Page 8 of A Stable Daddy

Oscar’s expression is serious, but nothing about his demeanour scares me. Even though he’s frowning at me, I don’t feel the unease I felt with the other guy in the club.

“You don’t get to tell me you’re too old for me,” he says slowly and deliberately. “Unless my being thirty-four is a problem for you—”

“Thirty-four?” He’s seventeen years my junior. That thought makes me feel like a lecherous old man. “I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Funny, becauseI’mthe one who likes being called Daddy,” he jokes, then cocks his head. “You’re, what, forty-five? Fifty at a stretch?”

“Fifty-one,” I sigh heavily and sit on the couch. “Almost fifty-two.”

“Still a bit young to be my pops, but I suppose you’re technically right.” Then he shakes his head. “Not that age matters to me. I like older men. Especially when you’ve got that silver fox goodness goin’ on.” Lips quirking, he admits, “Maybe it’smydaddy issues that got me wantin’ to dominate older guys. I don’t know, and I don’t really care. As long as we’re both consenting adults, age ain’t nothin’ but numbers.”

I get a thrill at the way he casually admits he wants to dominate older guys, but before I can tell him I’d like to play, Oscar starts rummaging through his suitcase again. The clothes inside are all rolled into tight bundles, neatly arranged in rows. He obviously values order and tidiness, which I appreciate.

“These should work,” he pulls out two bundles of soft cotton then shakes them out one by one. Navy cotton boxer shorts and a light blue t-shirt are extended my way. “Bathroom’s through there,” he gestures at the room I spied earlier, “and the hotel has complimentary toothbrushes.”

I’m hit with a wave of loss as I carefully take the jacket off, handing it to him in exchange for the borrowed sleep clothes.When I’m out of his line of sight, I lift the t-shirt to my nose and sniff it. It’s clean and fresh, smelling like it’s been freshly laundered. Usually, I love the smell of freshly cleaned cotton, but it doesn’t compare to the spicy, masculine scent trapped in the fibres of his jacket.

I get changed slowly, grimacing at the almost plasticthwackof lamé hitting glossy white tiles when I drop my boy shorts to the ground. My fingers hesitate before I reach for the cotton boxer shorts, but I drop those, too, when a knock sounds at the door.

“You doin’ okay, darlin’?” Oscar asks, and my pulse skyrockets.

“Y-yeah,” I answer, feeling decidedly off-kilter, but unable to explain why. “I’m just slow.”

There’s a brief moment of silence before he asks, “Would you like some help?”

I’m an adult. Have been one for a hell of a lot longer than he has, in fact. But for some strange reason, the idea of him helping me get dressed is appealing in ways I can’t articulate. My mouth goes dry and my heart continues to pound rapidly in my chest.

“Darlin’?” he prompts, then, in a more serious tone, says, “Ryan?”

Looking at the puddles of fabric on the ground, I nibble my bottom lip for a moment before answering, “Help me?”

Chapter Four – Oscar

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a sweet Boy in need of assistance. I spring into action the second Ryan’s plaintive plea reaches my ears, opening the door to find him standing in the middle of the small bathroom, naked and wide-eyed.

If you were to look up the definition of ‘temptation’ in my dictionary, this tableau would be pictured there.

Now, I know he’s not a Boy, but I slip into Daddy-mode without a second’s thought. Crossing the threshold, I stoop to pick up the boxer shorts I’m lending him for the night, then I kneel in front of him holding the waistband stretched open in invitation.

“Step in, honey,” I instruct him, “one leg at a time.”

A blush travels up his chest and neck and onto his face, but he does as I’ve asked. Then he stands still as I pull the shorts up his hairy legs, running my index fingers inside the elastic waistband once I have the shorts settled comfortably on his hips. I’m proud of myself for keeping my eyes on his the entire time, watching for discomfort, rather than allowing myself to be drawn to the delicious cock which is slowly filling and tenting the thin cotton now concealing it.

I push to my feet and smile at him. “Good boy,” I praise and when he ducks his chin and his cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink, my stomach flips pleasantly. “Shirt now, okay?”

He nods and bites his lip. “Nuh-uh,” I reach out and, using my thumb, gently pry the abused flesh from between his teeth. “We use our words, darlin’.”

Adam’s apple bobbing, Ryan hesitantly replies, “Yes…Daddy.”

Holy shit,I should have braced for impact.

Nothing could have prepared me for the way it feels to hear him cautiously testing the title out in his cute-as-fuck Australian accent. Then I remind myself how new this is for him. “You don’t have to call me Daddy, darlin’. Not if it makes you uncomfortable, okay? We haven’t talked about limits here, and all I wanna do is help you right now. No playing. No scenes. Nothin’ like that.”

His expression falls, which surprises the hell out of me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, wondering what I might have said to upset him. “I can’t make it better if you don’t talk to me, honey.”

Ryan’s tongue darts out to moisten his lips, pink and distracting. “What if…what if I want to play? What if,” he clears his throat and meets my gaze, “what if Ineedit?”

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