Textual Confusion

7. I hope you like strawberries.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I HOPE YOU LIKE STRAWBERRIES.

What was the name of that concealer you used freshman year when you ate all that sushi and broke out into hives?

Sasha

You were supposed to text me last night when you got home! Wtf, Asher?

I barely slept, I was so worried.

I’m sorry.

And then when you finally do contact me, it’s to remind me of the time I broke out into hives at my very first art show.

To be fair, I warned you not to eat all that sushi.

I was nervous! And my allergy to shellfish is mild… you know, usually.

Anyway, why do you want to know about concealer? You won’t even let me put eyeliner on you when we go out unless I literally get on my knees and beg.

Don’t tell me you beaned yourself opening the microwave again.

Or tried to fix your leaking sink and smacked yourself in the face with a wrench.

That was one time!

You know… *both* times.

Anyway, can’t you just tell me what you used?

What makes you think I’ll do anything for you after you so rudely broke your promise to text me when you got home last night, hm?

Well… in my defense, I didn’t exactly get home last night, so…

Does that mean what I think it means?

Tell me why you need concealer. Now.

Holy fuck.

What the hell? Did Big Daddy do that to you?

I know you know his name, Sasha.

Who gives a fuck what his name is? Is he part beast? Because that man fucking mauled you.

I’m aware.

Wait. It was consensual, right? I don’t need to beat his ass, do I?

Well, have Danny beat his ass, anyway.

No! I promise I liked it.

Well, damn. Regular concealer won’t do. That needs the heavy duty stuff. I’ll be over in a 30 mins with the goods. I’ll even show you how to apply it properly. But in exchange, I expect all the dirty details from last night, got it?

Deal.

Asher heaved a sigh of relief, flopping backwards into his bed.

He had no idea his neck and his jawline were littered with hickeys until he’d gotten home that morning and saw himself in the mirror. He’d gasped when he caught sight of the bruises Markus had sucked onto his skin, a kaleidoscope of reds and purples that Asher secretly thought were pretty.

But there was no way he could go out in public without at least trying to cover them up. Not unless he wanted to be stared at all day, anyway. Which… come to think of it, the hickeys probably explained why Markus’s driver had looked so wide-eyed when he’d picked Asher up from the man’s penthouse earlier that morning, before refusing to make eye contact with him (or his neck) the entirety of the way home.

To be honest, Asher had expected to be thrown out of Markus’s apartment as soon as the man’s alarm went off in the morning. Instead of immediately booting him from the bed, however, Markus had squeezed Asher tightly from behind, nuzzling his face into his hair and pressing a kiss to the back of his neck before reaching over him to shut off his alarm.

Then he’d cuddled him some more.

Asher thought that perhaps the man was just gearing up to pull Asher into the shower and demand another round of what they’d gotten up to the night before. But when Markus got out of bed up a few minutes later, he demanded Asher try to go back to sleep as he headed to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

Shockingly, Asher had been drowsy enough to obey.

When Markus woke him up by gently shaking his shoulder a half hour later, Asher had thought for sure that this was it. This was where he turned into the cold, heartless asshole Danny describe him as at work and kicked Asher out.

Instead, the man had led him into the kitchen and made him breakfast.

Well, he’d tried to make him breakfast, anyway.

Asher had watched in horror as Markus attempted to whip up homemade pancakes. After a twenty minute power struggle wherein Asher kept trying to help and Markus kept ordering him to sit down and relax – “I know what I’m doing, for Christ’s sake, it’s just pancakes.” – the lumpy, blackened things wound up in the trash.

Markus ended up making him a plateful of scrambled eggs instead, which Asher dutifully ate. Even if they were a bit on the runny side. Asher didn’t care if they made him sick later. Markus had made them specifically for him; it was a risk he was willing to take to show his appreciation. (Plus, he didn’t want to hurt the man’s feelings.)

Markus had been running late to work by then, so he had apologized for not being able to drop Asher back off at home himself before calling his driver to give him a lift. Apparently, the man had other vehicles he could drive to work. (Yes, vehicles as in plural.)

Which brought Asher back to his current predicament.

It was his day off, and he had errands he had to run, but he needed a way to hide the hickeys first. He’d considered throwing on a hoodie and hoping for the best. But he knew that wouldn’t fly when he had to return to work at the café the next day, which is why he had decided to text Sasha for help.

(Plus, he really did feel bad for forgetting to message her last night.)

