He’s smaller than me, probably by a good five or six inches and fifty pounds of muscle, but I can picture him barking orders and everyone jumping to obey. Stern. Charismatic. The kind of man who could pin me with one look and have me apologizing for things I haven’t even done yet.
Total Daddy energy, full blast.
My brain short-circuits. I’m staring, and I know it, but I can’t seem to stop. I imagine that voice telling me to behave, those hands correcting me if I don’t. My face goes hot, and I shift in my seat, suddenly very aware of how tight my jeans feel as my cock begins to throb and pulse.
Then his eyes flick up and lock onto mine.
Ohcrap.
He caught me.
For a second, the noisy table fades away. It’s just us. His eyebrow lifts, just a fraction, and the corner of his mouth curves—like he knows exactly what I was thinking. My heart slams against my ribs.
One of the servers says something, and Olivier turns to answer, but before he walks away he looks back at me. “Enjoy your meal, everyone,” he says, voice smooth. Then, quieter, directly to me: “You too, big boy.”
It’s barely four words, but they land like a hand on the back of my neck.
I manage a strangled “Th-thank you, chef,” and it comes out way too soft, way too breathy.
He gives me a small nod and heads back toward the kitchen, disappearing through the swing doors.
The table explodes.
“Yo, Danny, your face is redder than that tomato sauce!” Mikey roars, reaching over to ruffle my hair.
Taylor leans in, grinning. “Dude, you just got personally eyeballed by the hot chef. What the hell was that?”
“Leave him alone,” Lane laughs, but he’s looking at me with way too much amusement. “New-guy’s blushing so hard he’s gonna combust.”
Xander’s smirking from the head of the table. “Olivier Ramsey doesn’t come out for just anyone. You must’ve made an impression, Danny.”
“I—I didn’t do anything,” I stammer, shoving a forkful of steak into my mouth to avoid saying more. It’s delicious—perfectly medium rare, melting on my tongue—but I barely taste it.
Taylor leans back, arms crossed, looking far too pleased. “Sure you didn’t. That man looked at you like you were the dessert menu.”
Everyone hoots.
I want to slide under the table and die. My cheeks are burning, and I know they can all see it. There’s no hiding when you’re built like me and your face goes fire-engine red.
I risk a glance toward the kitchen doors, half hoping Olivier will come back out, half praying he doesn’t.
All I can think is: he saw me staring. He spoke to me. And I’m pretty sure everyone at this table knows exactly how flustered I am right now.
Great. Just great.
But underneath the embarrassment, there’s a tiny, thrilling spark.
Olivier looked at me like he saw something he wanted.
He looked at me like a Daddy eyeing up his Little…
The Chainsaw is exactly what I needed after that fancy restaurant.
Dim lights, sticky wooden floors, classic rock humming from an old jukebox in the corner. There’s a scarred pool table under a hanging Budweiser lamp, a darts board with more holes than cork, and a bar lined with locals who look like they’ve been coming here since before I was born.
Oh, and the beer is ice-cold and cheap, flowing freely from pitchers that keep getting refilled. This feels way more like home, and I’m all here for it.
We claimed a big corner booth and a couple of high-tops, the whole crew spread out and relaxed. Coats are slung over chairs, sleeves rolled up, laughter loud enough to drown out the music. Taylor and Mikey are already deep into a brutal game of pool, trash-talking each other like it’s the world championships.
