Xavier picked up a wrench, turning it over in his hands, his gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see. “So,” he said, his voice neutral. “Does this make Junie our girlfriend?”
The question hit me like a punch to the sternum, knocking the air from my lungs. It was what I’d been thinking—hoping—but hearing Xavier say it made it real. Our girlfriend. Together.
“I hope so,” I admitted, feeling heat climb up my neck. “I mean, if she wants to be.”
“We have to prove ourselves worthy of her,” he said. “She deserves better than a couple of grease monkeys living in a converted barn.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, moving closer, unable to resist the pull of his rare moment of openness. “But we can be better. We will be. For her.”
“You’re blushing,” he pointed out, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s adorable.”
I straightened my shoulders. “That’s Daddy adorable to you.”
Xavier’s cheeks turned bright pink, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Would you really spank me?”
I plopped down on one of the sofas, and patted my lap. “Come find out.”
I didn’t expect him to comply, not really. Xavier didn’t take orders from anyone, not even me. But to my shock, he stood and began stripping off his clothes with methodical precision—first his shirt, revealing the lean lines of his torso, then his boots, then his jeans. When he hooked his thumbs into his boxers and pushed them down, my mouth went dry.
He was already half-hard, and my cock responded with a rush of arousal that chased away any lingering hesitation.
Then he crossed to the couch and draped himself across my lap, his weight settling against my thighs, his bare skin hot against my jeans. My hands hovered uncertainly over the curve of his ass, my brain struggling to catch up with what was happening.
“Do you think it might help me behave?” he whispered, his voice so quiet I almost missed it.
My chest constricted. This wasn’t just about sex or kink or the games we played with June between us. This was Xavier, my best friend, the person I’d known longer than anyone, offering himself to me in a way he’d never done before. Trusting me with something vulnerable and raw.
I let my hands settle on his lower back, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “You’re already perfect,” I said, my palms sliding down to cup the curves of his as and squeezing. “You don’t need to behave for me, X. You just need to be yourself.”
He made a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob. “Myself is an asshole who treats people like shit when they’re trying to help.”
“You’re scared,” I corrected, my hands continuing their exploration, mapping the terrain of his body with gentle reverence. The dip of his spine, the sharp jut of his hip bones, the smooth skin of his thighs. “You’ve been hurt so many times that kindness feels like a trap.”
“Milo—”
“But you don’t have to be scared with me,” I continued, my voice dropping lower, taking on that commanding edge that made him shiver. “Or with June. We’re not going anywhere. We’re not going to hurt you or leave you or make you feel like you’re not enough.”
His breath hitched, his body trembling in my lap. I could feel his cock pressed against my thigh, fully hard now, and my own was responding, straining against my jeans.
“Please,” he whispered. “Daddy, please.”
The word sent electricity straight to my groin. Hearing it from June was one thing—sweet and submissive and eager. But hearing it from Xavier, proud and fierce and broken, was something else entirely.
“Please what?” I prompted, my hand hovering over the curve of his ass.
“Make me understand,” he said, his voice breaking. “Why I want this. Why I need it. I don’t... I don’t understand myself anymore. Show me how to be good.”
I drew my hand back and brought it down with a sharp crack against his right cheek. The sound echoed through the barndominium, startlingly loud. Xavier’s whole body jerked, a gasp escaping his lips.
“You want this,” I said, my voice steady and commanding, “because you’re tired of being in control all the time.” Another spank, harder this time, on his left cheek. “Because you’re exhausted from holding everything together, from pretending nothing hurts.”
“Fuck,” he gasped, his fingers digging into the couch cushion.
I kept going, alternating cheeks, building a rhythm that was both punishing and cathartic. His skin turned pink, then red, heat blooming under my palm. Each strike was deliberate, measured, designed to break through his armor without breaking him.
“You need this,” I continued, my own voice rougher now, “because someone needs to remind you that you’re allowed to let go. That you’re allowed to be vulnerable without being weak.”
His cock was rock hard against my thigh, leaking pre-cum that smeared against my jeans.