While Asher waited for his friend to arrive, he threw a load of laundry into the washer the entire fifth floor of his complex shared and put away the clean dishes that’d been sitting on the rack next to the sink for the better part of the week.

He’d just squirreled away the last cup when his phone pinged with an incoming message.

Figuring it was Sasha letting him know traffic was bad and she was running late (or something similar), he was surprised to see it was from an unknown number. Asher’s first instinct was to delete the text. But then he thought of what would have happened, where he’d be right now, if he had deleted Markus’s messages three weeks ago, and he decided he should at least open it.

Unknown

I miss you.

Sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

I have the right number.

You sound awfully confident about that.

That’s because I am, Asher.

Asher felt himself freeze, his stomach cramping with a feeling he could only describe as foreboding. Deep down, he already knew the answer, but he had to ask…

Who is this?

I know there’s no way you’ve forgotten about me already. At least not my cock, considering how you’d always cry as I fucked your pussy open with my massive dick.

It was Trent.

It had to be. He was the only person Asher had ever been with that referred to his asshole as a pussy. Asher remembered telling him how much it bothered him once, but the man had just dismissed Asher’s feelings, insisting it was a compliment, and Asher hadn’t bothered to bring it up again.

But how did he get his number?

It hadn’t even been a month since Asher had gotten a new one – something he’d been forced to do when Trent and his friends wouldn’t stop blowing up his phone after their breakup. This was the first time he’d attempted to contact him since the number change.

Which was unfortunate, considering Asher was hoping to never hear or see from him again.

How did you get this number?

I have my ways.

Asher racked his brain. There were only a handful of people who had his new number. Obviously, Sasha and Danny wouldn’t have given it to him. Besides them, it was only Mr. Brittle and his work friends that knew his number. Mr. Brittle hated Trent, having been nearly as pleased as his friends when they’d broken up, so there was no way he had given the man his number.

Maybe Trent had sweet-talked it out of one of his co-workers? One who didn’t know their history?

The thought of Trent snooping around his work made him sick.

Did it occur to you that I changed my number because I was sick of you and your buddies spamming my phone? Quit texting me, Trent. I mean it.

Or what? What are you going to do, Asher? You need me.

We both know you’re just playing hard to get. Trying to pay me back for fucking that girl. I get it, okay? I screwed up. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?

That’s the thing. Trent never had said he was sorry.

It’d been months now, but Asher could still vividly recall walking in on him fucking some random girl on their living room couch back in July. Face buried in the girl’s tits, Trent hadn’t even noticed him letting himself into their shared apartment. Instead of making a scene, Asher had just left. Later that night, while Trent had been passed out in their bed, the girl long gone – he’d returned, quietly packed his things, and left.

He'd turned off his phone, but it’d only taken a couple days for Trent to track him down at Danny and Sasha’s apartment. When Asher had admitted what he’d seen, Trent had tried to deny it, but when it became clear Asher wouldn’t be gaslighted into agreeing that it was all a misunderstanding, he’d switched tactics.

Told Asher that it wasn’t a big deal. That it had only been that one time. That it didn’t mean anything. That Asher’s asshole was great, but sometimes a man just needed to sink his dick into a real pussy.

Yes, he’d actually said that.

When Asher refused to return to their apartment, Trent had tried to physically drag him away. That was when Danny intervened. Which only made things worse. Trent had never liked his friends, always jealous of their closeness, and he was pissed enough to have found Asher staying at their place.

He’d accused him of shacking up with both Danny and Sasha, twisting his own infidelity like it was all Asher’s fault.

He and Danny had gotten into a scuffle, and Trent had eventually been forced to leave when a neighbor called the police. He’d been escorted out of the building, blood pouring from his nose and murder in his eyes.

He’d loitered outside of Honeycomb Café a few times after that, but when Mr. Brittle caught him one day, he’d threatened to call the cops, and Asher hadn’t seen him since.

Not in person, at least.

Trent blew up his phone for weeks afterward, the messages he’d leave ranging from apologetic and pleading for another chance to raging, accusing things littered with threats. Asher had tried blocking his number, but in return, Trent just started calling and texting from his friends’ phones.

A little less than a month ago, Asher had finally had enough and got a new number altogether.

Considering he hadn’t heard from Trent since, he’d honestly thought that was the end of it.

Apparently not.

Asher, come on, give me another chance. You know I’ll do anything.

Leave me alone. Go find someone else to stick your dick in if you’re that desperate.

Don’t you get it? I’ve tried. Do you know how many whores I’ve fucked trying to forget you? No one compares. Your pussy is the tightest, hottest around.

