“Every good cookbook needs a story, right? Mine is going to be about found family.” His whole body vibrates with excitement. “I was thinking I could ask Olly, and maybe he can contribute a dessert… or two. I’msonot a baker.”
A megawatt smile spreads across his face, with a spark of excitement in his eyes. My stomach dips and swoops like a basketball star.
He’s lit up like the North Star—eyes bright, smile huge, hands moving as he talks. My stomach does anotherlow swoop. A smiling Beckett is a fucking showstopper. I’ve had too many weeks of the sharp, wounded version. Then he was replaced by a smart-mouthed, angry Beckett.I do love a smart-mouthed Beckett, just not the angry one.
“Oh, what about the old ladies? Do you think Ms. Brandy would contribute one of her wine recipes? That would be fun.”
He exhales, softer now, settling a little heavier into my lap like he’s decided I’m a piece of furniture. “So what about you, Dom? If you could pick one dish, what would it be?”
“Oh,” I say. “Is this your way of asking me to be in your cookbook?”
“Depends. Is there a fee for your services?” He gives his ass a little wiggle, causing my cock to try rallying.
I swat his ass, my palm landing a little too satisfyingly. “Down, boy.”
He rolls his eyes, full brat. “Whatever you say, Domy.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Daddy?” he tries wickedly.
“Nope.”
“Fine. Sir?”
I try really hard to keep the smirk at bay. “Much better. Now, behave.”
“Please, sir, will you contribute to my cookbook? Help a young lad out.”
This boy.
I dig my fingers into his ribs, and he explodes into squirming laughter, wiggling on my lap in a way that does not help my self-control.
“You’re pretty brave, little mouse,” I murmur, catching his wrists and pinning them to my chest. “Most people wouldn’t dare mess with me. They actually believe the scary reputation.”
Beckett’s eyes spark. “Maybe I like the consequences.”
I let my voice drop, slow and deliberate. “If I decide to give you consequences, I’ll take you right to the edge and hold you there. Make you feel every second. You’d be a jumbled mess, begging me to let you come.”
He stops squirming. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, we have already established that I would.”
“Ugh, why do you have to be such a fun crusher?”
“Somebody has to keep you in line. Now, about this cookbook.”
He wilts forward until his forehead rests against my chest, breath warm through my shirt. “It’s a dumb idea,” he mutters. “No publisher is gonna care about my weird little found-family project.”
I curl an arm around his back, keeping him close. “You’re wrong,” I say. “And I’m going to prove it. Starting with my dish. Aunt Sofia’s Tuscan Chicken recipe.”
He peeks up at me, doubtful and curious, still sitting right where I want him.
He makes the cutest O shape with his mouth.
Cute.
Psh. I don’t say cute. I say things like hot, filthy, obscene, not cute. I’ve been saying a lot of weird shit lately.
