Page 14 of Matteo's Mettle
Okay, so physically he might be in his mid-twenties, but he’s got maturity in spades. That deep, firm Daddy voice of his is going to do me in, especially when it’s apparent that he’s not aware that he’s doing it. It’s just him.
Fuck, that’s hot.
“Please,” I answer with a nod, biting back the honorific that my brain already wants to tack on to the end.
I’m rewarded with a genuine smile and he reaches to unbuckle his seatbelt. “I’d love to come in, then.”
Don’t read too far into that, Brightman. Just enjoy it as a one-night club hook-up.
My place is a standard suburban, ranch-style family home. Brick and tile, single story, three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a large backyard. I’ve been slowly renovating it, making it a little less like the ode to the 80s it had been, but the carpets are still a gross beige color and the walls -a hideous shade of brown- could use a facelift, too.
I lead the way from the front door, past what was the ‘formal’ living room in my parents’ day on the right, the smallest bedroom (which I converted into an office) on the left, and into the open living-dining-kitchen space. The floors here are tiled -big, gleaming white squares- and the kitchen is shiny with new cupboards and appliances.
“Coffee?” I ask my guest, gesturing for him to take a seat wherever he wants. “Or a beer?”
It’s been so long since I’ve dated that I’m pretty sure I’m already fucking this up.
Not that this is a date.
Fuck.
“Coffee sounds good,” he answers, his eyes slowly traveling the space as I wander into the kitchen proper. Instead of sitting down in the living area or at the dining table, he follows me and leans against the kitchen counter, watching as I set up the French press.
“You’re a coffee snob, then?” he sounds amused. “No pod machine for you?”
I grin. “Guilty as charged.” There’s something satisfying in using high quality beans and controlling the depth and strength of your own brew. I turn to the fridge. “Are you a cream and sugar guy?”
“Nope. Black coffee all the way for me.”
“Be still my heart.”
Trent always insisted on flavored creamers which, as far as I’m concerned, destroys a perfectly good cup of coffee. Especially with the copious amounts he used to use, the heathen.
London’s chuckle is as deep and rich as the beverage I’m brewing, and it takes me right out of my musings about my ex. “You take your coffee seriously. Noted.”
“You’re taking notes, huh?”
There’s no sign of embarrassment on his face. Instead, he just gives me a cheeky smirk that gives me butterflies. “I’m a quick study.”
Even though his words could be interpreted as arrogant or cocky, I can tell he’s being playful. Well, mostly. There’s a quiet confidence about him that makes me want all sorts of things I’m sure he’s not ready for, or that he’s not even into.
When we take our steaming mugs into the living area, I sit on the end seat of my large, cushy brown leather couch and London surprises me by taking the seat directly beside me. I expected him to leave the middle spot free. He leaves a little space between us, enough so he can bring his knee up onto the cushion and turn to face me, placing his mug on the coffee table in front of us.
I rack my brain to think of something to say, but the spicy scent of his cologne is a distraction, as is the proximity of his body to mine. I’m suddenly all too aware that we’re alone together, both of us sober, both of us already having admitted an interest in the other…albeit an implied interest on my own part. Hell, he brought me home from a BDSM club and accepted my invitation inside.
We both know where this is going.
Butterflies take up residence in my belly.
His eyes seem to darken as he watches me, then he says, “Tell me about what you enjoy doing when you’re little.”
It takes a moment or two for the words to register through the lusty fog in my head. Of all the things he could have said, I wasn’t anticipating that. “I…huh?”
London’s smile is kind. “Like I said before, I’m into you. And you being little is a big part of that. But I don’t have a lot of experience with the lifestyle so…tell me about your little side.” He cocks his head. “I know about the onesie and the diaper,” he’s matter of fact, without a hint of judgment, “but what else do you enjoy?”
“Playing. Y’know: toys, hide ‘n seek, make believe…Uh, I love story-time, especially with cuddles. And bath-time…” I clear my throat. “With or without, uh, ‘grown up’ touches.”
The corner of his lips quirks upwards, but he doesn’t react otherwise. “Uh huh. What about being looked after? What do you want from your Daddy?”
