Chapter 7
Luke
“Okaaaay,” I sigh, taking in the sight of my apparent new bedroom.
The safehouse bedroom is small, barely bigger than a closet, with a lumpy mattress and a single window covered by heavy blackout curtains.
The air smells faintly of dust and old laundry detergent, probably from the laundromat downstairs. I’m curled up on the bed, my back against the wall, my sketchpad balanced on my knees. Swift is propped up next to me, his orange beak catching the dim light from the bedside lamp.
My pencil scratches across the page, sketching the outline of a peli-corn—a unicorn with a pelican’s wings—because I need something to calm the jitters still buzzing through me after that chaos in the hotel lobby.
Thankfully, Connor is for once keeping his distance and I can let my Little side peak out just a bit. And I really need this time too. But even though he’s not lurking, Connor’s still on my mind.
My heart’s still pounding, replaying the moment Connor tackled me to the floor, his body shielding mine as bullets tore through the air.
I should be grateful—he saved my life, no question—but all I feel is trapped.
Trapped by his rules, his overbearing Daddy vibe, his stupidly intense eyes that make my stomach flip in ways I don’t want to admit…
I’m Luke Modine, investigative journalist, not some dizzy Little who needs to be locked in a room like a naughty kid. But here I am, stuck in this dump of a safehouse, under orders to “stay put” while Connor plays hero.
“Hmmph,” I mutter, my frustration boiling over as I get one of the wings wrong on my drawing.
I press harder on my pencil, shading in the peli-corn’s wings, trying to push down the frustration. My backpack’s on the floor, the flash drive and Carla’s list of shell companies tucked inside, burning a hole in my conscience.
I should tell Connor about them—the details of the text, too—but I don’t trust him.
I’m not about to hand over my biggest leads to someone who might use them to shut down my investigation—because that really does feel like something Connor might do.
He says he’s here to be my bodyguard but so far he’s done so much to get in my way that I can’t help but think he’s actually trying to sabotage the whole thing.
The bedroom door creaks open, and I flinch, my pencil skidding across the page.
Connor steps in, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders, a plastic cup of apple juice in his hand.
He’s ditched his jacket, his black tee stretched tight as ever over his broad, strong upper body.
His hair is slightly mussed, and those dark eyes lock onto me, making my cheeks heat up despite myself.
“Thought you might be thirsty,” Connor says, his voice low and gruff, but there’s a softness in it that catches me off guard. He glances at Swift, propped up against my pillow, and a faint smirk tugs at his lips. “So, stuffy, is he always this much trouble?”
“Swift,” I say, rolling my eyes. “He’s called Swift.”
“Cool,” Connor replies, his eyes going from Swift to me. “Pleased to meet you, Swift.”
I can’t help it—I giggle, the sound slipping out before I can stop it. I slap a hand over my mouth, trying to hide it, but Connor’s smirk widens, and I know he caught it.
“Swift’s waiting to see if you can actually help me,” I say, aiming for sassy but landing somewhere closer to flustered. “I need to get the evidence on Haynes. I know it’s dangerous. But… I’m not the one barging into lobbies like a tank, Bossyguard.”
The nickname slips out, and I freeze, my face flaming.
It’s pure Little, all bratty and playful, and I want to sink into the mattress and disappear. Connor’s eyes spark, something warm and dangerous flickering in them, and for a second, I’m back in that kiss three years ago, his lips on mine, all heat and promise.
Connor steps closer, setting the apple juice on the bedside table, and I clutch my sketchpad like it’s a shield.
“Bossyguard, huh?” he says, his voice dropping to that Daddy tone that makes my knees wobble. “Careful, Little Scoop. Keep pushing, and you’ll find out just how bossy I can get.”
My breath catches, and I hate how my Little side responds, all fluttery and needy.
“I’m not pushing,” I mutter, but it’s weak, and we both know it. I drop my gaze to my sketchpad, scribbling harder, trying to ignore the way his presence fills the room, all masculine, dominant, a true man who knows he’s in control.
Connor leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, and I can feel his eyes on me, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve.
“I’m gonna be busy for the next hour,” Connor says, his tone shifting back to business. “Researching Haynes, calling in some contacts. I need you to stay in here, Luke. No sneaking out, no phone calls, no trouble. Understood?”
I roll my eyes, my pencil pausing.
“What, you’re grounding me now?” I sass. “I’m not five, Connor.”
“You’re acting like it,” Connor shoots back, but there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Stay put. I mean it. We’re not playing games anymore.”
“Fine,” I huff, my pout slipping out full force.
I hug Swift closer, his soft fabric grounding me, but I can’t shake the irritation. Or the spark. Connor’s standing there, all smug and commanding, and it’s doing things to me I don’t want to admit. Things that make me want to push his buttons just to see what happens.
“Well go then,” I say, my cheeks red as I feel my body tingle. “When you’re done I’ll have my own plan for how we’re taking the investigation forward, okay?”
