I feel weirdly exposed. Seen in a way that has nothing to do with cameras. “So, you're what—my self-appointed security consultant now?” Or stalker? Is he a stalker? No, I tell myself. I chose to be an influencer and put my life in front of the world. Of course he found me easily.
Something like that.
“And if I don't want your consultation?”
His eyes darken just slightly. “Then I'll be disappointed. But I'll respect it and leave you alone.”
The honesty of it catches me off guard. The lack of pressure. The way he's giving me an out even as every instinct in my body is screaming at me not to take it. Definitely not a stalker. Does this mean he’s into me? Attracted by me, too? Could it be?
His coffee arrives. He doesn't touch it immediately, just watches me with that steady, assessing gaze.
“You're used to people listening to you,” I say finally. “Obeying your orders.”
“I am.”
“And if I don't?”
His voice drops, taking on an edge that makes my skin prickle with awareness. “If you don’t listen to me? After you’ve consented to my… consultation?” He pauses and I nod. “Then I'd have to get more involved.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It's a promise,” he says evenly. “To keep you safe. It is apparent that someone has to look after you.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. I should be offended. I should tell him I don't need a keeper, that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, that I've been doingthis for years without some mysterious government operative deciding I need protection. I should tell him to go fuck all the way off and leave me alone. I should tell him…
Instead, I hear myself say, “And what would that look like? You being involved?”
Something shifts in his expression, almost a sense of relief. There’s heat beneath the control, interest beneath the authority. I can’t miss it. He’s attracted to me the same way I am to him. My breath hitches as I wait for him to answer.
“That depends,” he says slowly, “on whether you actually want to know. Or whether you're just testing boundaries.”
“Maybe both?” I ask.
His eyes hold mine. “Then we'd need to have a very different conversation. One that requires honesty. Consent. Clear expectations.”
My pulse kicks. “Um, are we still talking about internet safety?”
“No,” he says quietly. “We're not.”
The air between us crackles with tension. I realize it’s definitely not about internet safety anymore and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. Somehow in our brief interaction three days ago he figured me out. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and he is waiting to see if I'm brave enough to say it out loud. To admit I’m a little in need of a Daddy. The thought both terrifies and thrills me. Is it all in my head?
No, not this time. This time, my radar is correct. I’m pretty positive the man sitting across from me figured out my deepest, most intimate secret, in less than five minutes with me. Was it the way I blushed when he called me a good girl?
“I should probably go,” I manage.
“Probably,” he agrees. “But you won't.”
He's right. I won't. I don’t want to. I want to see where this could go.
Instead, I take a sip of my now-cold latte and meet his eyes. “So, what happens now?”
“Now,” he says, “you finish your coffee. You don't post about this conversation. And you think about whether you want me to walk away and never look back or step closer and never leave.”
“And if I choose closer?”
“Then you text me,” he says, pulling out his phone and sliding it across the table. “Put your number in.
I should hesitate. I should at least pretend to think about it.
