Page 4

H oly fricking hell.

Well, I’d been wrong. Demian managed to find an interesting question to ask me, after all.

It hung in the air between us, a grenade waiting for me to pull the pin. "Are you a Little?" His words echoed in my mind, each syllable a hammer strike against my carefully constructed walls.

I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. All thoughts of milkshake and pancakes had vanished from my brain. Heat flooded my cheeks, and I could feel the flush spreading down to my neck. Vulnerability washed over me, a wave threatening to drag me under. I grasped for a lifeline, anything to deflect the intensity of his gaze.

My throat was dry.

"What do you mean by 'Little'?" I asked, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. I pretended not to fully understand, even as my heart raced with the truth. My fingers found the cool surface of the table, tracing invisible patterns to ground myself.

Demian leaned back in his booth seat, the vinyl creaking under his weight. His gray eyes never left mine, but his posture was relaxed, almost casual. The hum of the diner filled the silence between us as he took a moment before speaking.

"I think you know. But just in case. A Little is someone who finds comfort in a more . . . childlike headspace," he began, his voice low and steady. There was a gentleness in his tone, a confidence that made me want to lean in, to listen closer. "It's about finding safety, playfulness, a sense of security. Like a kind of play therapy. A way to forget responsibilities and just be."

His words painted a picture I knew too well. I could see it in the way his eyes softened, the way his shoulders relaxed as he spoke. He wasn't just explaining; he was sharing a piece of himself, a piece that resonated deep within me.

My fingers continued their dance on the table, tracing patterns only I could see. I could feel the rough edges of the scratches, the cool smoothness of the worn spots. Each sensation grounded me, kept me present as I listened to him.

"It's not just about role-playing," he continued, his voice barely audible over the diner's hum. "It's about letting go, trusting someone else to take care of you, even if it's just for a little while."

His words were a slow caress, each one wrapping around me like a warm blanket. I could feel the pull, the desire to lean into that comfort, that safety. But fear held me back, fear of the vulnerability, of the exposure.

I watched his lips form each word, the subtle shift of his expression as he spoke. There was a sincerity in his eyes, a depth that made me want to trust him, to open up to him. But the walls I'd built were high and strong, and fear was a powerful glue holding them together.

Yet, as he spoke, I could feel those walls beginning to crumble. The promise of safety, of understanding, was a siren call I found hard to resist.

I stared at the swirl of whipped cream and sprinkles on my milkshake, a chaotic mirror of my insides.

There was no point in pretending.

"Yes, I'm a Little." The words tumbled out, barely above a whisper. Admitting it felt like jumping off a cliff, naked. But Demian's eyes were warm, safe, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. My stomach fluttered, a mix of relief and sheer terror.

He leaned forward, his face lighting up like a kid on Christmas morning. "I knew it," he said, his voice a low rumble of excitement. "From the moment I saw you in that interview room."

I arched an eyebrow, disbelief coloring my voice. "Oh, really? And how exactly did you know that?"

A smirk played on his lips, a sexy quirk that made my heart stutter. "It was the way you fiddled with your pen, bit your lip," he explained, his voice low and steady. "Those doodles. It wasn't just nerves, Tilly. It was a Little's energy, pent-up and eager to break free. My Little radar was going berserk."

His words sent a shiver down my spine. I thought I'd always been so careful, so guarded. How could he see through me so easily? My fingers traced the cool edge of the table, grounding me. "You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" I challenged, but there was no heat in my words. Just curiosity, and a growing need to understand this man.

Demian's smirk deepened, and he leaned back, his eyes never leaving mine. "I've spent enough time in certain . . . communities," he said, his voice a low purr. "I recognize the signs, Tilly. And you, sweet girl, have 'Little' written all over you."

His words sent a jolt through me, a mix of fear and exhilaration. I'd never met anyone like him, someone who saw through my walls, who understood my needs without me even saying a word. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was everything I never knew I needed.

The neon lights of the diner buzzed overhead, casting a pink and blue glow on the Formica table as I laughed, a sound that bubbled up from my chest, nervous and disbelieving. "Come on, Demian," I said, leaning back in the booth, my fingers drumming a quick rhythm on the table's edge. "There's no way a big-shot hockey star like you could pick up on something so subtle. You're telling me you took one look at me and just . . . knew?"

