Page 7 of Master Daddy

God, he was hot.

Like, unfairly hot.

The kind of hot that makes your stomach do little flips even hours later.

Those broad shoulders stretching his tank top, the dark scruff on his jaw, the way his voice dropped low and stern when he told me the gym wasn’t a playroom. Little one. He called me little one. Just thinking about it sends a warm shiver straight down my spine and settles low in my belly.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, pressing my thighs together without meaning to. My nipples are already tight against the soft cotton of my work t-shirt, and there’s a definite throb between my legs that has nothing to do with unpacking groceries.

I glance at the stockroom door.

I can’t, can I?

Or… it’s only got a simple slide bolt on the inside. No one ever comes back here during morning restock unless they absolutely have to. Mrs. Peplinska is up front chatting with customers, and Mr. Peplinska is doing the produce order in the back alley.

I could just… lock it for two minutes. Maybe three. Long enough to slip my hand down the front of my jeans and⁠—

Click.

My heart leaps into my throat as the door swings open. I spin around so fast I nearly knock the entire pyramid of coconut milk cans over. They wobble dangerously. I throw my arms out like I’m herding kittens and manage to steady the stack just in time.

“Luke, honey? How’s that delivery coming along?” Mrs. Peplinska’s kind face appears around the doorframe, silver curls bouncing as she tilts his head.

“F-f-f-f-fine!” I squeak, cheeks burning hotter than the pre-workout I drank yesterday. “Totally fine. Just… counting. Lots of counting.”

Mrs. Peplinska’s eyes crinkle with amusement. She’s in her late sixties but still runs this place like she’s twenty-five, and she’s got that all-knowing mom look that makes me feel about five years old.

“Mmhmm. That’s the same dreamy look my Henry used to put on my face back when we were courting. Plenty of time to think about handsome young men after your shift, dear. Don’t go dropping my coconut milk because of it.”

I let out a mortified little laugh and nod so hard I’m surprised my head doesn’t fall off my body!

“Yes, Mrs. P. Sorry,” I say. “I’m focused now. Promise.”

Mrs. Peplinska chuckles warmly and backs out, letting the door swing shut behind her. The second she’s gone, I sag against the metal shelving and press both hands to my flaming face.

“Oh my gosh, Luke, get it together,” I whisper. But even as I say it, my brain helpfully supplies an image of Mason’s big hands gripping the barbell like it weighed nothing, the way his forearm muscles flexed, the stern set of his mouth when he told me I was training with him from now on. No buts. It’s you and me now, little one.

A fresh wave of heat rolls through me. I squeeze my thighs together again and bite my lip. Maybe I can still…

No. Nope. Focus. Cans. Stock sheet. Work.

I force myself back to the clipboard and start counting properly this time, muttering the numbers out loud like a chant. It helps… a little. But every time I bend down to grab another case, I imagine Mason’s eyes on me, that deep voice telling me to be careful, to do it right.

By the time I finish the last pallet, I’m flushed, a little sweaty, and seriously considering whether I need to keep a spare pair of briefs in my locker.

The rest of the morning drags, but I manage to stay mostly professional. When my shift finally ends, I practically skip out the door and head straight to the diner two blocks away.

Taron is already in our usual booth by the window, sipping a strawberry milkshake with extra whipped cream and a cherry on top. His hair is shiny as ever, and he’s wearing an oversized pastel hoodie that screams Little energy. My wonderful friend lights up the second he sees me.

“Spill,” Taron says before I’ve even sat down. “Milo texted me you had a moment at the gym yesterday.”

I slide into the booth, grab the milkshake, and take a long, fortifying slurp before I answer. “Okay, yes. Moment. Capital M. Mason… the Mason, Connor’s friend, literally saved me from squishing myself under a bench press like a cartoon character. Then he went all stern and authoritative and told me I’m training with him from now on. Called me little one.” I fan myself dramatically. “Taron, I almost melted into a puddle right there on the gym floor.”

Taron grins, eyes sparkling.

“Mason’s a good guy,” Taron says. “Like, genuinely. Kaleb says he’s solid. But… he doesn’t date much. Works those long stints on the oil rig. Months away at a time. It’s why he’s been single forever.”

I stir the milkshake with the straw, watching the whipped cream swirl. “Yeah, that’s what I figured. I don’t want to catch feelings for someone who’s just going to disappear for four months. Been there, done that with the whole ‘guy with a complicated life’ thing. Patrick 2.0, no thank you.”