Chapter 7. Knox
I led him down the hallway toward the guest rooms. Florian walked a step behind me, his sneakers squeaking less now, almost as if he were learning how to walk here, but he still moved with that skittish energy.
I opened the door to the guest bathroom. It was white marble and chrome, illuminated by recessed lighting that could be dimmed to a soft, golden glow. The shower was a glass box large enough for three people, fitted with a rainfall head.
"Towels are on the rack. They are heated," I instructed, pointing to the chrome bars on the wall. "There is shampoo, conditioner, and body wash in the niche. Use them.”
He stepped inside, turning in a slow circle, looking at his reflection in the mirrors and polished stone.
"This bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment," he muttered, running a hand along the edge of the floating vanity.
He looked at me in the mirror, his expression guarded. "You're not coming in?"
"No," I said, stopping at the threshold. "Privacy is a privilege, but tonight it is yours. Take your time."
I closed the door, leaving him alone with the steam and the silence.
While the water began to run, I moved to the closet in the guest bedroom.
I ran my hand along the row of hung garments.
My fingers halted on a set of silk pajamas.
They were a deep, midnight blue, the fabric cool.
They were small. I had bought them for a guest years ago who had never worn them. They would fit Florian.
I pulled them from the hanger. It was an indulgence, dressing him in this. It was a way of claiming him, wrapping him.
I waited in the bedroom, sitting in the wingback chair near the window, the silk draped over my knee.
I waited. This part always felt like a ritual: choosing comfort for these boys.
I told myself it was about care, about providing what I wished I'd had when I was young and alone, but the truth ran deeper, darker.
It was my kink, yes, but it was also the only thing that made me feel full.
The act of tending to someone, guiding them, watching as they relaxed under my rules.
It fed something in me nothing else could.
Control wasn't about power. It was about devotion, about being needed and trusted.
I was a Daddy. That wasn't just a title; it was part of my personality, of who I was.
That's why I always gave my real name. No aliases, no games.
I needed them to look at me and believe, maybe for the first time in their lives, that someone meant what he said.
That someone could be trusted with the softness they'd learned to hide.
None of them had ever exposed me for it.
I fed them, and they came back hungry for more.
But Florian wasn't playing. He was genuine, unguarded in a way that couldn't be rehearsed. And that was addictive, like nothing I'd ever experienced.
The sound of the shower cut off. A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened.
A cloud of steam rolled out, carrying the scent of bergamot, my soap.
Florian emerged from the fog. He had wrapped one of the oversized white bath towels around his waist, hitching it low on his hips.
His chest was bare, flushed pink from the heat, droplets of water clinging to his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.
His wet blond hair was plastered to his forehead, making him look even younger, defenseless.
He was beautiful. So, so beautiful.
He spotted me in the chair and stopped, his toes curling into the plush carpet. I handed him the silk pajamas.
"Comfort is non-negotiable in my home," I said.
Florian eyed the dark fabric skeptically. He reached out, his fingers brushing mine as he took the shirt. He rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger. "Silk? Seriously? These look like something a villain in a Bond movie would wear. I don’t even own any pajamas."
“How do you sleep, then?” I asked, already guessing the answer.
“Naked, of course,” he said, mischievous.
I smirked. "Put them on."
Florian looked at me, then at the pajamas, and then a shift occurred in his eyes. A spark of the brat, the challenger, lit up the blue irises. Instead of retreating to the bathroom to change, he simply let go of the towel.
It pooled around his ankles in a heavy white heap.
He stood there, stark naked in the center of the guest room. He was beautiful. Slender but wiry, with a lean, defined musculature. His skin was pale. He didn't cover himself. He stood with his weight on one leg, chin tilted up, daring me to look, daring me to react.
"Well?" he asked, his voice pitching slightly higher than normal. His eyes narrowed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What's wrong? Don't you want to see what you're paying for?"
It was a clumsy attempt at seduction, a transparent bid for validation. He was trying to turn this back into a transaction, to find his footing on the only ground he thought he understood: being used.
My gaze traveled over him, slow and deliberate. I looked at the curve of his waist, the flare of his hips, the soft darker hair at the base of his belly. I felt desire stir; I wasn't made of stone, and he was undeniably alluring, but I kept it locked down tight behind a wall of discipline.
I met his eyes. "I see you've followed instructions about getting clean," I said, my voice dry and devoid of lust. "That was the requirement."
Florian flinched, his bravado faltering at my lack of predatory response. He yanked the pants up his legs with a huff. "There's just no winning with you, is there?"
I chuckled. I couldn't help it.
The silk slid over his legs, pooling slightly at his ankles. He pulled the drawstring tight. He shrugged into the shirt, the midnight blue fabric contrasting sharply with his fair skin and golden hair. He began to button it, his fingers fumbling slightly with the small pearl buttons.
"Fancy jammies," he murmured, smoothing the fabric over his chest. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror, turning side to side. "I feel... slippery."
The silk transformed him, lending an elegance that made my breath catch. "The fabric suits you," I said, closing the distance between us.
