Page 6 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Fuck.

It was starting.

And he hated it.

Hated how much helovedit. Craved it. Was a fucking slave to it.

A sharp snap of fingers from the kitchen had Aaron jerking his head up, glare already loaded. Kenny’s eyes met his, brows raised.

Aaron mouthed a defiant,What?

Kenny pointed at the unfinished forms without breaking stride on the call. “Yes, absolutely, I can expand on that.”

Aaron flipped him the finger.

Kenny didn’t break eye contact, but his voice stayed smooth for the phone. “Yes, I’ve got significant first-hand observation of oppositional defiance and aversion to perceived authority. Fascinating how it plays out in real time.”

Aaron poked his tongue into his cheek and made the wank sign.

Kenny cocked his head, arching an eyebrow but his tone never wavered. “No, I agree. Discipline is often the only effective intervention.” He curved his lips the faintest fraction as he said it, a private smile meant only for Aaron.

Aaron snorted. Turned away. He should be immune to all this by now.

He wasn’t, though.

He was pathetic.

Because part of him—the shameful, sick part that was utterly Kenny’s through and through—craved the authority. The attention. The affection given only when earned. And the delicious ache of anticipation.

He wanted the fucking reward.

The praise.

Cause when Kenny finally breathed that,“Good boy,”and shoved him down, touched him like he bloody meant it, Aaron turned to the gooey, grovelling mush Kenny had made him and wanted him to be. For him only. He became a fucking walking Crème Egg of a man. Split wide, soft in the middle, shell cracked for Kenny to lick him clean, lapping up every sweet, fucked-up inch until Aaron melted on his tongue and stayed there.

Prick.

Aaron stared at the kitchen doorway. Kenny was still talking. Still wearing those jeans. That fucking shirt and jumper combo that made Aaron want to peel it off with his teeth. Hair down, glasses on, looking like the world’s hottest moral dilemma.

The blokecouldsay it.

“Hey, baby. Wanna fuck?”

Aaron would drop the forms, bend over the table, and let him have at it. No hesitation, no buildup, no need for preamble. Kenny knew that. Knew exactly how easy it wouldbe. But that wasn’t his style. Oh, no, no. That was too easy. Too ordinary. Toonormal.

And Dr Kenneth Lyons had long since walked away from the illusion of normalcy, peeling it off like an old skin the moment Aaron entered his world and made control feel holy.

And this—the teasing, the praise, the unbearable waiting—was who Kenny was now.

Not the man who asked.

The one who made Aaron ache until he begged to be undone.

And Aaron would.

Every time.

Eyes wide open, crawling to the edge to feel Kenny pull him back by a single whispered word.