Page 13 of Puck Me Daddy

I held his gaze, unblinking, wanting him to see the sincerity in my eyes.

His face was illuminated by the harsh glow of the diner signs, his jaw tight, eyes intense. He was a man who knew the weight of his secrets, who knew the risk he was taking.

A moment passed, then another. Then, slowly, his face relaxed. He nodded, a soft exhale escaping his lips. "I believe you," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Those three words sent a surge of happiness through me. It was a strange feeling, being trusted so implicitly by someone like Demian. A man who had every reason to be guarded, to be suspicious. Yet, here he was, placing his faith in me.

Demian leaned back, his hand slipping away from mine, leaving my skin tingling. He ran a hand through his short hair, a distant look in his eyes. "I stumbled into this lifestyle years ago," he began, his voice steady, controlled. "Curiosity, mostly. I ended up in an age play club, not really knowing what to expect."

I listened intently, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass, the condensation cool against my skin. I could picture it—Demian, young and curious, stepping into a world he didn't yet understand.

"I've played in clubs on and off over the years," he continued, his voice low. "But it was always . . . casual. Nothing serious." His eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of vulnerability. "I never foundsomeone who truly clicked with me. Someone who wanted more than just a scene."

My heart twinged with compassion. This big, strong hockey player, so sure of himself on the ice, was just as lost as I was when it came to this. Searching for a connection, for something real. I knew that feeling all too well.

His hand rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly against the surface. I watched the movement, the subtle rhythm, and found myself wanting to reach out, to still his restless energy. "I've been looking for something more meaningful," he admitted.

His words hung in the air between us, raw and honest. I felt a tug in my chest, a longing to be that something more for him. But I pushed the thought away, not ready to acknowledge it, not ready to admit how deeply his words were affecting me.

Instead, I just nodded, encouraging him to continue. I wanted to hear more, to understand him better. To see where this conversation would lead us.

I traced the rim of my melting milkshake with a spoon. I could feel the weight of Demian’s gaze, waiting, hoping for more from me.

"I've never had a Daddy before," I admitted softly, the words tumbling out before I could catch them. My cheeks flushed, but I pressed on, encouraged by his openness. "But I've spent plenty of time in Little space. With friends, mostly. It's. . . it's never been sexual. Just comfortable. Safe."

I glanced up at him, his intense gray eyes urging me to continue. My fingers twisted the spoon, the cool metal grounding me. "But with the right person . . ." I began, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart pounded, but I pushed through the nerves. "It could be more. Deeper. Intimate."

Demian's eyes never left mine. He leaned in slightly, his large frame blocking out the rest of the diner. All I could see, all Icould focus on, was him. His scent, a mix of clean sweat and faint cologne, filled my nostrils, making my stomach flutter.

"You think so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. His hand moved slowly across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. Just a soft touch, barely anything, but it sent a jolt through me, like a live wire sparking.

I laughed nervously, the sound catching in my throat. "Yeah," I managed to say, my voice steadier than I felt. "I think so."

His fingers lingered, tracing the back of my hand. His touch was gentle, but there was a roughness to his skin, callouses from years on the ice. It was a stark contrast, soft and hard, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

A nervous laugh escaped him too, a deep sound that resonated within me. "This is... unusual," he admitted, his fingers still exploring mine.

I smiled, my heart pounding in my chest. "Unusual good or unusual bad?" I asked, my voice teasing.

His gaze met mine, held it. There was a heat there, an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Good," he said, his voice firm. " Definitely good."

Our plates sat forgotten between us, the food growing cold. But neither of us cared. This conversation was more nourishing than any meal could ever be. Each word, each touch, was feeding a hunger deep within me. A hunger I hadn't even known existed until now. Until him.

Demian's fingers were warm, his touch firm, like an anchor point in a suddenly spinning world. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble, barely audible over the clink of silverware and the hum of late-night conversations around us.

"Tilly," he started, his gray eyes locked onto mine. "I want to be your Daddy."

My heart thudded against my ribs, like a bass drum kicked by a reckless drummer. I blinked, speechless. His words wereso direct, so sure, like he had seen right through me and knew exactly what I needed to hear.

I managed to find my voice, a mere whisper. "How . . . how do you know?"

A soft smile played on his lips, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't explain it, Tilly. It's just a feeling. Like finding a missing piece you didn't know you were looking for."

His words sent a rush through me, a whirlwind of fear, excitement, and relief all tangled together. I felt overwhelmed, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into something vast and unknown. But there was also curiosity, a deep, eager pull to see where this could go.

My breath hitched, and I reached for his other hand under the table. My fingers grazed his palm, a tentative touch that felt like a leap of faith. His hand closed around mine, warm and secure, a silent affirmation that he was in this with me.

"I feel . . . overwhelmed," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "But also . . . curious. Eager, even." I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.

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