He froze as I approached. I reached out, not to touch his skin, but to fix the collar of the shirt, which was tucked under at the back. My knuckles grazed the nape of his neck, warm, damp skin against cool silk. His breath hitched.
"Better," I said, stepping back immediately. "Now, come, we are sleeping in my room."
"Your room?" His eyes widened. "I thought... I thought this was where I was staying."
"I said I would take care of you tonight,” I replied, moving toward the door. “I need to have you where I can see you, hear your breathing. And I don't sleep in guest rooms."
I didn't wait for an argument. I walked out into the hallway, hearing the soft swish-swish of the silk legs rubbing together as he hurried to catch up. He was following. He was always following. And God help me, I liked it a little too much.
My bedroom was dominated by a king-sized bed. The blackout curtains were drawn, soft yellow lights on.
"Get in," I said.
Florian hesitated by the side of the bed, shifting his weight.
He crawled onto the mattress, moving cautiously, and settled on the left side.
I undressed, putting on my pajamas t-shirt and leaving my boxers on.
He raised his eyebrows, watching every move.
Then, I extinguished the main lights, leaving only the amber glow of the bedside lamps, and climbed in beside him.
The mattress dipped under my weight. We lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling.
I could feel the heat radiating from him, could hear the shallow, erratic rhythm of his breathing.
He was buzzing with restless energy, his mind clearly unable to process the stillness.
Suddenly, he moved.
He shifted onto his side, turning toward me. His hand snaked out, sliding under the hem of my t-shirt. His fingers were cold against my warm skin, tracing the ridges of my abdominals with a clumsy, desperate boldness.
"I can do this," he whispered, his face hovering inches from my shoulder. His breath smelled of mint toothpaste and lingering wine. "I want to. I promise I'm good at it. You don't have to just... sleep. I can handle it."
It was the bargain again. He was trying to pay his rent with friction, tears, and sweat because he didn't believe he deserved the bed for free.
I moved faster than he expected. My hand shot out, clamping around both of his wrists and pinning them to the mattress above his head. I didn't squeeze hard enough to bruise, but I held him with a strength that made it clear struggle was futile.
"I told you the rules," I growled, rolling onto my side so I loomed over him. "I said no touching."
Florian stared up at me, his pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue. He looked scared like a little rabbit, but he also looked thrilled. I loosened my grip, letting go of his hands.
Instantly, he tried again, his palm cool against my skin, but this time he surprised me by speaking first.
"Safeword?" he whispered, his voice cautious. "Green?"
I raised my eyebrows, shocked. Usually, I was the one asking that question. It was thoughtful and gentle in a way I wasn't expecting, full of consideration for boundaries, and I truly appreciated it.
“Green,” I said. “But, I'm serious. Stop, or there will be consequences," I commanded.
He deliberately disobeyed, trailing a finger along the inside of my forearm, a teasing caress.
"You have absolutely no sense of self-preservation," I muttered.
I reached into the drawer of the nightstand. I retrieved the leather cuffs I kept there. They were lined with lambswool, soft but unyielding.
Florian’s eyes widened as he saw them, but he didn't pull away. If anything, he offered his wrists to me.
"If you can't keep your hands to yourself," I said, stern. "You'll sleep tied up, brat."
“You wouldn't dare!” he exclaimed, now actually giggling, and tried to move away from me. I caught him before he could roll an inch. With a single motion, I pinned his shoulders to the sheets, my weight an immovable anchor against his playful thrashing.
"Stay still, little boy," I rumbled. His resistance evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy stillness as he stared up at me, eyes wide and shimmering in the amber light.
Delicious.
I didn't hesitate. I guided his arms up, securing one wrist to the sturdy wrought-iron lattice of the headboard, then the other. I checked the fit, secure, but with enough room for circulation.
He was spread out now, defenseless, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the silk pajamas. The moment the last buckle clicked, a physical change washed over him. The tension that had been stringing him up all evening simply vanished.
It wasn't defeat. It was relief. He didn't have to initiate. He didn't have to perform. He physically couldn't do anything but exist. The choice had been taken away, and with it, the burden.
"Sorry, sir," he whispered. He gave a token tug at the restraints, testing the limits, finding them solid. "I just... I didn't know what to do with my hands."
I loomed over him, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead. My thumb traced the line of his jaw.
"It's not 'sir'," I corrected him softly. “It's Daddy.”
Florian opened his eyes, looking up at me through a haze of exhaustion and subspace endorphins. "Yes, Daddy," he breathed, naturally.
The word hit me in the center of my chest, landing with the weight of a stone. It wasn't sexual in this moment. It was an acknowledgment of hierarchy, of protection, of the absolute trust he was placing in me to guard him while he was helpless.
"That's right," I murmured. "Daddy has you. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to be anything. Just sleep."
I pulled the duvet up to his chin, tucking him in tightly. I lay back down beside him, resting my hand heavily on his stomach, a grounding weight.
"Goodnight, little boy."
"Night, night... Daddy," he mumbled.
Within seconds, his breathing evened out, deepening into the slow, rhythmic cadence of sleep. I lay awake for a long time, listening to the rain begin to tap against the windowpane, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the terrifying, wonderful weight of his life resting in my hands.