Page 12 of Puck Me Daddy

It hung in the air between us, a grenade waiting for me to pull the pin. "Are you a Little?" His words echoed in my mind, each syllable a hammer strike against my carefully constructed walls.

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. All thoughts of milkshake and pancakes had vanished from my brain. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I could feel the flush spreading down to my neck. Vulnerability washed over me, a wave threatening to drag me under. I grasped for a lifeline, anything to deflect the intensity of his gaze.

My throat was dry.

"What do you mean by 'Little'?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. I pretended not to fully understand, even as my heart raced with the truth. My fingers found the cool surface of the table, tracing invisible patterns to ground myself.

Demian leaned back in his booth seat, the vinyl creaking under his weight. His gray eyes never left mine, but his posture wasrelaxed, almost casual. The hum of the diner filled the silence between us as he took a moment before speaking.

"I think you know. But just in case. A Little is someone who finds comfort in a more . . . childlike headspace," he began, his voice low and steady. There was a gentleness in his tone, a confidence that made me want to lean in, to listen closer. "It's about finding safety, playfulness, a sense of security. Like a kind of play therapy. A way to forget responsibilities and just be."

His words painted a picture I knew too well. I could see it in the way his eyes softened, the way his shoulders relaxed as he spoke. He wasn't just explaining; he was sharing a piece of himself, a piece that resonated deep within me.

My fingers continued their dance on the table, tracing patterns only I could see. I could feel the rough edges of the scratches, the cool smoothness of the worn spots. Each sensation grounded me, kept me present as I listened to him.

"It's not just about role-playing," he continued, his voice barely audible over the diner's hum. "It's about letting go, trusting someone else to take care of you, even if it's just for a little while."

His words were a slow caress, each one wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I could feel the pull, the desire to lean into that comfort, that safety. But fear held me back, fear of the vulnerability, of the exposure.

I watched his lips form each word, the subtle shift of his expression as he spoke. There was a sincerity in his eyes, a depth that made me want to trust him, to open up to him. But the walls I'd built were high and strong, and fear was a powerful glue holding them together.

Yet, as he spoke, I could feel those walls beginning to crumble. The promise of safety, of understanding, was a siren call I found hard to resist.

I stared at the swirl of whipped cream and sprinkles on my milkshake, a chaotic mirror of my insides.

There was no point in pretending.

"Yes, I'm a Little." The words tumbled out, barely above a whisper. Admitting it felt like jumping off a cliff, naked. But Demian's eyes were warm, safe, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. My stomach fluttered, a mix of relief and sheer terror.

He leaned forward, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. "I knew it," he said, his voice a low rumble of excitement. "From the moment I saw you in that interview room."

I arched an eyebrow, disbelief coloring my voice. "Oh, really? And how exactly did you know that?"

A smirk played on his lips, a sexy quirk that made my heart stutter. "It was the way you fiddled with your pen, bit your lip," he explained, his voice low and steady. "Those doodles. It wasn't just nerves, Tilly. It was a Little's energy, pent-up and eager to break free. My Little radar was going berserk."

His words sent a shiver down my spine. I thought I'd always been so careful, so guarded. How could he see through me so easily? My fingers traced the cool edge of the table, grounding me. "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I challenged, but there was no heat in my words. Just curiosity, and a growing need to understand this man.

Demian's smirk deepened, and he leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've spent enough time in certain . . . communities," he said, his voice a low purr. "I recognize the signs, Tilly. And you, sweet girl, have 'Little' written all over you."

His words sent a jolt through me, a mix of fear and exhilaration. I'd never met anyone like him, someone who saw through my walls, who understood my needs without me evensaying a word. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was everything I never knew I needed.

The neon lights of the diner buzzed overhead, casting a pink and blue glow on the Formica table as I laughed, a sound that bubbled up from my chest, nervous and disbelieving. "Come on, Demian," I said, leaning back in the booth, my fingers drumming a quick rhythm on the table's edge. "There's no way a big-shot hockey star like you could pick up on something so subtle. You're telling me you took one look at me and just . . . knew?"

Demian's lips pursed, his shoulders lifting in a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the coiled power beneath his sport coat. "I just knew, baby girl."

I shook my head, a smile playing on my lips, even as my heart pounded. "You're crazy," I said, but there was no heat in my words. Just a growing curiosity, a need to understand this man who seemed to see right through me.

Demian leaned forward, his gray eyes locked onto mine, serious and sure. "I'm not crazy, Tilly," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a Daddy Dom."

His words sent a jolt through me, like I'd touched a live wire. My eyes widened, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. He reached across the table, his hand resting atop mine, warm and steady. His touch anchored me, even as my mind whirled.

"It's not something I share with just anyone," he said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "Especially not with reporters." His eyes held mine, open and honest. "But I see something in you, Tilly. Something that makes me want to trust you."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my ears. His touch, his words, they all wove a spell around me, drawing me in, making me want to trust him too. But fear held me back, fear of the vulnerability, of the exposure. I took a deep breath, myeyes searching his, looking for any sign of deceit, any hint of insincerity. But all I saw was openness, honesty, and a warmth that made my stomach flutter.

I leaned in, my voice low and urgent. "I promise you, Demian, I won't tell a soul." My hand was still beneath his, his warmth seeping into my skin, making my heart race. "Most journalists would kill for this story, but I'm not most journalists."

Demian's eyes searched mine, looking for the truth.

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