Chapter 24. Knox
I felt the change when I stepped home. For days, the house had been quiet. Tonight, there was warmth. The foyer lights glowed, and music played.
"Florian?" I called, slipping out of my coat and draping it over my arm.
The scent of something cooking drifted from the kitchen: garlic, butter, herbs. Mrs. Gable had left hours ago. My boy was cooking. This squeezed something in my chest.
Then he appeared. He was beautiful. Florian wore a pair of faded jeans, torn at the knees, and one of my sweaters, the sleeves rolled up.
His hair was tousled, mussed, and styled.
His cheeks held color, his blue eyes were clear and bright, his lips curved in a hint of that mischief I'd been starving for.
"Daddy! You're home early!" he exclaimed.
"I wanted to see you," I admitted. The shadows still lingered beneath his eyes, but my boy was finding his way back.
"I'm making dinner!" he said. "Nothing fancy. Just that pasta thing you like with the pesto and pine nuts! I thought you'd like it."
"That's... thank you."
I felt so much relief I didn’t know what to say. Florian moved toward me. He flung his arms around my waist, pressing his face against my chest.
Then, my phone buzzed once, twice, three times.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the device, noting a string of notifications from the team about some IT updates at the office.
I got scared for a second he’d think it was Finn, but Florian peered at the phone in my hand, his nose wrinkling in that youthful expression of disdain.
"That thing is practically prehistoric. I'm surprised it doesn't fold. You're such a boomer."
The teasing was light, playful, but it struck me hard. This was my Florian, the sassy, irreverent creature who had stolen my heart.
"This 'prehistoric' device manages millions in assets and contains the contact information of three heads of state," I replied, unable to keep the smile from my voice. "I still haven't been convinced to get myself an iPhone."
"OK, boomer," Florian grinned, the expression reaching his eyes. "Next you'll be telling me about how you had to walk uphill both ways to school in the snow."
I reached out and cupped his cheek in my palm. He leaned into my touch, his eyelids fluttering briefly before he caught himself and affected an eye-roll.
My expression must have shifted, because Florian's eyes widened slightly.
"What?" he asked. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. "Talking about phones… I'm relieved to see you feeling more yourself," I said, my voice dropping to that register I knew he recognized instantly. "But we still have a matter to address, don't we?"
The color in his cheeks deepened, not entirely from embarrassment. He glanced down, then back up through those unfairly long lashes. "I was going to make pasta," he tried, a halfhearted deflection.
"The pasta can wait," I said, gentle but firm. "My study. Now."
I watched the conflict play across his features, the instinct to test, to defy, to see if the boundary would hold. But beneath it, I saw something else, as if he'd been waiting for this moment, needing it.
"I already apologized for the phone thing," he muttered, but he was already turning toward the hallway that led to my study.
"You did," I agreed, following him. "And now we'll ensure it doesn't happen again."
Florian paused at the threshold of the study, his hand resting on the door frame. I placed my palm at his back, a gentle pressure guiding him forward.
"In," I said simply.
He stepped into the room, his body vibrating with emotions: defiance, anticipation, the remnants of guilt, and obvious arousal.
That was my boy.
I gestured toward one of the leather armchairs. "Sit," I said, not a request but not too harsh either. Florian sank into the chair, his eyes downcast, fingers twisting together in his lap. I remained standing.
"Do you understand why we're here?" I asked.
"Because I went through your phone," he mumbled, the words directed more to the Persian rug than to me. Then, with a flash of that spirit I had missed so desperately, he looked up. "But in my defense, you left it in the kitchen. Who doesn't sleep glued to their phones?"
I arched an eyebrow, but I couldn't help a smile. "Maybe I should make a no-phones-in-bed rule.”
“Nooo, Daddy! I'm sorry.”
"Come here," I said, straightening and moving to sit in the larger leather chair opposite the desk. I patted my thigh.
For a moment, he didn't move. Then he stood. He crossed the short distance between us, stopping just out of reach. He sighed dramatically, but I could see the subtle shift in his stance, the way his body leaned toward me.
"Fine. Whatever," he huffed, with a grin. "Let's get this over with."
I took his wrist gently but firmly, guiding him over my lap.
He went willingly, despite the verbal protests, his body settling across my thighs.
His breath hitched as I adjusted his position, making sure his weight was properly supported, his head resting comfortably on the arm of the chair, his legs extended.
I slid my hand down to the waistband of his jeans, unfastening the button with ease.
He tensed as I lowered the denim, along with his boxer briefs, to mid-thigh, exposing the pale curve of his buttocks to the warm study air.
I allowed my palm to rest on the exposed flesh for a moment, acclimating him to my touch and without further warning, I raised my hand and brought it down with a sharp crack against his right cheek.
The sound was magnificent. He yelped and jumped in place.
I delivered the second stroke, marginally harder, to the left side.
The pale skin bloomed pink almost instantly.
“Ouch, Daddy!” he protested. I loved it.
By the fifth stroke, his flesh was warming beautifully beneath my hand, a rosy flush spreading across both cheeks. I paused, rubbing gentle circles over the heated skin, feeling him relax into the touch. I kept slapping him while he whimpered and complained with soft sobs.
“Daddy, ouch, ouch, stop, please,” he said, very vocal today, which only made me go harder.
I also noticed that hips pressed down against my thigh after each impact, no longer simply absorbing the blow but seeking something from it.
When my hand connected again, he moaned, not in pain, but with desire that sent a surge of heat through my own body.
