Chapter 1
Chapter one
Spoiling Her
Dominic
Days Earlier
It was Mother’s Day, and I’d made sure this house would remember it forever.
The kids and I had been working for hours, small hands in mine, rose petals spilling from bowls as we scattered them across the carpet from the front door to the dining table.
Oliver kept giggling every time he threw a handful too high and they fluttered back into his hair.
J had insisted on arranging theirs in careful patterns, little swirls that curved toward the table like red trails leading to a treasure chest.
They were in their Sunday suits, both proud, both nervous. Oliver’s red bow was crooked, J’s jacket sleeves too short, but the shine in their eyes was everything.
Oliver stumbled and nearly tipped the bowl. “Oh no.”
But before the petals could spill and he hit the floor, I scooped him up fast with one arm. His little body barely weighed anything against my chest.
“Are you good to go, buddy?” I shifted him higher, easy as if he were nothing more than air.
“Yep. Now I’m flying!” His curls brushed my chin, and he laughed.
I set him down and gave him back the bowl. “There you go.”
“Dom,” Oliver gazed at my big biceps. “When I grow up, I’m gonna have muscles like you.”
“You sure will. Just keep eating good food and staying active.” I chuckled, squeezing him gently before setting him down. If only he knew—these muscles weren’t for show.
Most nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I punished my body in the basement apartment.
Push-ups until my chest burned, pull-ups until my arms shook, weights until my hands blistered.
All the cuts of muscle carved across my 6’4” frame was proof to my mind that I was still here, still fighting the ache of the family I’d lost.
Oliver’s cheeks flushed with excitement. “Dom, is this enough petals?”
“Plenty,” I fixed his favorite dinosaur pen on his lapel. “Your mom is going to walk in and think she stepped into a dream.”
The house was spotless. A cleaning crew had been here that morning, polishing every corner until the floors glowed.
No trace of Scott’s chaos remained—not his whiskey rings on the coffee table, not his half-snorted coke dust in the study.
Only light, only roses, only the boys’ drawings taped with shaky Scotch tape onto wrapped cardboard.
They’d each made her a card. Oliver’s was covered in dinosaurs, lopsided hearts stamped between velociraptors and stegosauruses.
J’s was a riot of rainbows, their handwriting neat and blocky, careful where Oliver’s was messy. They were beaming with pride, bouncing on their toes, whispering their rehearsed lines over and over.
The chef I’d hired was finishing in the kitchen—three courses, high-protein, rich but not heavy, because I listened to Teyonah even when she thought no one did.
She worried about scales and mirrors, but she didn’t need to.
Every curve of her body was perfection.
Still, I wanted to honor her discipline. So tonight it would be seared tuna—bright with citrus, salmon glazed in miso, and a panna cotta that melted like silk on the tongue. Clean, decadent, and light enough that she could savor every bite without guilt.
To match the meal, Chef Marco had even prepared low-calorie cocktails: a sparkling grapefruit spritz laced with rosemary, and a cucumber-mint gin fizz sweetened only with a drop of stevia.
Nervousness hit me.
Will she think this is too much? Would this. . .scare her?
I was not her close friend, just the young tenant in her basement apartment, but every rose I scattered, every course I had planned with the chef, made me feel like a future husband rehearsing vows I’d never been allowed to say.
The world might even call this wrong—me, in her house, arranging petals for her as if I owned a place in her bed.
Those truths pressed against my ribs like a blade every time I looked at her.
I wasn’t her partner.
I wasn’t her confidant.
I wasn’t her anything.
At best, I was the guy who lived in the basement and picked up her sons from soccer practice when she worked late.
The one who reheated leftovers and cut their grilled cheese sandwiches into dinosaurs because I knew Oliver wouldn’t eat them otherwise.
The one who crouched beside J, whispering that they didn’t have to finish long division tonight, not when their mom had already fallen asleep on the couch in her work clothes, exhaustion pressing her down like chains.
Sometimes I was just. . .there.
And she always noticed.
That was what ruined me sometimes.
I could feel her attention on me.
I could sense her gratitude rising within my chest, and I was unprepared for emotions like that.
I had moved in a year ago, and every morning since. . .she called me up for breakfast and slid my plate across the table like I belonged in that kitchen.
Like I wasn’t just renting a corner of her world.
Like she couldn’t stand the thought of me eating alone.
