Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Felix
“Hungry?” I repeated, softer this time, like it was a question I wasn’t sure I had the right to ask.
Clayton nodded fast, still gripping that battered duffel like it was armor. The way his shoulders hunched made something inside me twist. He’d shrink himself to fit into any corner if someone told him to. I wasn’t going to let him.
I pushed to my feet. “Let’s go.”
He blinked. “Dinner?”
“You deserve it,” I said. “You earned it. And I need a break from office food.”
His smile flickered—quick, uncertain. “You don’t have to…”
“I want to,” I said, cutting him off before he could make himself smaller again. “Come on.”
He followed me out into the December dark, half a step behind, just close enough that I could feel his hesitation. The air was sharp, wind knifing through my suit. Christmas lights blinked along the awnings—red, gold, white—all too bright against the gray city.
He shivered.
Without thinking, I shrugged off my coat and draped it over his shoulders. It swallowed him whole, but he didn’t argue. I didn’t let him.
“Keep it,” I said when he made a token protest. “You’re freezing.”
He nodded quickly, eyes wide. The way he looked at me—cautious, like I might change my mind—did something strange to my chest. People were always polite to me, deferential even, but not like that. Not like they needed kindness the way they needed air.
I steered him away from the noise and the chains with plastic menus and into a quiet little bistro tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The kind of place I went when I needed to remember I was still human, not just a signature at the bottom of an email.
The host recognized me—they always did—and led us to a booth half hidden behind a partition. Good. I didn’t want an audience.
Clayton slid in carefully, setting his duffel beside him like a guest at the table. His hands were tight fists on the wood grain. He didn’t look at me.
I hated that. I wanted to see his eyes. I wanted him to stop bracing for impact.
“You did well tonight,” I repeated quietly.
He flinched. Then, slowly, that shy smile appeared, soft and genuine. “Thank you, sir.”
The word sir was barely audible—private, like a confession. I didn’t correct him. God help me, I liked it.
The waiter came, all smiles and water glasses and chatter. I ordered without thinking—two steaks, rare and medium, roasted vegetables and potatoes. Clayton’s face lit up at that. I filed it away.
When I reached for the wine list, I caught his eye. “I’m going to order red.”
He grinned, hesitant but real. “My favorite vacation was once exploring the Tuscany vineyards.”
That stopped me. I hadn’t expected that—the hint of depth, the life behind the careful politeness. “Tuscany?” I said, a little surprised. “Good choice.” I passed him the list. “Order your favorite.”
He looked startled by the invitation, then even more so by the lack of prices on the menu. But he didn’t panic. Just breathed, straightened his shoulders, and ordered a Brunello. I liked that too—the quiet bravery of it.
I let him taste the wine when it came. His hands trembled just a little. Maybe from nerves. Or maybe because I doubted he was eating properly. I’d seen that look before, in employees who’d come from nothing and still couldn’t quite believe they belonged at the table.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering my voice. “Olivia’s going to be talking about this for weeks."
His eyebrows shot up. “She said you were a bit of a grinch.”
“She’s not wrong,” I admitted with a faint smile. “But you made even me enjoy it.”
He went still, eyes flickering down. I saw it—that quick flash of disbelief before the warmth settled in. Like nobody’d ever told him he made something better. It hit harder than I expected.
“She’s always nagging me to do more family things,” I said, mostly to fill the silence.
“More family events?”
I sighed. “Exactly. She’s right. I inherited a failing company, and I’ve fixed the numbers, but not the people. Staff turnover’s through the roof, and we just missed a major deadline because of it.”
He tilted his head. “What do you do?”
It startled me—how gently he asked. Most people wanted to know what I owned. Not what I did.
“Media,” I said finally. “My father ran a lifestyle magazine when those still meant something. We’ve gone digital now. Mostly features. Human-interest pieces, niche markets.”
“Niche markets?” he prompted, voice curious.
The devil in me wanted to see his reaction. “Little Life,” I said.
It was subtle—the way he froze, the pink blooming up his throat. He looked down fast, pretending to adjust his napkin.
And just like that, I couldn’t look away.
“Clayton?”
He lifted his gaze. His pupils were huge, his cheeks pink. He opened his mouth, closed it again, the napkin twisting tighter between his fingers.
“You’ve heard of it,” I said gently.
