Page 12 of Matteo's Mettle
Matt smiles a sad smile at her. “I, um…I’m stopping the little stuff,” he says, full of apology and a jumble of emotions I can’t pinpoint. “Tonight was a last hurrah, I guess.”
“You…what?” Kate’s frozen, her leg suspended out of the open car door, her bafflement palpable. “You can’t just turn off your kinks, Matt. If being a little makes you half as happy and relaxed as it does me, you’re going to be miserable.”
“I’m alr-” He stops himself abruptly, but I fill in the rest in my head.
Already miserable.
Oof, my heart.
Kate doesn’t miss it, either. Her eyes fill with compassion, then flit to me for a second before she says, “Just please think about it, Matt. You might find joy in it again.” Yeah, she’s really not subtle, but I kind of love her for that. Her attention turns back to me, clearly giving Matt a chance to process. “Thanks for tonight, Uncle London.” Then, quieter, “Take care of him.”
After I’ve watched her safely enter the building, I start the car again. The silence between Matt and me is awkward, and I hate that.
“So…” I start, wondering where my usual charisma has gone. I’ve always considered myself a natural conversationalist but, with this man, I feel tongue-tied and off my game.
“I appreciate you giving me a ride home.”
Ugh. Strained small talk. I don’t want this at all. I want the spark of connection we had in the club. I want to hold him and call him sweetheart again, because the way his eyes had lit up at the simple endearment was pure magic. I want to try things with him I’ve never done before. I want to see him smile and laugh again. I want to know what his lips feel like, what his tongue tastes like, what that scruffy beard feels like against my skin.
Jesus Christ, I’ve known him for barely a couple of hours and I’m infatuated.
He startles when I reach out and grab his hand, but he doesn’t disengage from my hold. “Here’s the thing,” I tell him as I pull away from the curb, “I’m into you.”
I feel him tense. “You’re, what, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-six,” like the extra year makes any difference, “but is that a deal-breaker?”
“You’re not a Daddy.”
I have to treadsocarefully here. I’m not pointing out that only minutes ago he said he was giving up the lifestyle, because it’s obvious that it’s a part of his identity. And the longing in his voice makes me want to offer him the world, but it’s not that simple.
“No,” I answer slowly, “but…I’m finding myself interested in trying.”
Matt whips his head around to face me, but with my eyes on the road, I can’t meet his gaze. From the corner of my eye, I can see that he studies me closely as he asks, “Why?”
I’m not going to tell him that it’s just because I’m into him, because that sounds a little crazy even to me. And, having had a little bit of time for some introspection on the topic in the last hour or so, I can honestly say that it’snotjust about him.
“I’ve watched Kate and Cherie’s dynamic for a few years now,” I explain, “and what they have is special, y’know?” I give him a quick glance as we roll to a stop at a red light, exchanging soft, understanding smiles. “I’ll admit that I’ve been curious, I guess, but never really motivated to head to the club to play with strangers. But tonight…” I swallow, drumming my fingers over the top of the steering wheel. “Tonight, when I saw you…when that asshole was giving you shit…something inside meshiftedand I felt…” Like Ineededto defend and protect him. To hold him. To kiss him and take his pain away. But I’m struggling to put those feelings into words.
He does it for me.
“Like a Daddy.”
I can still feel his eyes on me after that quiet, but awe-filled assessment. My lips curl upwards. “Yeah,” I nod.
We’re both quiet for a few minutes after that, with Matt’s directions to his place the only thing breaking the silence between us. It’s not a tense silence, though. More contemplative than anything.
“You don’t…” he starts, then stops. “Never mind.”
“No, what?”
I shoot another quick look his way before setting my eyes back on the road. I’m still holding his hand, but he’s fidgety.
I don’t press him further, content to wait him out. After a little while longer, he asks, “You don’t think I’m too old, or big, or tatted, or…or whatever? You know, to be a little?”
He sounds so meek and pained as he asks the questions that I fight back the surge of anger at whoever has hurt him. Men like that absolute fuckweasel in the club. Men who don’t deserve a second’s thought, but who have obviously inflicted a lot of damage.
“Absolutely not,” my response is firm and without hesitation. “You’re hot as fuck, Matt. And you look fucking adorable in a onesie.”
