Page 7 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

One by one, I checked them out. They were all fine. No red flags, but no sparks either.

And then I saw one.

A cartoon avatar, just a silhouette with a blue-patterned masquerade mask. Simple. Elegant. Not flashy.

I paused.

The mask was what caught me. It wasn’t a selfie. No face. Just the mask. At first, I thought maybe it was some kind of branding. But no, according to the bio, the avatar just represented what they wore during in-person meets.

They’d wear a mask.

Nothing else explained. Just that.

It probablyshould’vebeen a red flag. Why wouldn’t someone want me to see their face? Why the extra layer of anonymity?

But… it was also kind of hot.

There was something alluring about it.

I stared at the screen for a moment, my thumb hovering over the “message” button.

Then I tapped it.

“Hi,” I typed. “I liked your profile. Your mask is really cool. Are you looking to meet someone?”

I hesitated. Backspaced.

Then rewrote.

“Hi. I liked your profile. Are you currently looking to connect? I’m James. I’m a Little.”

That felt better. Honest. Short. Enough to get the ball rolling without oversharing.

I hit send.

Then I waited.

Every few seconds, I checked the screen, heart thumping, nerves dancing in my stomach like popcorn. I told myself I’d give it an hour. Then a half hour. Then just until my show ended.

But really, I hoped he’d write backright now.

Because after the day I’d had—the week I’d had—I didn’t want to be alone. I didn’t want to pretend I was fine or strong or adult enough to handle everything without care. I wanted someone toseeme.

Maybe even someone who’d bring warm milk and a story to go with it.

Maybe… this masked Daddy was just what I needed.

5

KENNAN

As I saw it, there were two ways to do the meet-up.

Option one: spend a ridiculous amount of money to guarantee privacy. That would mean booking a luxury hotel, requesting the penthouse suite, arranging for discreet service, probably even paying for extra security just to make sure no one talked.

Option two: go to a chain motel. Not glamorous, not even especially clean, but likely to fly under the radar. Fewer people looking. Fewer people asking questions. No one expecting a billionaire to check in wearing jeans and a T-shirt at a run-down place off the highway.

Both had their pros and cons. The penthouse offered discretionifyou didn’t mind the price tag and the unmistakable air of someone important staying there. But that was the problem. A penthouse suite screamed who I was. It hinted at wealth and power and privilege. It opened the door for recognition.

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