesty. Go for it, boy,” I said. He picked up his fork, twirled a massive nest of noodles, and shoved it into his mouth. His eyes widened. He chewed, swallowed, and immediately went in for a second bite, barely breathing in between.

"Slow down," I said gently, finding it amusing, and taking a seat beside him. "It's not going anywhere."

"It's good," he said around a mouthful, a drop of sauce catching on his lower lip. He licked it away with a quick flick of his tongue. "Like, really good. Fucking hell."

"Language," I corrected automatically, though I didn't stop eating.

"Sorry. It's really good... sir." He flashed me a grin, half-cheeky, half-apologetic. The brat was peeking out again, but it felt safer now. It warmed my heart to see his growing confidence.

We ate in a comfortable silence, except for the sounds of him basically devouring my food. I watched him eat. There was something profoundly intimate about feeding him. It was primal. I provided, he consumed, and he loved it. A lot.

"So," Florian said, scraping the bottom of his bowl. "Is this part of the package? Gourmet meals? Or are you fattening me up for something? And can I have seconds?"

"I take care of what is mine," I said, the words slipping out. I saw him pause, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. "For the duration of our arrangement, your well-being is my responsibility. That includes proper nutrition. And, yes, you may have seconds. And thirds."

Florian looked down at his empty bowl, his cheeks flushing a faint pink. "You talk like I'm a stray dog you found in the rain."

I reached out, pouring more sparkling water into his glass and picking his plate up to serve him some more. "You were wet, shivering, and hungry. The comparison isn't entirely without merit."

"I bite," he warned, looking up at me through his lashes. His blue eyes were challenging, but the fear that had been there earlier was gone, replaced by a testing playfulness. I put the plate in front of him again, refilled, and he bounced in place like an excited puppy. It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen. That boy couldn’t lie or deceive his intentions even if he tried very hard.

"I count on you trying. And failing," I replied, meeting his gaze until he looked away, flustered.

He ate with the same ferocity as before and pushed his empty bowl away, leaning back on the stool with a contented sigh. Hisstomach was full, his body was warm, and he was safe behind my gates. That thought satisfied me more than sex alone ever could.

"Thank you," he mumbled, refusing to look at me. "For the food. Even if you are a control freak."

"You're welcome, brat," I said, standing up to clear the plates. "Now, up. You smell like the inside of a convenience store, and my sheets are Egyptian cotton. We have standards to maintain."

Chapter 7. Knox

I led him down the hallway toward the guest rooms. Florian walked a step behind me, his sneakers squeaking less now, almost as if he were learning how to walk here, but he still moved with that skittish energy.

I opened the door to the guest bathroom. It was white marble and chrome, illuminated by recessed lighting that could be dimmed to a soft, golden glow. The shower was a glass box large enough for three people, fitted with a rainfall head.

"Towels are on the rack. They are heated," I instructed, pointing to the chrome bars on the wall. "There is shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in the niche. Use them.”

He stepped inside, turning in a slow circle, looking at his reflection in the mirrors and polished stone. "This bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment," he muttered, running a hand along the edge of the floating vanity. He looked at me in the mirror, his expression guarded. "You're not coming in?"

"No," I said, stopping at the threshold. "Privacy is a privilege, but tonight it is yours. Take your time."

I closed the door, leaving him alone with the steam and the silence.

While the water began to run, I moved to the closet in the guest bedroom. I ran my hand along the row of hung garments. My fingers halted on a set of silk pajamas. They were a deep, midnight blue, the fabric cool. They were small. I had bought them for a guest years ago who had never worn them. They would fit Florian.

I pulled them from the hanger. It was an indulgence, dressing him in this. It was a way of claiming him, wrapping him.

I waited in the bedroom, sitting in the wingback chair near the window, the silk draped over my knee.

I waited. This part always felt like a ritual: choosing comfort for these boys. I told myself it was about care, about providing what I wished I'd had when I was young and alone, but the truth ran deeper, darker. It was my kink, yes, but it was also the only thing that made me feel full. The act of tending to someone, guiding them, watching as they relaxed under my rules. It fed something in me nothing else could. Control wasn't about power. It was about devotion, about being needed and trusted. I was a Daddy. That wasn't just a title; it was part of my personality, of who I was.

That's why I always gave my real name. No aliases, no games. I needed them to look at me and believe, maybe for the first time in their lives, that someone meant what he said. That someone could be trusted with the softness they'd learned to hide. None of them had ever exposed me for it. I fed them, and they came back hungry for more.

But Florian wasn't playing. He was genuine, unguarded in a way that couldn't be rehearsed. And that was addictive, like nothing I'd ever experienced.