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Chapter Four

Grant

I woke up warm. But alone.

Colby’s side of the bed was still faintly creased, still faintly warm but cooling fast.

For a second, I smiled. Thought maybe he was in the shower or making coffee. Thought maybe, just maybe, I could pull him back into bed and pretend we had more time.

But the apartment was silent. No water running. No dishes clinking. Just quiet.

And that’s when I knew.

He’d slipped out. Quietly. Carefully. Like he hadn’t wanted to get caught.

Like he thought staying had been a mistake.

My chest tightened. Not from surprise, but from the sudden absence of something I hadn’t even realized had filled me up.

He’d stayed the night—and then left before I could tell him it hadn’t been an oversight, and it definitely hadn’t been a mistake. I’d wanted him to.

The silence stretched, settling in around me. Not harsh or sudden, but patient, familiar. Like it had been waiting.

Fuck, I hated it.

I didn’t want to go back to being alone. To that version of myself who mistook control for protection. Who thought boundaries were enough to keep from getting hurt.

But clearly, they hadn’t been, because waking up without Colby hurt anyway. It highlighted a hollow ache inside me that I’d been distracting myself from with a series of sugar babies ever since my divorce—a divorce I rarely thought about anymore, which was telling in and of itself.

But that lingering ache?

That background hum of loneliness I’d carried for years?

It had been entirely absent last night, and not just thanks to the blissful afterglow of the phenomenal orgasm my sweet boy had given me in the kitchen, but because of him .

Because of Colby.

I should’ve woken up when he moved. I should’ve stopped him, pulled him back into bed, kissed the worry lines from his forehead and told him?—

My mind stalled out, my chest tightening almost to the point of pain.

I should have told him what , exactly?

That I wanted him to… stay?

I’m the one who put the stupid no-overnights clause in our contract.

And I may not know everything about that sweet boy—my own damn fault, too, for working so hard to keep a bit of emotional distance—but I did know that his desire to be good for me, to be a good sugar baby, to do everything right, was one of his highest priorities.

Of course he’d left. Because I didn’t tell him it was okay not to.

I was a fucking idiot.

I dragged a hand over my face and sat up slowly. The house felt colder without him in it. But since my thermostat was automatic and infallible, that probably just meant the cold was actually seeping into my heart.

Great. Not just an idiot, but a poetic sap, too.

Still, I couldn’t deny that somewhere between greeting him at my door last night and that first broken sob against my shirt, something had shifted in me.

Or maybe, if I wanted to be brutally honest with myself, it had shifted long before that, and I was just now finding the balls to admit it to myself.

The real question was whether or not I also had the balls to do something about it.

That question nagged me the whole time I went about my morning routine, and by the time I poured my second cup of coffee and carried it back to my desk to try and get some work done, it had taken me over completely.

I didn’t touch the laptop. I just sat there, staring at the screen like something would magically resolve itself if I looked long enough, worrying the problem over in my head.

Colby had calmed down last night—beautifully, completely —but that didn’t mean he was okay.

He’d walked in frayed at the edges, and sure, I’d soothed him and let him find his way to the soft, blissed-out state he’d needed, connecting with him in one of the most fundamental ways possible and proving once again that our needs—sexual needs, but also mine to take charge and his to submit—were so perfectly in sync it sometimes felt like magic.

But despite all of that, I’d chickened out. I’d provided him aftercare, but I hadn’t actually asked what had broken him in the first place. As much as I cared for the boy, and I absolutely did, I’d been trying to ease back for both our sakes.

Or maybe just for mine?

“Fuck. I’m an asshole,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose.

For the last few years, I’d basically convinced myself that these sugar baby arrangements were smart, safe, detached… and fulfilling.

Or at least, fulfilling enough .

They allowed me to meet certain needs—sexual release, sure, but also the need to provide comfort, stability, and a degree of support to someone, all things my heart craved just as much as my body craved orgasms—without risking any kind of long-term expectations.

After my marriage fell apart, it seemed perfect. No entanglements. No vulnerability. No downside at all.

Then came Colby.

My coffee was cold, but I found myself smiling as I sipped it anyway, just from remembering how flustered he’d been during our first sit-down.