Connor gives me one last look, those eyes lingering a little too long, then turns and shuts the door behind him. The click of the latch feels final, like a line drawn between us.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, my heart racing for reasons that have nothing to do with gunshots or cartels.
I set my sketchpad aside, the peli-corn half-finished, and grab the apple juice, sipping it slowly.
It’s sweet, cold, and exactly what I need to cool the heat in my cheeks.
I flop back on the bed, Swift tucked against my side, and stare at the ceiling. The room’s quiet, just the faint hum of the laundromat below and the occasional creak of the safehouse settling.
Connor’s out there, digging into Haynes, probably barking orders into his earpiece like the bossy Daddy he is. I should be planning my next move, figuring out how to contact Carla again or dig into those shell companies, but my mind keeps drifting back to him…
To that moment in the lobby, his body over mine, shielding me from bullets. To the way he called me “good boy” in the alley, his voice all gruff and warm. To that kiss three years ago, when I was too scared to let myself fall for someone like him…
Someone who’s all control, all strength, all Daddy.
My Little side’s buzzing, wanting to curl up in his lap and let him take care of everything, but I shove it down. I’m a journalist. I’ve got a story to break. I don’t need a Daddy, no matter how much my body’s screaming otherwise.
I clutch Swift tighter, his orange beak a familiar comfort, and try to focus. The flash drive and Carla’s list are still in my backpack, and I know they’re the key to nailing Haynes.
But Connor’s right about one thing—this is bigger than I thought. Those shooters weren’t just random thugs. They were coordinated, professional, and they wanted me dead.
The thought sends a shiver through me, and I hug Swift closer, wishing I could just sink into Little space and forget the danger for a while.
But I can’t.
Not yet.
I need to stay sharp, stay focused.
I pick up my sketchpad again, flipping to a new page, and start sketching. But I can’t focus and end up drawing messy patterns and silly doodles. My heart is racing and my special place is beginning to call me and want me to be naughty…
“Jeez,” I mutter, knowing what’s happening but powerless to stop it.
The apple juice sits forgotten on the table, and I realize I’m not sketching anymore—I’m just staring at the page, my heart pounding. Connor’s out there, doing his job, and I’m in here, supposed to be staying out of trouble.
But trouble’s what I do best.
I glance at the door, half-expecting him to barge in and catch me daydreaming, but it’s still closed, the safehouse quiet.
I set the sketchpad aside and lie back, pulling Swift onto my chest. My mind’s a mess—Haynes, the cartel, the flash drive, and Connor, always Connor, with his bossy rules and his stupidly perfect face.
I close my eyes, trying to shut it all out, but his voice echoes in my head, that low growl of “Push me, and you’ll regret it.” My Little side squirms, wanting to push, wanting to see how far he’ll go…
A quick glance at the door to make sure that it’s fully shut and I allow my hands to slide down inside my briefs, the hardness of my cock more than apparent from the second I begin to stroke, squeeze, and grip my stiff dick…
“Mmmph,” I gasp, the full extent of my arousal becoming clear as I begin to work my fist faster up and down my shaft and use my other hand to trace underneath my shirt and squeeze and pull over my nipples.
I quickly reach for Swift and place him over my mouth—I know I’m going to be moaning any second now and the last thing I want is for Connor to hear me.
With one hand holding Swift in place, I work my other hand into a frenzy as I feel my orgasm coming on hard, fast, and unstoppable…
All I can think of is Connor’s face, body, his no-doubt chunky, thick cock all hard and ready to take me…
“Snaaaaap, I’m… mmmmph,” I groan, my voice thankfully muffled as I buck my hips and cum to the image of Connor having his way with me, making me his, and putting me in my place as his submissive Little once and for all. “Daddddddyyyyyy.”
My heart is racing and I know that my cheeks are bright red, but the immediate guilt at having pleasured myself like this over Connor of all people makes me do my best to let the orgasm and all signs of my arousal fade as quickly as possible.
“Jeez. Wow. Never again though,” I whisper, lying on the bed, still seeing stars as my body slowly returns to something approaching normality.
I reach for some tissues and quickly clean myself up. My breathing still heavy, I do my best to calm myself.
But, damn, that was a hot moment.
The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. I roll onto my side, Swift still clutched tight, and try to focus on something else—anything else. The peli-corn sketch, the list of shell companies, the next interview I need to arrange.
But my mind keeps circling back to Connor, to the way he looked at me when he called me “good boy,” to the heat in his eyes when I slipped and called him “Bossyguard.”
I groan, burying my face in Swift’s soft fabric, wishing I could turn off the part of me that’s still drawn to him.
I need to get it together.
Haynes’s out there, his goons are after me, and I’ve got a story to break. I can’t let Connor distract me, no matter how much my Little side wants to make me do all the naughty things.
I sit up, grabbing my sketchpad again, and force myself to draw, to focus, to be Luke Modine, journalist, not some swoony Little lost in a crush.
But as my pencil moves, it’s Connor’s face that takes shape again, and I know I’m in deeper than I want to admit…