Demian's lips pursed, his shoulders lifting in a casual shrug that did nothing to hide the coiled power beneath his sport coat. "I just knew, baby girl."

I shook my head, a smile playing on my lips, even as my heart pounded. "You're crazy," I said, but there was no heat in my words. Just a growing curiosity, a need to understand this man who seemed to see right through me.

Demian leaned forward, his gray eyes locked onto mine, serious and sure. "I'm not crazy, Tilly," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm a Daddy Dom."

His words sent a jolt through me, like I'd touched a live wire. My eyes widened, and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. He reached across the table, his hand resting atop mine, warm and steady. His touch anchored me, even as my mind whirled.

"It's not something I share with just anyone," he said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand. "Especially not with reporters." His eyes held mine, open and honest. "But I see something in you, Tilly. Something that makes me want to trust you."

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my ears. His touch, his words, they all wove a spell around me, drawing me in, making me want to trust him too. But fear held me back, fear of the vulnerability, of the exposure. I took a deep breath, my eyes searching his, looking for any sign of deceit, any hint of insincerity. But all I saw was openness, honesty, and a warmth that made my stomach flutter.

I leaned in, my voice low and urgent. "I promise you, Demian, I won't tell a soul." My hand was still beneath his, his warmth seeping into my skin, making my heart race. "Most journalists would kill for this story, but I'm not most journalists."

Demian's eyes searched mine, looking for the truth.

I held his gaze, unblinking, wanting him to see the sincerity in my eyes.

His face was illuminated by the harsh glow of the diner signs, his jaw tight, eyes intense. He was a man who knew the weight of his secrets, who knew the risk he was taking.

A moment passed, then another. Then, slowly, his face relaxed. He nodded, a soft exhale escaping his lips. "I believe you," he said, his voice a low rumble.

Those three words sent a surge of happiness through me. It was a strange feeling, being trusted so implicitly by someone like Demian. A man who had every reason to be guarded, to be suspicious. Yet, here he was, placing his faith in me.

Demian leaned back, his hand slipping away from mine, leaving my skin tingling. He ran a hand through his short hair, a distant look in his eyes. "I stumbled into this lifestyle years ago," he began, his voice steady, controlled. "Curiosity, mostly. I ended up in an age play club, not really knowing what to expect."

I listened intently, my fingers tracing the rim of my glass, the condensation cool against my skin. I could picture it—Demian, young and curious, stepping into a world he didn't yet understand.

"I've played in clubs on and off over the years," he continued, his voice low. "But it was always . . . casual. Nothing serious." His eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of vulnerability. "I never found someone who truly clicked with me. Someone who wanted more than just a scene."

My heart twinged with compassion. This big, strong hockey player, so sure of himself on the ice, was just as lost as I was when it came to this. Searching for a connection, for something real. I knew that feeling all too well.

His hand rested on the table, fingers tapping lightly against the surface. I watched the movement, the subtle rhythm, and found myself wanting to reach out, to still his restless energy. "I've been looking for something more meaningful," he admitted.

His words hung in the air between us, raw and honest. I felt a tug in my chest, a longing to be that something more for him. But I pushed the thought away, not ready to acknowledge it, not ready to admit how deeply his words were affecting me.

Instead, I just nodded, encouraging him to continue. I wanted to hear more, to understand him better. To see where this conversation would lead us.

I traced the rim of my melting milkshake with a spoon. I could feel the weight of Demian’s gaze, waiting, hoping for more from me.

"I've never had a Daddy before," I admitted softly, the words tumbling out before I could catch them. My cheeks flushed, but I pressed on, encouraged by his openness. "But I've spent plenty of time in Little space. With friends, mostly. It's. . . it's never been sexual. Just comfortable. Safe."

I glanced up at him, his intense gray eyes urging me to continue. My fingers twisted the spoon, the cool metal grounding me. "But with the right person . . ." I began, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart pounded, but I pushed through the nerves. "It could be more. Deeper. Intimate."

Demian's eyes never left mine. He leaned in slightly, his large frame blocking out the rest of the diner. All I could see, all I could focus on, was him. His scent, a mix of clean sweat and faint cologne, filled my nostrils, making my stomach flutter.

"You think so?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. His hand moved slowly across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. Just a soft touch, barely anything, but it sent a jolt through me, like a live wire sparking.

