Page 14 of Spencer's Satisfaction
Tony laughs and scoops Frank up, cradling him like a baby as he rights himself back into a standing position at my side. Frank only seems to purr louder, the little attention whore. “You are so sweet,” Tony tells him, bending his head andgigglingwith delight as Frank cranes up to rub their cheeks together. “Such a pretty kitty.”
At this point, I don’t think Tony is aware of the major Boy vibes he’s throwing, but my heart (and other parts of my anatomy) have noticed. I clear my throat and hold up the forgotten food. “Dinner?”
I swear Frank glowers at me as Tony sets him back down with reluctance.
I saw him first, cat.
I lead the way past the stairs that lead upstairs and the door which leads to my recording studio in the converted basement, and into the small kitchen/dining room.
Tony ducks into the powder room across the hall from the kitchen to wash his hands after cuddling the cat, then joins me at my little square timber dining table. It has four seats, but really only fits two people comfortably.
I open the polystyrene box in the middle of the table and nab a few fries. They’re only lukewarm now, but still tasty.
“Your home is lovely,” Tony says as he takes his seat, and I watch him look around the space the same way he did when we sat at the restaurant. I wonder how he sees it.
“Thanks,” I reply, quickly casting my own gaze around.
My house is like a cozy cottage. The only other room downstairs is the poky little lounge room, while upstairs houses two bedrooms and an interconnected bathroom between them. It’s small, I’ll be honest, but it suits me. The walls are painted a powder blue, the accents and skirting boards all white. The kitchen is all timber, and the bathroom and powder room are both utilitarian and gleaming white.
Frank leaps up onto the kitchen counter and leans as far as he can across the space between it and the dining table, his little black nose twitching as he sniffs at our food.
“Down!” I demand.
I’m pretty sure he rolls his eyes.
“Frank,” I say warningly. “Get down.”
The little asshole trills at me and then plonks his dirty cat butt on the counter.
Whatever argument I planned on having with the furry fiend, I’m distracted by the bubbling giggles coming from the man seated across from me. It’s the most relaxed I’ve seen him yet and I drink the scene in.
His big, brown eyes are bright, his rounded cheeks flushed, and his lips stretched wide into a smile as he tries (and fails) to contain his laughter. And the sound,oh the sound, is music to my ears. It’s near childlike in how delighted he appears; perfectly innocent and pure and carefree.
Boy vibes for days.
I need to keep getting him to make that sound.
I narrow my gaze at him playfully, waggling a limp fry at him for emphasis, “Is something funny, Tony?”
The giggles peal off into a cackle that is even more enjoyable from my perspective. “T-the cat…” he wheezes as he tries to explain what, exactly, has tickled his funny bone. “A-and the conversation y-you had w-with him.” There are literal tears of laughter in his eyes now. “S-sorry,” he tries valiantly to catch his breath, then bursts into more hysterics when Frank lets out a soft ‘meow’.
“What for?” I ask the question gently, cocking my head and letting my own smile tug at my lips while I wait patiently for his answer.
He’s absolutely adorable.
It takes a few more moments before he’s gotten his laughter under control, but I’m a little concerned to watch the shame and contrition steal over his face, replacing his mirth. The change in his demeanor almost gives me whiplash.
“Sometimes, when I’ve been, uh, emotional, I can get a little manic afterwards,” he bites his lip, his cheeks flushed out of some combination of the exertion from his laughter and embarrassment. “I’m weird that way.”
Once again, the urge to hurt whoever has given this man such a complex about himself raises its ugly head. I smother it down and reach over the table to grab his hand. “You are not weird,” I tell him firmly. “Everyone’s brains work differently to process emotional upheaval. I don’t think getting the giggles is something you should apologize for.”
He snorts and shrugs, “Maybe not in this situation, no. But…it’s, um, it’s gotten me into trouble before. It can be inappropriate. And, like, I smile when I’m nervous, and that doesn’t help…” He blinks rapidly, as though surprised by his own admission, and then winces, “And this isn’t exactly great first date conversation, huh? I mean, please, let me tell youallthe things that are wrong with me.”
It takes every bit of willpower I possess to not pull him out of his seat and force him into my lap for a proper cuddle.
Chance was right: everything about Tony has my Daddy instincts firing on all cylinders. But I don’t think Tony’s a Little. Or, rather, I don’t think Tony has explored being a Little. I’m almost certain that, if he did, it would appeal to him.
I can’t really explain how I know it. He just seems so…innocent, I guess. Yearning for affection, too. His whole disposition practically begs to be held and comforted and protected. And the things he’s let slip about his control on his emotions? I’m willing to bet that if he had the outlet of regressing, of being able to cry out his stresses and hand over control of most decisions for a while, he might find it easier to function on a day-to-day basis.
