Chapter 3 #2
His eyes jerked up to meet mine again as another wave of pink colored his cheeks. And damn, that was something I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of seeing.
I loved how he looked when he got all flushed and flustered.
I loved even more that I’d been the one who’d caused it.
And I really loved the idea of making it happen more often.
“You don’t have to buy me anything,” he said, a little quaver in his voice.
He didn’t move away, though.
“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” I said firmly, even though the flight I had to catch out of La Guardia made a lie out of that statement.
Although I could miss it, if I just delegated—
No.
Jesus.
I didn’t do that. I’d always run my companies with an iron fist. Loosening the reins wasn’t in the cards. My infatuation with this pretty young thing was getting ridiculous.
That didn’t stop me from pulling him a little closer when someone brushed by us, though, sliding my hand around his hip before I gave myself time to think about whether or not that was even remotely appropriate.
Not, my conscience quickly supplied. The answer was that it was most definitely not appropriate…
but ask me how many fucks I gave at the moment and you’d get an answer of a lot less than one.
Especially when the boy’s eyes widened at the contact, that little hitch back in his breath as he leaned into me, once again making no effort whatsoever to move away when I wanted him near.
So quick to let me take charge.
So eager to please.
And sue me but it was true, my cock—and every other part of me—liked those particular attributes quite a bit.
Maybe Jackie had been right about what I’d been missing in my relationships all these years. Of course, that didn’t mean I could have it with…
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I asked the boy, the endearment slipping out without my permission for the second time today. And just like before, the boy let it slide, acknowledging it only with another pinkening of his cheeks as he blinked those baby blues up at me.
“Dash,” he said, sounding wonderfully breathless. “It’s Dash, sir.”
“Excuse me?”
“Um, my name? It’s Dash—Dashiell Davis.”
“Well, isn’t that pretty,” I said without thinking, because it was.
His eyes widened again, but not necessarily in a good way this time.
“P-p-pretty?” he repeated, looking... worried?
Well, shit. He was pretty, and so was his unusual name, but of course I knew that a lot of boys—a lot of men; because yes, he was young, but at nineteen, he did qualify as a young man now—wouldn’t take kindly to being called “pretty.”
And what if I was wrong about what I thought I’d seen on his face the week before, about the interest I kept telling myself was there? What if he wasn’t even gay?
But then, so quietly I almost missed it—
“Do you like pretty things?” he asked as the line shuffled forward ahead of us.
“I do,” I admitted, letting a wolfish smile split my face as I moved my hand from his hip to his lower back, subtly urging him forward.
I wasn’t sure what had caused his distress over the word “pretty,” but there had been definite longing in that tone…
and if that question of his wasn’t flirting, it was definitely moving in the right direction.
Or the wrong one, offered my conscience.
I ignored it, because I’d clearly lost that battle the minute I’d gotten out of the town car.
“I like pretty things a lot, Dashiell,” I murmured quietly. “Do you?”
He nodded, biting that sweet temptation of a lower lip again.
“Then I guess we’ve got something in common,” I said as we finally reached the counter.
He ducked his head and quite obviously tried to hold back a smile as I placed an order for my standard grande triple-shot Americano, and—feeling unaccountably generous—ordered a drip coffee for Paul and one of the decadent pastries that I always warned him would be his downfall, as well.
Then I turned to Dashiell. “And what do you want, pretty baby?”
Another endearment that slipped out without warning and earned me another one of those sweetly startled looks of his. Dashiell didn’t call me on it, though. He just shot the barista an adorably bashful look, and then mumbled something under his breath, looking down again.
“What was that?” I asked, tipping his chin up to force him to look at me.
The faintest hint of soft stubble teased my fingertips, as if he hadn’t shaved that morning—or maybe for a couple of mornings—and rarely needed to yet.
And underneath the fine hair, his skin was petal-soft, the feel of it addicting.
“I just said, um, anything is fine,” he said quietly, swallowing hard. “Thank you, sir.”
I frowned. I enjoyed taking charge, but I also wanted to spoil him with whatever he actually liked. But before I could press the matter, I became subtly aware that my boy… didn’t smell fresh.
Normally, a lack of personal hygiene would have been an immediate turn-off, but for some reason, with him, it sparked a different reaction. Was he okay?
I didn’t like the sudden suspicion that popped into my head as the small signs of dishevelment that I’d been noticing ever since I followed him inside started to add up.
My knee-jerk walk-of-shame conclusion from earlier didn’t feel likely, not with the boy’s sweet personality, but with a flight to catch soon and a long line of customers waiting behind us, it wasn’t the time to push him for answers.
Not for his drink preference, and not for anything else yet, either.
I turned back to the barista, deciding I’d find out everything I needed to know about Dashiell later, but soon… and not letting myself question that I was already assigning us a “later.”
“And a mocha latte,” I ordered briskly, because what boy didn’t like chocolate? And then, noting how Dashiell’s eyes darted almost desperately toward the pastry case, I added, “And a breakfast sandwich, please.”
“Sure. What kind?” the barista asked as her fingers flew over the keypad in front of her.
“Just give me one of each,” I said for expediency.
Now Dashiell was looking everywhere but at me—everywhere but at me or the food—and his face the bright red of true embarrassment instead of the pretty pink flush I enjoyed seeing on him so much when his stomach rumbled.
He was hungry. Dammit, something was definitely wrong with his situation. Why wasn’t someone taking care of him properly?
He was young, yes, but he didn’t seem reckless, and he worked at one of the nicer restaurants in the city. The conclusions I was jumping to couldn’t be right, though. The idea bothered me on too deep of a level to contemplate.
