Page 4 of Fitch

“Boy,” I said.

His eyes snapped to mine. “Sorry, I... a water would be great.”

He followed me toward the kitchen, his hand skimming the cool marble top of the island. “So,” he said. “What do I call you, ifyou don’t want me to call you daddy? I thought you liked it when I called you daddy.”

“You can call me Dom.” I wasn’t aware we were doing names, but my mouth beat my brain.

He grinned, that damn tongue peeking out at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I like that. Should you call me sub?”

Dom. Sub... of course he would make that connection.

He trailed a finger along the marble countertop. “My name is Fitch, though I do like it when you call me boy, Dom.”

Why did I tell him my name?

Why did I like it when he said it?

“You can call me daddy when I fuck you,” I said.

His eyes met mine and that sultry spark was back. He hummed. “Yes, Dom.”

He was so much shorter than me, and I did ask him this the very first time, but I had to ask again.

“How old are you really?” I asked quietly. He’d said twenty but he looked younger, and I had to be sure.

The little punk grinned, then leaned up on his toes to whisper in my ear. “I’m almost twenty-one. But shh. Don’t tell anyone. I look young but I promise I’m legal.” He put his hand to my chest as he leaned a little closer, his breath warm in my ear. “Didn’t you see my date of birth on my health app?”

I hadn’t noticed it, no.

He took his phone out and showed me again. He was, in fact, twenty years old. And his surname was Lamont. Not that I mentioned this, for fear he’d ask for mine in return.

I handed him the glass of water and he took it, still watching me as he sipped it. “All night, huh?” He looked up at me with big eyes and, now, wet lips. “Where do you want to start? If I remember correctly, you like me on my knees.”

I pulled at my tie, and he was quick to put his glass on the counter. “Let me,” he said, sliding his hands over mine andtaking over the removal of my tie. “Come and sit down. You’ve had a long week. Let your boy look after you.”

He led me to the dining table, pulled out a seat, and made me sit.

And I did everything he wanted, all too willingly.

Your boy.

Fuck, I’d let him do anything he wanted to me when he called himself that.

Then, as if he knewexactlywhat I liked, what I needed, he straddled my knees and began to gently undo my tie. “Let me do this for you,” he murmured. “It’s a boy’s job to look after his daddy.”

I grunted. “What did I tell you about calling me daddy?”

He leaned in and whispered in my ear, his lips brushing me. “Oh, but youaregoing to fuck me, right? Please?”

I let out a rough breath, resting one hand on his lower back, the other on his knee. He was small. Maybe five foot two, and he’d be lucky to weigh fifty kilograms, wringing wet.

God, now I want to see him wet.

My hand covered most of his lower back, sliding down to his hip. He’d be so easy to manhandle, to control.

Then the little punk wiggled closer to my crotch as he pulled my tie through my collar. He dropped it onto the table and then, while he chewed his bottom lip in concentration, he undid my top button, then the second, then the third.

He gasped quietly and ran his dainty fingers through the hair on my chest. “Mm,” he hummed. “So hot.”

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