Page 14 of Kylan

I snorted at the ridiculousness. “Maybe.”

Fitch nodded sagely. “We have to understand how the daddy mind works. They might not need us all the time, but a boy always needs a daddy, and if you tell them that—if you pout and be all sad and look up at them through your lashes with sad puppy eyes—they will give in, one hundred percent of the time.”

I laughed at that. “Manipulation 101 classes by Professor Fitch.”

He grinned at me. “Is it manipulation though? Or all part of the game we play?”

I thought about that for a second. “I don’t even know if I’m playing a game here.”

“Okay, so wrong word choice by me. Is it manipulation? Or all part of therolewe play?”

That was better . . . somewhat.

He patted my leg. “Call them. Message them. Whatever. Just contact them. Are they even in town?”

“I think so.”

I hadn’t heard anything to the contrary but that was also part of the issue. They had no reason to tell me shit unless it affected our planned days together.

Before I could dive headfirst into that spiral, Fitch nodded to the camera. “Can I see your video? Or are you still working on it?”

I looked at the screen, the image of me wearing the pink skirt, sitting on a dildo frozen, right where I’d paused it.

“I, uh, I haven’t watched it yet,” I said. “I don’t even remember filming the end of it, I was so caught up in my own head. Once I watch it through and make sure I don’t say any names or anything, then you’ll be the first to watch it, okay?”

“Deal. And if it’s really hot, it’s going straight to the spank bank.”

I snorted. “You’re such a whore.”

He preened. “Thanks.” Then he nodded to the screen again. “That skirt is fucking hot, just so you know. If you want to wear that around the apartment because you like it, then fucking wear it.”

I felt my face heat and my heart felt a rush of warmth too. “Thanks,” I whispered. “I do like it.”

“Then wear it! Those short little tiered skirts are too cute to be hidden away. And your arse and thighs? Ky, baby, you need to flaunt that shit.”

I was embarrassed, while my chest ached with warmth and acceptance. “Thank you.” My nose burned and I had to blink back tears.

Fitch grabbed my hand. “Oh my god, don’t you dare cry. If you cry, then I will cry and I probably won’t be able to stop, and we’ll be two sobbing, snotty queers for hours and you’ll make my face allpuffy.”

I snorted back a teary laugh. His grip on my hand never lessened and, dear god, I needed it. “I don’t know why I’m so emotional today.”

He gasped. “Are you pregnant? Should I get you some ice cream?”

I rolled my eyes. “I dunno, can arse-babies be a thing?”

Fitch laughed and patted his belly. “Not sure, but I will keep taking Dom’s loads, for the sake of science.”

“Yeah. Science.”

We were both quiet for a second and I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Maybe I needed to offload some of this weight, this burden I’d carried for so long. “I always liked wearing skirts,” I whispered. “Playing dress-up when I was three years old, I had to wear the Cinderella dress. I’d sleep in it and my parents just thought it was a toddler thing. I idolised my older sister so...”

I sighed heavily and Fitch waited patiently, still holding my hand.

“But as I got older, those dresses didn’t fit me anymore, but god, I wanted them to. I love the feel of it. It makes me feel... pretty.” I made a face. “My parents always called my sister pretty and they fussed over her. Their perfect golden child, and I wanted that. I would take her skirts out of the laundry hamper and wear them with nothing else. I’d keep the bathroom door locked and I’d pretend to be pretty like her. God, I just love how it feels. It makes me feel...”

I was going to say pretty again but stopped myself.

“Empowered?” Fitch supplied.

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