Asher swallowed down the bile threatening to rise in his throat at the man’s crass words.

Gross.

Bang!

Asher jumped, his thoughts coming to a screeching halt when his front door was suddenly thrown open, ricocheting off the adjoining wall. He turned, putting a hand to his chest, where he could feel his heart jackrabbiting inside it beyond his sternum.

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack? You could have knocked, you know!”

Sasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You gave me a key,” she pointed out, closing the door behind herself. “Why would I knock?”

“Because it’s common courtesy! What if I was changing? Or, I don’t know, masturbating?”

Sasha snorted. “We were roommates for years. I’ve seen your dick at least thirty times by now.”

“Yeah, because you never knock!” Asher pointed out, heart finally slowing down enough that he felt comfortable slouching back into the couch.

“Are you seriously upset with me right now? After I got about two hours of sleep last night, lying awake, worrying about your ass?”

Any indignation Asher felt was immediately squashed by guilt. “No,” he mumbled. “And I really am sorry I forgot to text you. To be fair, it’s been a bizarre twenty-four hours.”

“It’s fine.” Asher hadn’t expected for Sasha to let him off the hook so easily, but he quickly realized why when she sat down next to him, concern shining in her eyes. “Are you fine, though?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know. You look… weird.” She waved a hand at his general appearance.

Asher rolled his eyes. “Thanks, bestie.”

“You know I don’t mean it like that . You’re just a little pale, is all, like something has you freaked out. Are you sure nothing happened last night that will inevitably wind up with Danny facing murder charges for killing his boss?”

“You say that like it wouldn’t be you doing the murdering.”

“Oh, it would totally be me. But Danny loves me enough to take the fall. Now, quite trying to distract me and tell me what’s bothering you already. Was it Big Daddy?” she pressed. “Did he do something?”

“I already told you that I liked everything he did to me.”

“Then what’s wrong?” she demanded.

Asher gnawed at his bottom lip, debating whether or not he should tell Sasha that Trent had somehow gotten ahold of his new number and was texting him again. He really didn’t want to worry her. But she’d be pissed if he didn’t tell her and she somehow found out later, so he sighed before unlocking his phone and handing it over.

Sasha’s eyes widened as she read the messages, though they’d narrowed into thin slits by the time she was finished. “What the fuck is this fucking fuck’s fucking problem?”

“That’s a lot of fucks,” Asher teased half-heartedly.

Sasha ignored the quip. “I told you to get a restraining order against this walking bag of dicks back in July when he tried to abduct you from our apartment.”

Asher rolled his eyes. “He didn’t try to abduct me, Sasha.”

“He would have if Danny hadn’t intervened,” she refuted. “Or do you not remember the black eye that fuckface gave him?”

“To be fair, I’m pretty sure Danny broke his nose first, so…”

“Are you seriously defending him right now?”

“No!” Asher rushed to assure his friend, throwing his hands in the air in surrender. His days of defending Trent were long over. “Of course not. I’m just saying he’s never hit me or been violent or anything like that. He’s just, you know, super annoying.” Pretty sad when the best thing he could think to say about his ex was that he didn’t hit him. “A restraining order seemed excessive, considering.”

Sasha crossed her arms. This had been a point of contention between them since the breakup. “He may not have ever physically hurt you, but you can’t deny that he made you feel like shit plenty of times.”

“I can’t get the cops involved just because he hurt my feelings, Sasha.”

“Maybe not, but you can if he’s fucking stalking you. Which he is. Even if getting a restraining order seemed excessive then, which I don’t think it did, by the way – surely, it’s a reasonable option now.”

Sasha had a point; he knew she did. But Asher had honestly thought that when nearly a whole month had gone by without Trent trying to contact him, he had finally given up and moved on.

Still, the thought of getting the police involved was off-putting. Not just because it was embarrassing that he couldn’t protect himself, but also because Trent’s father was rich. Very rich.

Not only did George Reynolds come from old money, he’d added to his wealth in a series of timely real estate investments. Proof of his success was not only in the fact that he owned dozens of properties throughout Seattle… he was also a high- profile client of Kingston Enterprises – a fact Trent had rubbed in Danny’s face on more than one occasion.

When they were together, Trent was always bragging about how much money and how many connections his father had. Asher wouldn’t be surprised if some of those connections were on the force.

“I… I don’t know, Sasha.”

