Page 24 of Fitch

Hmm.

It was odd for him, and I assumed he mustn’t have been feeling well enough to come into the office.

I sent him a reply.

Everything okay?

There was no immediate response, and I was too busy all morning to give it another thought.

He did reply sometime later, saying he wasn’t feeling well, but what that meant for me was—given I hadn’t been able to tell anyone about my arrangement—I also hadn’t had anyone to talk some sense into me. By late afternoon, I found myself googling things for Fitch.

Which was ridiculous.

But if he was going to spend one night a week at my place, he should have his own pyjamas and toothbrush at least.

And his own toiletries. And whatever food he preferred.

And I should order more lubricant. Like, a lot more.

And book myself in for bloodwork.

And . . . and . . . maybe do this shit when I got home instead of at work.

Which is what I did.

I spent all night ordering things all while telling myself not to get ahead of myself.

Which was redundant because I was already well past that.

I wanted to keep him. To make him happy, to explore the daddy/boy grounds he seemed so eager to play in.

He did love it, I knew that.

The words he’d used when I asked him how he felt? Safe and warm. Those two words lit something in me I hadn’t been expecting.

Holding him and caressing him after sex made him feel safe.

And that was something I’d only expect of someone who understood. Who got what it meant for a daddy. All I wanted for him was to make him feel safe.

Then, of course, outside of my home he was being a little punk again, and I loved that he did that.

Sassy, bratty, mouthy.

And being the brat he was, he did it so I’d punish him next time.

I was absolutely going to punish him, teach him ever so thoroughly a lesson in manners.

Starting on his knees, I’d put his mouth to better use.

Yeah. I really needed to speak to someone about this. Someone who understood. Leon and Marek were my obvious choice. Friends of mine at the club 180. They’d had a boy for a little while now, and according to them, though they gave no details, the three of them had never been happier.

When I got to work on Tuesday morning, I took out my phone and sent Leon a text.

I need to discuss a personal matter I think you and Marek may be able to help me with. Are you free for a phone call sometime?

I knew they were busy—busier than me, which said a lot—but they’d reply when they could.

So I shoved my phone aside just as my assistant, Gail, came into my office and offloaded a pile of folders on my desk. “Morning. You’ve got a nine o’clock with Truman,” she said.

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