He nodded, fast. “Yes, sir,” he breathed. The words tumbled out of him in a rush. “I…I read it. Sometimes.”
Something in me went still. The bashful look, the way he twisted his napkin under the table, desperate to hide how much he cared. Was that it? Was that why submissive sometimes seemed wrong on him? Like he was hiding? Was Clayton a Little?
I’d spent years keeping that side of my work separate—professional success and private desire, the boardroom and the club. But sitting across from this man with my coat around his shoulders and the candlelight catching the soft worry in his eyes, those walls didn’t feel quite so steady.
He was blushing so hard I wanted to tell him to breathe. To stop apologizing for being himself. The truth was, I understood him far too well.
I hid behind my wine glass, trying to gather myself.
He wasn’t supposed to get under my skin this easily.
Maybe it was the way he’d looked at that little girl earlier—the gentleness in his hands when he’d called her his fairy assistant.
Maybe it was the way he’d said sir, like he didn’t think he was allowed to want comfort, only permission.
Whatever it was, it cracked something open in me that had been locked tight for too damn long.
I set my glass down carefully and said, “You don’t have to hide that, Clayton.”
He looked up, startled.
I waited.
He swallowed, and when he finally looked up, there was no mask left. Just Clayton. Want so deep it almost hurt to see.
“I like the stories,” he murmured. “Mostly the gentle ones. Where the Little…gets taken care of. Not just the play part, but all of it. The rules, the routines, the patience. The way the Daddy makes everything feel okay again.” His cheeks flushed.
He tried to hide it, but I watched it climb his throat anyway.
“I always wanted something like that, but…it never happened.”
His voice went softer. “My old Dom, he wasn’t like that. He liked control, but he didn’t want to take care of me. Not really. Not the way the…the Daddies do.”
The napkin was nearly shredded. I reached over and took it from his hands, slow, deliberate. He let it go instantly. Good boy.
He looked at me, eyes huge and dark in the candlelight. “I guess it sounds ridiculous. I’m too old for that stuff anyway.”
There was a tremor in his voice that made my pulse thrum. I leaned in, letting my voice drop to the space between us, just for him.
“You’re not too old for anything. Littles come in all shapes and ages. If you want that—you could have it. You just need someone who knows what the hell they’re doing.”
He shuddered. I watched it move through his whole body, a wave of hope he didn’t want to show. He stared at the wine, but his hands were steady now. I couldn’t stop myself from reaching out, stroking my thumb over the back of his hand.
He flinched, then relaxed, sinking into the touch. Like he’d wanted it forever.
“Have you played that way before?” I kept my touch light. He shook his head, not quite meeting my eyes.
“No, sir. Not really. Jason…he said it was weird. Or childish. He didn’t want to help me, enforce bedtime, or…even nicknames. Not the safe ones.” His voice thinned out. “He’d get mad if I asked.”
“Bastard.” I didn’t bother hiding it.
He smiled, tiny, but it was there. “I got used to it. But sometimes after a scene, I’d read the stories.
The good ones. The ones where the Little could just…
rest.” His fingers flexed under mine, needy but hesitant.
“I don’t sleep great, sir. Not since Mom died.
But in those stories, the Littles always sleep okay, because the Daddy looks after them. ”
I let that hang between us. He was shaking, but it wasn’t from nerves now. It was from letting something out that he’d never trusted anyone with.
I felt it cut through me, sharp as anything I’d ever had in the club. The want to take care of him. The want to be the one he trusted with this, except I knew that wouldn’t work.
I stroked his hand, slow and heavy. “You want that for yourself.” Not a question.
“But how pathetic is that? A forty-six-year-old man wanting to be treated like a baby?”
“Except it isn’t,” I corrected gently. “And yes, Littles come in all ages, including infant ones, but the real need is care. The need to be taken care of by someone they trust.”
I should have been able to think this through rationally. I always could. But nothing about Clayton felt rational.
I tried to picture him with someone else.Some faceless man, older maybe, with kind hands and patient eyes. Someone who’d tuck him under a blanket, call him good boy in that tone that made his whole body melt. Someone who’d give him safety.
But the thought clawed at me. The air went sour.Because I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else hearing the soft sounds Clayton made when he relaxed, or watching that tentative smile appear.
I wanted to give him that. I wanted to be the man who did.
And yet…