“Is that what you needed, baby boy?” he asked, his voice hushed.
“Yes, Daddy,” I murmured.
11
Greyson
“Is my little doe ready yet?” I pushed open Lane’s bedroom door, finding him at his vanity.
Lane caught my gaze in the mirror and smiled at me, his face the picture of beauty. He looked ready, with his soft, dewy makeup and flowing hair.
“Almost, Daddy,” he answered, swiping on a gloss that made his lips look fucking edible.
I stepped up behind him and rested my hands on his shoulders, looking down at the outfit he’d chosen for today’s outing.
He wore a soft cream sweater—cashmere, if I wasn’t mistaken—thin enough to drape beautifully over his narrow frame but thick enough to look effortlessly luxurious. The neckline dipped just slightly on one side, exposing his delicate collarbone and the scatter of freckles across his skin.
The sweater was tucked into a dusty-rose pleated skirt. It hit just above his knees, modest enough for a public outing but not at all dulling his innate femininity.
His legs were wrapped in sheer stockings, the kind that made his pale skin look impossibly softer, disappearing neatly into a pair of low-heeled cream ankle boots that probably cost more than most people’s rent.
Nothing loud. Nothing flashy.
But anyone with functioning eyes would take one look at him and know he belonged to money.
Tome.
Lane hummed softly to himself as he reached for a small velvet jewelry tray.
I watched his fingers carefully select a pair of earrings—delicate little gold drops with tiny pearls at the end. Dainty and elegant.
He lifted one to his ear, pushing the post through with practiced ease.
I leaned down slightly, unable to stop myself from brushing my fingers across the side of his neck. “Careful,” I murmured. “If you keep looking like that, I’m not taking you anywhere.”
Lane smiled at me in the mirror, the expression sweet and teasing. “You promised.”
I did.
My gaze dragged slowly down his body again.
God.
I’d always liked beautiful things—fine watches, tailored suits, art, cars.
But nothing compared to Lane.
He was like a life-size ball-jointed doll—soft and delicate and perfect, with big blue-green eyes and pretty clothes and that bright, eager smile he wore when he knew he looked good.
Except this doll breathed.
And laughed.
And curled up against me at night like I was the center of his entire world.
Because I was.
I pressed a kiss into the side of his hair before I could stop myself.
