Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
KEANE
By midday, I can’t stop thinking about him—whether he’s eating, if he remembered to take a break from work, if he’s still rattled. So I send a message.
Assignment. Secret code. Come up with an emoji or word you’ll use when you’re anxious or need something you don’t know how to ask me for. (Like becoming sexual with your Daddy!) Has to be easy to drop in a chat, no overthinking. Bonus points if it makes me laugh.
If I know Oren, he’ll stew over it like it’s a creative writing prompt, but the truth is I just want a shorthand. A little flag he can wave when the world gets too loud.
The rest of the morning is a blur of client calls until Adiel rings.
He says he’s combed through Vince’s Playground application again and flagged “financial irregularities.” Which is the polite way of saying shady-as-hell paperwork.
Suspicious bank statements. Contacts that don’t make sense.
Too much smoke for there not to be a fire.
Thank God my buddy runs a tight ship when it comes to the application process. He vets his applicants thoroughly, since half the club’s population are a vulnerable, impressionable crowd.
“Fraud?” I ask, already booting up my firm’s database.
“Feels like it,” Adiel says. “You’ve got the better tools for digging. See what you can turn up.”
I don’t need more than that.
Hours later, the puzzle pieces start slotting together. Loan applications. Multiple. Spread out across different institutions, all papered with someone else’s credit. Not Vince’s. Oren’s.
My stomach drops as I scroll through the files. The loans list Vince as the beneficiary, Oren as the applicant. Classic fraud. Identity theft wrapped in manipulation, right under his nose.
I shove a hand through my hair, jaw tight. I’d bet every dollar of my retainer Oren doesn’t know. And when he finds out… he’s going to blame himself.
Not on my watch.
My cursor blinks back at me, concern pressing heavier with every second.
Vince has been bleeding Oren dry on paper, and the kid doesn’t even know it.
My heart burns with the thought of handing him that truth.
His hard-earned money from book releases, years of savings, gone. Wiped out by a conniving bastard.
The buzz of my phone yanks me out of the spiral. A picture pops up.
The journal. The bonbons. Both set on Oren’s desk like some kind of offering.
Beneath it:
Oren: Snack report and the thing that makes me feel safe.
I choke on air. My throat closes up, eyes stinging, because I don’t know if he’s messing with me or if he’s serious, and if he is… I’m going to introduce my boy to the joys of spanking.
My fingers hover, useless.
A beat later, another ping:
Oren: Kidding!
I slump back in my chair, half strangled with relief and half furious that he can rattle me like this. Does he know what that did to me?
Does he know I’d drop everything, right now, if he ever said that without a smiley face? To think my boy is getting high to avoid his hurt feelings, numbing his pain? What kind of Daddy would I be to let that slide?
I stare at the screen long after the little laughing emoji fades. My chest feels tight, like Oren’s fingers just curled around my ribs and squeezed.
I text back:
Thank God. How would I tell your friends they got you hooked on drugs and porn?
Oren: They’d be so proud!
I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying not to grin at the screen.
You’re impossible.
Oren: And you love it.
Damn kid’s got me wrapped around his finger and he knows it.
He makes a game of it. But behind that joke is the truth I’m starting to see clear as day—Oren trusts me enough to play, to tease, to test the edges of what we’re building.
And that’s almost better than hearing him flat-out say the words. Almost.
My phone buzzes again.
Oren: Decided. My codeword is gonna be eggplant socks. Since that started it all.
I hold my breath in my lungs, fighting a laugh. Trust him to turn a carefully thought-out protective measure into something that’s going to light my brain on fire every time I see it.
Eggplant socks is not subtle.
Oren: Exactly. You’ll know.
Pretty sure everyone in the office will know if that pops up on my screen when I’m in court.
Oren: Then you better keep your notifications private, Daddy.
I shove my chair back from the desk, running a hand down my face, half amused, half exasperated, and entirely his. Damn him.
I stare at the ridiculous code word still glowing on my screen. Eggplant socks. Christ.
Pack a bag. Meet me at my place.
Oren: Sleepover??
Exactly.
When he shows up at my door three hours later, he’s juggling a backpack, Quackers under one arm and Baby Quackers wedged under his chin. A bag of microwave popcorn pokes out of the zipper like stowed emergency rations. And in his other hand, swinging proudly, is his prized bear flashlight.
He beams at me as though I’ve just invited him to summer camp.
“I brought everything important.”
“You forgot the kitchen sink,” I deadpan, taking his backpack before it splits a seam.
“Didn’t fit,” he says, cheeks pink with excitement. Then he waves the flashlight. “But I can protect us if the power goes out.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. My place hasn’t seen this much energy in years. It’s supposed to be a quiet night, a controlled environment where he can relax. Instead, it feels like I’ve just signed myself up for a one-man circus.
Still, I can’t remember the last time the idea of someone sleeping over filled me with something like this. Anticipation. Warmth. Hope.
Oren tucks himself under my arm, flashlight and both ducks crowded onto the couch as if they paid for tickets. He’s got the popcorn bowl balanced on his knees, shoveling handfuls into his mouth while the animated movie blasts across my flat screen.
I tell myself I can endure ninety minutes of cartoon chaos for him. I’m a patient man. I handle depositions that last twelve hours.
But when he tips the bowl a little too far and half a pound of greasy kernels tumble into the cushions of my expensive upholstered couch, I sigh and take a deep breath.
“Oren…”
“I’ll clean it up,” he chirps, stuffing another fistful in his mouth. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a Scout.”
“Still counts.”
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. He is clever. 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.