Page 79 of Sliding into Love
"More than okay." I turn to face them fully. "Royce, I meant what I said before. I like it when you take charge. When you call me good boy and tell me what to do. It makes me feel…"
I search for the right words.
"Safe. Cared for. Like I can let go of always having to be what others expect me to.”
"You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be,” they say fiercely. "But I understand what you mean. And I like taking care of you. I like being in control when you need me to be."
"So we're doing this? Officially?"
"We're doing this." They set down their plate and move to stand between my legs where I'm perched on a bar stool. "You're mine, Kenneth Meyer. And I take care of what's mine."
The possessiveness in their voice sends a thrill through me.
"Yours," I agree. "All yours."
"You're burning it."
I look down at the pan in alarm, where the chicken is definitely more charred than golden. "Shit."
Royce appears at my elbow, gently taking the spatula from my hand. "Go sit down. Let me handle this."
"I was supposed to be cooking dinner for you."
"And that's very sweet." They flip the chicken, salvaging what they can. "But we both know cooking isn't your strong suit at the moment. There's no shame in that."
I slump onto one of the kitchen stools, watching them work. We're at my place tonight. Royce brought over ingredients for a proper meal after I admitted my fridge contained mostly takeout containers and protein shakes.
"I feel useless," I admit.
"You're not." They don't look up from the stove, but their voice is firm. "You're good at plenty of things. Right this minute, cooking isn’t one of them. Your mind is elsewhere.”
"Name one thing I'm good at."
Now they do look up, raising an eyebrow. "You're good at strategy. At seeing patterns other people miss. At making players feel valued and heard. At kissing me until I forget my own name. Should I continue?"
My face heats. "The last one doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts." They turn off the burner and move to stand in front of me, hands on my knees. “Little Menace, you don't have to be good at everything. You don't have to be perfect. That's the whole point of having a partner. We fill in each other's gaps."
"So you'll cook and I'll do what?”
"Do everything else?" They lean in, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. "Sounds fair to me."
We end up eating the slightly-burnt-but-still-edible chicken while sitting on my couch, plates balanced on our laps, some nature documentary playing in the background that neither of us is really watching.
"Tell me something,” Royce says during a lull in conversation. “A fact I don't know about you."
"Like what?"
"Anything. A memory, a dream, a time that made you who you are."
I think about it, chewing slowly. "When I was eight, I convinced my parents to let me have a dog. I'd wanted one forever, but they always said no. They claimed it was too messy, too much responsibility. Not fitting for a Meyer heir."
"But they said yes?"
"Eventually. I wore them down with a carefully crafted presentation about responsibility and commitment." I smile at the memory. "Complete with charts and a proposed budget."
"You made a presentation to get a dog?"