He’d been adorable, really. His fingers had kept fidgeting with the pen as we reviewed the contract, and he’d turned the color of a ripe tomato when we reached the section on intimacy.

I’d told him it was optional.

And Colby had made it clear that he very, very much wanted to take me up on that option… which had stirred something in me. And I didn’t just mean my cock.

He was just so delightfully eager . Not just for sex, but eager to be good, eager to be truly seen, eager to be praised. And always flatteringly eager to please me, too.

And then, when I’d asked him if he had any other questions that we hadn’t covered, he’d turned those clear blue eyes on me and, blushing, had stammered out, “I just… uh, I know it says you’ll be my ‘sugar daddy,’ but I don’t really know how the—uh—Daddy part works?

Like, am I supposed to, uh… kneel? Or call you Sir?

Or—is there, like, a paddle situation I should be aware of? ”

I’d almost choked on my coffee. Fuck, he was sweet.

“No,” I’d told him quickly, gently, not wanting to embarrass the boy when he was simply trying to make sure he understood what I’d want from him.

“Nothing like that is required. This isn’t a kink dynamic, Colby.

Just companionship. A mutually beneficial, short-term arrangement that I hope we can both enjoy. ”

He’d nodded, looking relieved… but then hesitated.

“What is it, baby?” I’d pushed him.

He’d blushed for me again. “Baby?”

“Well, we are talking about you being my sugar baby, so I figured I’d try it out,” I’d lied with a wink, even though the truth was that he’d already won me over, and the term of endearment had slipped out without my permission.

Worth it, though, for that blush and the way it had made him smile.

Then he’d ducked his head and looked up at me through his short brown lashes to ask, “So you’re not gonna be the kind of Daddy who, like… checks if I’ve eaten? Or makes sure I go to bed at a decent time? Or gives me rules and tells me when I’ve been good?”

I’d frozen. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel something catch in my chest at the wistful note in his voice. The one I’d convinced myself I very much had to have been imagining.

I’d smiled—carefully—and shook my head. “No, that’s not what this is. You don’t have to worry about any of that, and I definitely don’t want you calling me Daddy. All I ask is that you stick to the terms of the contract. I’ll never ask you for more than that. I promise.”

The way his expression faltered for half a heartbeat, like he’d asked for something he hadn’t meant to reveal, would haunt me for weeks.

He’d covered it quickly, though, nodding and flipping to the next page, but that flicker of hope—of longing—for something gentler and more personal had lodged somewhere deep in my heart and changed things.

Changed me .

Colby really was a good boy. I’d told him not to call me Daddy, and he never had. But checking in with him? Trying to make sure he was taking proper care of himself? Eating well, getting enough sleep, not studying too hard, or being too hard on himself?

None of that was what our agreement was supposed to be… but I’d either lied to Colby or I’d been lying to myself, because lately, it had very much turned into that.

And I didn’t want it to end.

Even if it did, though—no, when it did—I had no interest in starting up again with another sugar baby. I just wanted Colby.

And deep down, I think I’d known that for a while.

There’d been that one night a few weeks ago—a quiet one, after another dinner date here at the penthouse, when he’d curled up next to me on the couch and started talking about job interviews like they were a minefield.

He’d said something like, “It’s stupid, but I keep wondering if anyone’s ever going to care about me this much again. Like... once I’m not yours anymore.”

I’d told him of course someone would. Fuck, how could they not?

But that wasn’t what he’d needed to hear.

He’d needed to know he wouldn’t have to find someone else at all. Hell, maybe he’d even been fishing for it.

And I hadn’t said it, because back then I’d still been clinging to the idea that keeping my heart out of it made me strong.

I hadn’t said it because hearing that from him, hearing the wistful note in his voice, had made my heart feel like it wasn’t strong. Like it might just shatter completely if I didn’t deflect, divert, defend.

But hindsight really is 20/20, because it wasn’t my heart I should have been defending. It was his heart.

My laptop pinged with a message from one of my contacts in Seattle. I ignored it, my mind still on what the hell to do about that when I’d taken such care to make sure Colby understood that the contract was it for us.