The look Sasha shot him was full of disappointment, but he was relieved when (for once) she didn’t press. Instead, she turned her attention back to Asher’s phone. “I can’t believe he thought that telling you how good your asshole felt on his dick compared to the loose tramps he’s been fucking would get you to come crawling back to him. What a delusional, narcissistic ass.”

“I’m not surprised,” Asher muttered, then added self-deprecatingly, “I was pretty spineless when we were together.”

“That’s not on you, that’s on him,” Sasha all but snarled. “He was a controlling jackass who tried his level best to crush your spirit, use his money and overbearing demands to make you small, mold you into a thoughtless, passive doll… but you didn’t let him. You were strong.”

“I didn’t leave him until he cheated on me,” Asher pointed out.

“Who cares? You left. That’s what matters.” She squished his cheeks between her hands until his lips were forced into an unnatural pout. “Have I mentioned how fucking proud of you I am for that?”

Asher huffed. “Only about a hundred times,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m going to keep saying it until you believe me.” She released his cheeks. “I disagree with you about not getting a restraining order, but I obviously can’t make you. Still, I have to ask, what are you going to do about it then?”

Asher shrugged. “Block him, I guess?”

“And what happens when he uses his friends to keep texting and calling you like last time? Have you thought about what he might do if he ever finds out where you live?”

“He’ll give up eventually,” Asher insisted.

Except you thought he had already , a prudent voice in the back of his head pointed out.

They sat, brainstorming for a few minutes, before Sasha suddenly sprung up from her seat, eyes wide and sparkling. “I have an idea. Gimme your phone.”

Asher was suspicious, but at the end of the day, he trusted Sasha (and Danny) more than anyone else in this world – even himself, sometimes. So he handed it over, nibbling on his bottom lip as she furiously typed something.

“There. That ought to do it.”

Finally, she turned the phone so Asher could see what she’d done.

This is Markus Kingston, Asher’s new boyfriend.

Yes, that’s Kingston as in Kingston Enterprises.

If you contact Asher again, you can consider your father’s account terminated. When he calls demanding to know why I'm no longer interested in doing business with him, I’ll be more than happy to tell him it’s because his son couldn’t keep the pathetic tic-tac he calls a dick in his pants.

Consider this your only warning. Financial ruin will be the least of your worries if I catch you sniffing around Asher again.

“Sasha!” Asher exclaimed. “You can’t impersonate Markus! And he’s not my boyfriend!”

“Oops. Too bad the messages have already been sent then.”

“Oh my God!” He snatched the phone away from her, hoping she was lying. But, of course, she wasn’t. “Why would you do that?!”

“Because you won’t get a restraining order. We both know your ex has a daddy complex. Threatening him with daddy’s disappointment and financial ruin is our best bet to get him to leave you alone.”

“Yeah, but what if Markus finds out? I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to let anyone know I’m seeing him.”

Asher would have to take another look at the NDA he signed.

Sasha didn’t seem concerned that she may have caused him to breach his contract, however. “Judging by the hickeys lining your neck, I don’t think the possessive fucker will mind all that much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means no one gives anyone that many hickeys unless they’re staking a claim. When he finds out that fucker challenged it, I doubt Big Daddy will give a fuck you that you used him to make Trent back off.”

Asher shook his head, half-amused/half-disbelieving. “You describe them like they’re animals.”

“Have you seen your neck? Big Daddy’s at least half wolf.” She cradled his chin, forcing his head to the side to get a better look. “Or maybe vampire. Honestly, I’m shocked he didn’t draw blood.”

“It’s not that bad,” Asher grumbled. Honestly, his friends were so dramatic. Truthfully, he’d hardly even noticed when the man had sucked the hickeys onto him, too wrapped up in the sensation of his prostate getting brutalized to realize Markus had been gnawing at his neck with intention.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, pressing her thumb into one of the bruises.

Asher didn’t know how to admit that they actually did hurt a little, but in a good way, so he just shrugged. “Not really.”

She released his chin. “Did he text you back?” she asked, obviously referring to Trent.

Asher glanced at his phone. “No,” he admitted, surprised, but pleased by the revelation.

“Good. Now block him.”

Asher did just that.

“Now that that fucker has been dealt with – for now, at least – let’s see what we can do about all this ,” Sasha said, gesturing at his neck. Dragging him into the bathroom, she showed him how to use the heavy duty concealer she’d brought over. Luckily, they had a similar skin tones. Still, the process of covering the hickeys was more complex than Asher had thought it’d be, and his neck and jaw ended up a shade darker than the rest of his skin.