I felt his arousal pressing against my leg.
"You bratty little boy,” I said while I kept slapping him over and over, enjoying how he was basically riding my thigh now, rubbing himself on me. It was never really a punishment, and we both knew it. “Brats shouldn’t enjoy their spanking.”
“Who said I’m enjoying it?!” he asked, but then he was giggling.
His skin was hot, flushed a beautiful deep rose that would remind him of this lesson with every movement for the rest of the evening.
I allowed my hand to rest on his ass, feeling the blood pulsing beneath the skin, the subtle tremors that ran through his frame.
He remained draped across my lap, making no move to rise, his body compliant and expectant.
"Good boy," I murmured, my hand sliding up under the sweater to stroke the smooth skin of his back. "You took that so well."
He made a small sound, half agreement, half need, and pressed himself more firmly against my thigh. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heat of his body.
"Stand up," I directed gently, helping him rise with a steadying hand.
He stood before me, jeans still around his thighs, eyes dark and dilated, cheeks flushed. His arousal was evident, his cock standing at attention, waiting for me, basically begging for my touch. I met his gaze, saw the naked want there.
I reached for him. "Come here," I said, my voice making him visibly tremble.
I guided him back onto my lap, this time facing me, his knees on either side of my thighs, his hands gripping my shoulders for balance. His weight settled against me. I cupped his face in my hands, tilting it up to mine.
"You are mine to protect," I told him. "Mine to punish. Mine to pleasure."
I kissed him then, claiming his mouth. He melted into it, opening to me with hunger. My hands moved down his body, one settling at his back, the other wrapping around him, stroking firmly.
"Daddy," he gasped against my mouth, his hips rocking into my touch.
I controlled the pace, keeping him on the edge, alternating between long, slow strokes and quicker, more insistent ones. With my free hand, I kneaded the heated flesh of his bottom, the pressure making him gasp and squirm.
"Please," he begged, his voice broken with need, his fingers digging into my shoulders.
"Look at me," I commanded softly. His eyes, hazy with pleasure, found mine with effort.
"You belong to me," I told him, increasing the pace of my strokes. "Every part of you. Your joy, your pain, your pleasure, all mine to cherish and protect. Do not doubt that. It’s not up to you to decide."
He nodded frantically, beyond words now, his breathing harsh and uneven.
"Come for me, little one," I whispered, tightening my grip just so, applying the precise pressure I knew would undo him completely.
He came with a cry that he muffled against my neck, his body shuddering in my arms, his release spilling over my hand and onto the fabric of my pants. I held him through it, grounding him as pleasure tore through him in waves.
When the last tremors subsided, he collapsed against my chest, boneless and spent. I cradled him close, one hand stroking his hair, the other still wrapped protectively around his waist.
"My beautiful boy," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Mine. Don't ever doubt it again."
I don't know how long we remained there, together. I had maneuvered us to the leather couch at some point, arranging our bodies so that he lay half atop me, his head tucked beneath my chin, my arms encircling him completely. His skin was cooling now.
For days, I had watched him drift through the house like a ghost, hollowed out by the poison of his father's intrusion.
It had been almost unbearable. Now, feeling the solid presence of him in my arms, the weight of his body against mine, I allowed myself to acknowledge just how terrified I had been.
"I missed you," I murmured into his hair, the confession slipping out before I could consider it.
He stirred slightly, nestling closer. "I didn't go anywhere, silly," he mumbled.
"Yes, you did," I said softly. "You went somewhere I couldn't follow, and that scares me."
He was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. Then he tilted his head up, his blue eyes meeting mine with that disarming directness that had first captivated me.
"I'm sorry," he said, with none of his usual deflection.
I pressed my lips to his forehead, lingering there. "I understand." And I did. The undertow of shame and worthlessness was a powerful current; I had seen it drag stronger men than him into its depths. "But I need you to know something."
He shifted, pushing himself up slightly so he could better see my face.
"I will always handle Finn," I said firmly. "That is non-negotiable. But you deserve transparency about such matters. Keeping those voicemails from you was... well-intentioned but misguided."
"You were trying to protect me," Florian said, his hand coming to rest on my chest.
"Yes," I acknowledged. "But protection doesn't require secrecy, not between us. No more secrets. I'll always shield you from harm, but I won't keep you in the dark. Not anymore."
He turned his face into my touch, his eyelids fluttering. "I won't go through your stuff again," he promised, his voice a drowsy murmur.
“I know, baby boy,” I said and kissed him again. "Do you want to finish making us pasta?”
“Yes, please,” he said, excited.
"Good boy," I praised, smiling at his foresight.
He made a small, pleased sound at the praise, his body melting further into mine.
It didn't seem like he'd finish the pasta just yet.
I watched as the last vestiges of tension drained from his face.
I shifted slightly, adjusting my position to better accommodate his weight, wanting him to be perfectly comfortable.
He mumbled something incoherent and snuggled closer, one arm wrapping possessively around my waist.
This boy in my arms had endured so much, years of neglect and instability, the recent trauma of homelessness, and now the toxic resurgence of his father's influence. Yet here he was, still capable of trust, of openness, of love. His resilience humbled me.
I let my hand drift down his back, feeling each vertebra, the subtle rise and fall of his ribs with each breath. His breathing had deepened, taking on the steady rhythm of genuine sleep. He had drifted off right here.
"I love you," I whispered into the quiet room, words I rarely spoke aloud.
I would keep him safe, this beautiful, broken, healing boy who had somehow become my whole world.