Page 38 of Bedtime Stories
“Secrets,” I admit, looping my arm through his, “are more fun when they’re discovered slowly.”
Oren hums, satisfied with that, and I can’t help thinking of his secret—filthy fantasies tucked away inside a fuzzy blue journal. The lime-green socks peek out as we walk, ridiculous and perfect, and I tuck the small, private list of his answers into a tidy corner of my head: Captain America, Randall, his middle name, his favorite color red, and frosted animal crackers with colored sugar sprinkles, his favorite snack. Details to keep me going on days when I need reminding of what I’m working toward earning.
When we reach his door, I’m ready to let him go with just a hug goodnight, but Oren hovers there, twisting his keys in his hand as though he’s not ready for the evening to be over.
His voice is soft when he says, “You… wanna come in? Just for a minute? Maybe tuck me in?”
I should probably decline. Should probably remind him I’ve got an early morning ahead, that this is a dangerous habit to start. But then he flashes those storm-cloud socks again, and all my rules crumble.
“Yeah,” I say, following him inside. “I can do that.”
His apartment smells faintly of laundry detergent and the vanilla candle he forgot to blow out. Oren heads straight for his bedroom, dropping his keys on the counter. He glances back at me with this shy, tilted grin before tugging his T-shirt over his head. My pulse stutters.
His skin is pale and smooth under the lamplight, creamy-soft, his belly flat, and two small brown nipples that make my mouth go dry. He doesn’t seem self-conscious—if anything, he moves with a kind of quiet trust, as though stripping down to his briefs in front of me is the most natural thing in the world.
I force my gaze higher, but it betrays me, dragging down again to the lines of his body. Heat prickles at the back of my neck. I tug my tie loose and clear my throat, trying to cover the rasp in my voice.
“Need help finding pajamas, or you’ve got it?”
He grins, holding up a pair of ridiculous sock-print pajamas before shimmying into them. I take in one more flicker of that smooth chest before he’s covered.
“Okay,” he says, flopping onto his bed and tugging at the covers like he’s not a grown man in his twenties. “Tuck me in.”
Only then do I sit on the edge of his bed and smooth the blankets for him, telling myself to get a grip. I’m not here to devour him. I’m here totuck him in.
But God help me, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to devour anyone more.
I take my time, straightening the sheets, smoothing the blanket over his chest. His eyes go heavy-lidded as I brush caramel brown hair off his forehead. I lean down just enough to murmur, “Comfortable?”
He nods, cheeks pink. “Bedtime story?”
I settle on the edge of the mattress, one hand resting casually over the covers near his arm.
“All right,” I say, my voice dipping into that low register he likes. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who always thought he was too much—too loud, too messy, too silly. But one day, he met someone who thought every bit of that was perfect.”
Oren’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Perfect how?” he interrupts.
I chuckle. “Perfect like… the way his laugh lit up a room. The way his socks made people smile. The way he could make someone forget all the heavy things in their head just by being near.”
“That’s nice,” he says, shifting closer under the blanket. Then, my mischievous boy shows his true colors. “But, um, stories usually get… steamier.”
My brows lift, but I don’t stop. “Steamier, hm?”
He nods, lip caught between his teeth. “Yeah. Like maybe… the boy got kissed by his someone. Or maybe they couldn’t keep their hands to themselves.”
I feel a flicker of heat move through me, not because I’m pushing the story that way, but becausehe is. He’s leading me there, testing me, trusting me.
“All right,” I say slowly, my palm brushing the blanket where his arm lies beneath. “Maybe the someone leaned in… close enough for the boy to feel his breath. Maybe the kiss was soft at first, and then… deeper.”
Oren swallows audibly, lashes fluttering. “Mm. Better.”
I let the pause hang, savoring it. His voice is unguarded, raw in its simplicity. It tells me more than any bold declaration could: he’s letting me in, step by step. He wants me to notice. Hewantsme to follow.
I clear my throat softly, and finish the story in a gentler tone. “And when the boy finally fell asleep, he did it knowing he wasn’t too much at all. He wasjust right. And his someone couldn’t wait to see him again.”
Oren lets out a soft, pleased sound and rolls onto his side, facing me, lids heavy.
“That’s my favorite story,” he mumbles.