Still, it was a substantial improvement.

When they were finished in the bathroom, they ended up ordering some pizza for lunch (pepperoni for Asher, and ham and pineapple for Sasha – as if there wasn’t enough proof of her psychopathy already), and spent the afternoon binge watching serial killer documentaries while simultaneously gossiping about their co-workers.

It wasn’t until she finally left around 4:00 that Asher realized he hadn’t managed to accomplish any of his day-off errands. He couldn’t bring himself to be upset, though, because despite his ex randomly texting him out of the blue, it’d been a good day.

Asher had purposefully avoided checking his phone throughout the afternoon. Mostly because he wanted to be a good host and give his best friend the undivided attention she deserved, but also maybe a little bit because he didn’t want to be teased about checking for messages from Markus.

He didn’t want Sasha to know how attached he was already growing to the man. After all, catching feelings wasn’t part of their arrangement.

Still, he couldn’t deny the little thrill of excitement he felt when he finally gave in and checked his phone only to see he had a handful of missed texts from the man.

Markus

What kind of fruit do you like?

Asher?

Is everything alright?

1 missed call

I hope you like strawberries.

Asher stared at his phone in confusion. When he saw the missed messages, he’d secretly been hoping for a cute text asking how his day was going, or one inquiring how he was holding up after last night.

He did not think Markus would be texting him to ask about fruit of all things.

Sorry, Sasha was over. I didn’t see your texts until now.

I love s, but… why are you asking me about fruit?

If this was Markus’s idea of small talk, he was really bad at it.

Though Asher didn’t have much room to talk. After all, it was only a few weeks ago he was asking the man his favorite color.

You’ll find out soon enough.

What was that supposed to mean? Why did Markus sound so cryptic? They were talking about fruit , for fuck’s sake. Luckily, Asher didn’t have to wait long to discover the answer. Because it wasn’t a half hour later that-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Asher frowned.

Who could it be now?

Asher briefly debated pretending he wasn’t home, but what if it was one of his neighbors needing help with something? He owed Julius a favor – or three. And Mrs. Thatcher, who lived a few doors down, was, like, ninety.

Sighing, he went to open the door.

He was surprised to find Mr. Wisby, his landlord, on the other side of it.

Mr. Wisby wasn’t a particularly intimidating-looking man. Middle-aged with a receding hairline, and limp, greasy hair that hung to his shoulders. Large square glasses. He was maybe an inch or two taller than Asher, but skinny as a rail.

But what he lacked in size he made up for in sheer grumpiness, and he had what looked to be a teenage boy with an armful of groceries trapped in his clutches. “Found this one lurking outside,” he spat at Asher instead of greeting him like a normal person. “Says he has a delivery for you.”

The boy looked terrified, but to his credit, still mustered up a smile for Asher. “Hi, I’m Marty, from the DeLaurenti’s. I’ve got your grocery order. Sorry for the confusion, but I wasn’t sure which apartment you lived in. You only left your address, you see…

Asher frowned.

He’d never shopped at DeLaurenti’s in his life. They were a gourmet grocery store and way out of his budget. Only rich people went there for groceries. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a mistake. I didn’t order-”

Asher cut himself off. Wait.

He knew a rich person. A rich person who’d just inquired about Asher’s fruit preferences. A rich person who knew his address, and had had things delivered to him before.

“One second.”

Asher only felt a little bad about shutting the door in the kid’s face and rushing to his phone. (At least Mr. Wisby had left.)

You bought me groceries?

Why!?

That didn’t take long.

You didn’t have to do that! In fact, you shouldn’t have done it.

You mentioned this morning that you rarely eat breakfast. I don’t like thought of you going hungry in the mornings – or ever. What kind of daddy would I be if I allowed such a thing to go on?

Asher groaned, willing the blush he could feel heating his cheeks to go away.

That’s thoughtful of you, really. But you know I can’t pay you back…

That’s the whole point of this arrangement, sweetheart. It’s my job to take care of you. You don’t have to pay me back.

I get that. But that doesn’t change the fact that I feel like I owe you…

The only thing you owe me is to eat the food I bought you. That means breakfast every morning, and at least three square meals a day.

Knowing a losing argument when he saw one, Asher abandoned his phone and let the poor delivery boy inside his apartment. The kid had to make three trips up and down the stairs, and Asher tried to give him a tip for his trouble, but he refused, assuring Asher that he’d already been “ generously compensated ”.