I needed more information.
I paid for the order and pulled him over to the pick-up counter to wait for it. “Where are you going from here, Dashiell?” I asked. “To school?”
“Uh… sure,” he quite obviously lied, looking down again. “Mmhmm.”
I tipped his face up, searching those pretty eyes. “Please don’t start getting in the habit of lying to me, sweetheart.”
Not that “habit” should be a word I ever allowed to apply between us. And “sweetheart”? I could honestly say that, before today, that particular endearment had never crossed my lips before.
As soon as I got our drinks, I needed to walk away.
Instead, before Dashiell had a chance to come up with another lie for me, I found myself saying, “I’ll give you a ride to wherever it is that you’re headed next.”
“That’s really nice of you,” Dashiell said softly, his eyes growing suspiciously bright all of a sudden. “But no. Um, thank you, though.”
It was the right response given that we were virtual strangers and I was more than twice his age.
Besides—I resisted a shudder—I was flying commercial today.
The plane wasn’t going to wait for me if I had Paul take an unnecessary side trip on the way to the airport, and I really did have important meetings to get to at the other end of my flight.
I definitely didn’t have time to deliver this boy wherever it was he needed to go.
“Why not?” I pressed him anyway, unable to drop it.
“I… I’m actually not going to school,” he said, swallowing again but then subtly straightening his shoulders.
“You were right about that, okay? But I’m going to be looking for work today, so I’ll just be walking around.
” He blinked, looking a little lost for a moment, then looked up at me with a hopeful expression.
“And maybe… maybe I’ll even ask if they’re hiring here? Do you think they might be?”
I frowned. “Here? Why? Did you quit your job at La Vigneta?”
An expression that twisted my insides into an unexpectedly painful shape flashed across his face, there and gone too quickly for me to figure out what it had been.
“No,” he answered softly, looking away. “I think I still have a job there, but I’m going to need something else now, too.”
“Because?” I pressed.
He lifted one shoulder in a defeated-looking shrug as the barista called out that our order was ready.
It was three to-go cups wedged into a cardboard carrier and—huh, I hadn’t realized how many varieties of breakfast sandwiches Starbucks carried—a bag with handles, full of steaming sandwiches that immediately captured every ounce of Dashiell’s attention.
And, selfish bastard that I am, I was immediately fucking jealous of a bag of sandwiches.
It was my only excuse for what popped out of my mouth next.
“You don’t need to look for work,” I told him. “I’m hiring you, effective immediately.”
His eyes jerked up to meet mine. “You are? For… for what?”
Dirty, dirty things popped into my head, but no. That would never be me. I owned or had a stake in several businesses with offices here in New York, and the boy clearly needed stability and a legitimate, safe place to go. There were any number of places I could start him in an entry level position.
“I need a house sitter.” It was ridiculous, and I didn’t.
I didn’t even know where the words had come from.
But now that they were out there, there was nowhere else I could picture this beautiful boy, and the idea of him sleeping in my bed while I was out of town made my cock pulse with heat despite my best intentions.
“You’ll stay at my apartment and watch over things for me while I’m gone. ”
Dashiell stared at me.
Then he kept staring at me.
Then, when someone jostled him from behind, he finally blinked. “You… you want me to stay at your place? Like, in your actual home?”
“I need you to,” I told him. Regardless of the competent staff that I kept on the payroll to maintain my apartment here, the statement felt absolutely true.
I shouldn’t need him, but I... did.
I cleared my throat. “And I’ll pay you, of course.” Something occurred to me. “Although, if you need to check with your parents first...”
Jesus Christ. That’s right. Reality check: I was infatuated with a teenager.
“No,” Dashiell said, his voice going hard as he straightened his spine and stared me in the eye. Not just a boy, then, no matter how young and pretty he was. “There’s no one for me to check with, Callum, so if you’re sure you want me—”
“I do.”
So damn much, no matter how much I tried to talk circles around it in my mind.
“Then yes, please,” he said, his eyes darting back to the bag of sandwiches for a split second before he turned his attention back to me, making a visible effort to ignore them. “I would love to house sit for you. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Excellent,” I said, picking up the cup carrier with one hand and nodding toward the bag. “Then please grab those for us, sweetheart. My driver is waiting.”
His eyes went wide, although whether it was from the mention of Paul or the way I’d slipped with that damn endearment again, I wasn’t sure. But then he grabbed the bag without comment and followed me toward the exit.
And all that eager obedience of his? Even if it was partly fueled by hunger and desperation, as I was beginning to suspect, it did something to me. I had no trouble at all imagining how it would transfer to the bedroom… but I knew I couldn’t let myself act on any of those fantasies.
And I wouldn’t. That wasn’t what this was about.
At least, it shouldn’t be. He was still too young, and I’d just effectively hired him.
I mean it couldn’t be… now more than ever, if I was right about how rough his current circumstances were.
I would never take advantage of someone in that kind of situation.
Of course, I normally wouldn’t go out of my way to help, either, but I wasn’t going to think too hard about why everything felt different with Dashiell just yet.
I would figure out what the hell was going on with the boy—and what the hell I was doing—when I got back to New York at the end of the week.
I held the door for him, nodding toward my town car when he paused and gave me a questioning look, looking to me for guidance and eager to follow my direction.
Fucking Christ, I loved that. Almost as much as I loved knowing that Dashiell would be here waiting for me—
In my home.
In my bed.
—as soon as I wrapped up my business out of town.
And fuck what my conscience had to say about that.