Last Christmas, she’d handed me a neatly wrapped box with a nervous smile, like she wasn’t sure it was enough. Inside was a navy wool sweater, soft and expensive, the kind she couldn’t really afford.
She’d said, “You don’t take care of yourself enough, Dominic. You need something warm. I don’t want you getting sick.”
She’d laughed it off, but I’d wanted to sink to my knees right there in front of her.
That sweater was proof.
Proof she thought about me when I wasn’t in the room.
Proof she worried about me.
But it was also. . .proof that I hadn’t become invisible in this world after my parents died.
Proof someone still thought I was worth keeping warm.
She’d even invited me to Christmas dinner, pulling out an extra chair, giving me the illusion of family. For a night, I had warmth, clinking glasses, kids shrieking with laughter as they tore open gifts.
For a night, I had the company of her.
But illusions always faded. And when the wrapping paper was tossed, when the tree lights dimmed, the ache came roaring back.
Because I wasn’t her family.
I just. . .wanted to be that and. . .so much more.
She constantly made me hard.
Even in the smallest moments—her hair falling loose while she packed lunches, the soft scrape of a knife spreading peanut butter across bread—was enough to wreck me.
It was more arousing than any porn I’d ever watched.
The swing of her hips as she reached for a juice box, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips when she concentrated—I wanted to bend her over the counter right then, to take her hard and deep until she forgot her own name.
I pictured the sandwiches half-made beneath my fists as I spread her pussy open, her moans spilling louder than any child’s laughter had ever filled this kitchen.
The house would smell like peanut butter, her pussy, and my cum, and the space would never recover from either.
God, I wanted to be in her bed so badly it hollowed me out.
But I was 25 and she was 39.
She was older, wiser, scarred by years that I hadn’t yet tasted. And still, all I wanted was to press my mouth to every place life had tried to wear her down and prove I could worship her better than any man her age.
She had lived, suffered, survived more than I ever had, and yet I couldn’t stop hungering for the impossible—her strength wrapped around my reckless youth.
She held this power over me without even knowing it. One glance from her could undo every hour I’d spent breaking my body into muscle and control in the gym.
No. This is okay. She deserves to be spoiled today.
But did that give me the right to dip into my trust fund and orchestrate this entire Mother’s Day as if I were her husband, as if I had the right to love her like this?
Was it wrong to spend so much on her when I wasn’t supposed to mean anything?
It felt filthy, pretending at a role that wasn’t mine, but the filth was part of the hunger. I wanted her in ways that shamed me, and yet the shame only made me want her more.
The world would call it erotic obsession.
Maybe it was.
But the truth was simpler, darker: I couldn’t stop.
Not when she bought me sweaters and told me to eat breakfast. Not when she hugged me after I told her about losing my parents three years ago. Not when she laughed at my stupid nerdy medical jokes and the sound alone repaired everything broken inside me.
How could I not want to give her a night where she felt adored?
Even if she never knew it came from me.
I wiped my palms on my slacks and watched the boys fidget. They were buzzing like firecrackers, waiting for her car.
I pointed at them. “Remember what we practiced.”
“Yep.” Oliver nodded fiercely, curls bouncing.
I turned to J. “Okay. What do you say when she comes in?”
J adjusted their red bow tie and smiled. “Mommy, tonight is your night of pampers.”
I chuckled.
Oliver widened his eyes.
J shook their head and giggled.
“Pampered, J.” I chuckled some more. “Mommy, tonight is your night to be pampered.”
J’s face fell. Their lips pressed tight, shoulders shrinking in on themselves as though one small mistake meant they’d ruined everything.
Shit.
I crouched down fast, until my knees brushed the carpet and my eyes were level with theirs. “Hey. Look at me, J.”
They kept staring at the floor, fighting tears.
“Please, look at me.” I gave them a warm smile. “You didn’t mess anything up. You’re perfect. You hear me? You’re going to say it just fine. Your mom is going to love it because it comes from you. And you,” I touched the red bow tie gently, “are awesome. Got it?”
A tear slipped down their cheek. They nodded, sniffling.
“Pampered,” I grinned. “We practiced. You’ll get it.”
“Pampered,” they repeated.
“Exactly. And even if you said pampers again?” I winked. “She would laugh, and then she would hug you until you couldn’t breathe. Because she loves you no matter what.”
Oliver nodded. “And mommy loves pampers too.”
I chuckled. “Good point.”
J exhaled like I’d just handed them oxygen. They smiled again, fragile but real.