Once he left, Asher went through the groceries. There was everything you could imagine: prime cuts of meat, a variety of cheeses, all kinds of sauces, fresh fruits and vegetables, snacks, and three different pints of ice cream. By the time Asher was finished unloading everything, his fridge and cupboards were overflowing with food.

He sat and reread the text messages he and Markus had exchanged.

Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do? This is a lot of food.

If you’re that set on paying me back, send me a picture. Something that will help me get through his hellish day at work. I already knew I’ll be stuck here all night.

Asher felt a disappointed twinge at learning that Markus would be stuck at the office all night. He knew they’d just had sex yesterday, but a part of him had been hoping the man would request his company again tonight.

What kind of picture, exactly?

Surprise me.

Asher thought over Markus’s request, debating what sort of picture to send him.

He hadn’t explicitly asked for a picture of Asher, but he knew the man would be disappointed if he sent him something silly like a picture of one of the stray cats Asher liked to feed outside his apartment complex.

Of course, he could always send a nude – but that seemed lazy.

It wasn’t until he opened the refrigerator to grab himself a snack and spotted the strawberries amongst the array of other fruit Markus had bought him, that an idea popped into his brain.

Thanks for the strawberries, Daddy, They’re my favorite.

Fuck, baby. Warn me next time. I was in the middle of a meeting and had to excuse myself.

Asher snickered at the thought of the man locking himself in a restroom at work in order to hide an inappropriate erection.

Does that mean you liked it?

You have no idea what I want to do to that mouth of yours, especially now that I know those fat lips are even softer than they look.

I think I have some idea…

Fuck, I wish you were here right now. I should fire my worthless assistant, then you could come work for me and I could look at you whenever I want.

What do you think? Would you like that, baby?

Asher wanted to think that Markus was just kidding, but there was definitely an underlying vibe that if Asher agreed, he’d fire his poor assistant that afternoon.

Unfortunately, as tempting as the idea of seeing Markus every day was, Asher knew nothing about finance. Plus, he loved baking.

I don’t think I’d get any work done. I’d be too distracted trying not to stare at my handsome boss all day.

Besides, Danny has told me stories about you and your revolving door of assistants. I don’t think I could hack it, and you’d definitely yell at me.

I wouldn’t yell at you. How could I? Even if you fucked up, I’d take one look at that angelic face of yours and lose my nerve.

Even if I screwed up really badly? Like, I don’t know, misplaced an important file or did something to make you lose a crucial client?

Hm… I’m guessing I could think of a few ways you could make up for it.

Like… you’d take reparations from my paycheck?

Like I’d make you sit on my lap, warming my cock in the sweet little hole of yours while I worked to fix your mistake.

Asher felt his face flush as blood rushed to two parts of his body. He imagined such a scenario in his mind. How Markus would make him strip, but keep his own suit on, untucking his monster cock through the fly of his designer slacks. How Asher would be made to sit on it, legs splayed open and his own erection exposed.

Markus would probably forbid him from moving until he’d fixed whatever mistake Asher had inevitably made, a hand clutched tightly at his hip to make sure he stayed put. But that wouldn’t stop Asher from trying – from rocking on his cock and squeezing pathetically around it, desperate for friction – and the man’s attention.

It’d be torture of the most delectable kind.

But what if someone walked in and saw us?

I’d never let anyone see you, baby. You’re for my eyes only.

How soon can you put in your resume?

Asher giggled. Honestly, how could someone give him a rock hard erection one moment and then make him laugh out loud the next?

As tempting as desecrating your office on a daily basis sounds… I’m a baker, not a secretary. I prefer baking cookies over proofing company emails.

Damn. I was looking forward to having a legitimate excuse to get rid of Laura.

You mean Lauren?

How do you know the name of my secretary?

Like I said, Danny’s told me stories.

You know, your secretaries would probably last longer if you were friendlier with them. They probably only screw up so often because you make them nervous.

You sound like HR.

I’m just saying. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Try being nicer.

I’m not nice.

You are to me.

That’s different. You’re my baby, not some incompetent secretary HR hired off of Indeed.

Speaking of incompetent secretaries, mine’s calling me. I have to get back to work. Eat breakfast from now on, understand?

Yes, Daddy.

Good boy.

Asher put down the phone, a giddy smile all but glued to his face as he leaned against the kitchen counter and popped another strawberry into his mouth. Sweet juice burst into his mouth, and he acknowledged to himself that for the first time in a long time, he was really, truly happy.

None of it’s real , a sensible voice in the back of his mind tried to remind him, but Asher promptly squashed it.