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A decade of believing that I’m capable of abusing my power over someone hasn’t been forgotten in the face of learning that Gabe lied all those years ago. But the guilt I’ve been stifling my needs beneath has loosened enough for me to consider my desires and analyze what their impact on Henry would be.

What I’ve realized is that everything is about him. Henry has, in such a short span of time, become the center of my universe. I want to be there for him, from helping him get dressed to showering with him. I want to cook breakfast with him and make him a brown bag lunch. I want to drive him to work and send him teasing text messages all day. I want to be waiting for him at the end of his day and eat him for dessert after dinner. I want to fall asleep with him and know that I get to do it all again the next day.

I still want to be in charge. I want to watch him struggle to follow my rules and make him beg me to let him come when I’m not with him. I want to tell him what to do and know that he’s happy to let me set the pace and lead.

But above everything else, I want him to be happy, and if something I want or need isn’t something he wants or needs, I know that it won’t be something I want or need anymore. He’s young and innocent, and there’s so much about him that I haven’t had a chance to learn yet, but we have time because he’s mine and he’s not going anywhere.

Now that I’ve realized that all I need is him, I need to figure out what he needs and how I can be that for him.

Our heaving chests and racing hearts slowly settle, but with my arms wrapped tightly around his back, he doesn’t try to move.

“Are you okay?” I ask him, my lips pressed to the top of his head.

“Perfect,” he says with a contented sigh.

“We should get cleaned up.”

“Okay,” he agrees, but doesn’t attempt to move.

In the end we fall asleep, sticky and messy and perfectly content.

Two weeks later

“I should go home, I haven’t been to my apartment in days,” Henry whines, leaning into my lips as I press hot kisses against his throat.

“We’re going home,” I whisper into his skin.

“We’re going to your place.”

“Our place,” I correct, scraping my teeth over his fluttering pulse.

“Your place. My place is above the garage.”

“Your place is with me. You live with me now,” I growl, not quite making it an order, even though that’s how I want it to sound.

“Anders.” He chuckles sweetly.

“Me and the guys will move all your stuff while you’re at work tomorrow.”

“What?” he squeaks, pushing at my chest and dragging himself away from my touch.

“I want you here. You live here now; this is where you want to be.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” he asks boldly.

In the weeks since we met, Henry has gotten braver, more confident, and sometimes even a little bratty, especially when I refuse to let him come.

Most of the time he can’t stop himself, but I enjoy his moments of attitude when he snarls and hisses like an angry kitten when I deny him what he wants. Before Henry, I’d have considered myself a pretty stern Dom. When it comes to my boy, I’m a pushover, and he knows it. That’s not to say that he’s disobedient—he isn’t. Despite my fears, Henry adores my obsessive control. He enjoys being doted on and coddled.

Since the day of Danny and Parker’s wedding, I’ve spent every moment getting to know the man I love. We’ve talked about our pasts, his time in foster care, his fears of rejection and how scared he is that he could become a little too dependent on my urge to take care of him.

At the start it was hard for me to understand why my needs didn’t scare him, but now that we’ve had a little more time to get to know each other, I understand why my controlling nature appeals to him. It’s because he grew up without a family. He moved from house to house, but he never had a home until he moved to Bozeman for college. Even then, he never gave himself the chance to find friends or a partner.

He was alone for so many years that instead of my desire to be entrenched in every aspect of his life feeling suffocating, he thrives beneath my attention. The more I demand of him, the more he gives, and so far, neither of us has found the other’s desires too much.

“Which would you prefer?” I ask, smirking at him.

His gaze goes contemplative. “Why do you want me to move in with you?