I laughed nervously, the sound catching in my throat. "Yeah," I managed to say, my voice steadier than I felt. "I think so."

His fingers lingered, tracing the back of my hand. His touch was gentle, but there was a roughness to his skin, callouses from years on the ice. It was a stark contrast, soft and hard, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

A nervous laugh escaped him too, a deep sound that resonated within me. "This is... unusual," he admitted, his fingers still exploring mine.

I smiled, my heart pounding in my chest. "Unusual good or unusual bad?" I asked, my voice teasing.

His gaze met mine, held it. There was a heat there, an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Good," he said, his voice firm. " Definitely good."

Our plates sat forgotten between us, the food growing cold. But neither of us cared. This conversation was more nourishing than any meal could ever be. Each word, each touch, was feeding a hunger deep within me. A hunger I hadn't even known existed until now. Until him.

Demian's fingers were warm, his touch firm, like an anchor point in a suddenly spinning world. He leaned in, his voice a low rumble, barely audible over the clink of silverware and the hum of late-night conversations around us.

"Tilly," he started, his gray eyes locked onto mine. "I want to be your Daddy."

My heart thudded against my ribs, like a bass drum kicked by a reckless drummer. I blinked, speechless. His words were so direct, so sure, like he had seen right through me and knew exactly what I needed to hear.

I managed to find my voice, a mere whisper. "How . . . how do you know?"

A soft smile played on his lips, a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "I can't explain it, Tilly. It's just a feeling. Like finding a missing piece you didn't know you were looking for."

His words sent a rush through me, a whirlwind of fear, excitement, and relief all tangled together. I felt overwhelmed, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into something vast and unknown. But there was also curiosity, a deep, eager pull to see where this could go.

My breath hitched, and I reached for his other hand under the table. My fingers grazed his palm, a tentative touch that felt like a leap of faith. His hand closed around mine, warm and secure, a silent affirmation that he was in this with me.

"I feel . . . overwhelmed," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "But also . . . curious. Eager, even." I felt the heat rush to my cheeks.

Demian's thumb brushed against mine, a gentle rhythm that sent a spark up my arm. His eyes never left mine, steady and sure. "We can take this as slow as you need, Tilly. But I want you to know, I've never felt this way before. It's fast, I know, but it's real."

I took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm inside me. His words, his touch, his presence—it all felt so right, like a key clicking into a lock. I squeezed his hand, a silent promise that I was willing to trust his instinct, to trust mine.

"I want to see where this goes, too," I said, my voice steadier now. "I want to know what this could be."

Demian’s mouth quirked up at the corners, then he leaned in, his voice low and steady. "There's something I want to show you, Tilly." His gray eyes were serious, the flecks of lighter gray like ice on a winter lake. “It’s at my place.”

I mirrored his lean, the air between us vibrating with something electric. "What is it?" My heart was pounding, a drumbeat in my ears.

"A contract," he said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the diner. "It outlines . . . us. What we could be. Boundaries, expectations, safewords." He emphasized the last word, and my breath hitched.

His gaze held mine, steady and sure. "It's not legal, just . . . personal. A promise to keep each other safe."

I swallowed hard, my fingers tracing the cool condensation on my glass. This was real. This was happening. My mind raced, but my body was already reacting, a warmth pooling low in my belly.

Demian's hand reached across the table, his fingers grazing mine. "Will you come back to my place, Tilly? Read it. See if it feels right?"

My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing neon lights. I understood what this meant, the significance of this next step. A contract. His place. This was more than just a conversation in a diner. This was a doorway, a threshold to cross.

I looked around the diner, the bustling waitress, the trucker in the corner booth, the teenagers sharing a milkshake. Ordinary life going on, oblivious to the storm brewing inside me. Then I turned back to Demian, his gaze steady, his jaw set. He was offering something I'd always yearned for, a connection I'd only dreamed about.

A sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of nervousness and elation. "Yes," I said, my voice soft but sure. "I'll go with you."

His eyes flared, a spark igniting in their gray depths. Our gazes locked, and in that moment, an unspoken vow passed between us. This night was going to change everything. The air was thick with anticipation, the promise of something profound and intimate and utterly terrifying. And I was ready to dive in headfirst.