If Only In Our Dreams (Christmas Daddies, #3)

by Fae Quin

Because…while my bubble remained small, today I had learned that it was still large enough to accommodate a tiny, black-clad emo twink. An emo twink that I was going to need to find, so that I could properly apologize. And perhaps…maybe thank for reading my book. Which I still couldn’t believe had really happened. It felt surreal at best.

“Yes,” I admitted, because it was true. Men often made comments about my hands when I had my fingers inside them. Not that I thought that was an appropriate thought to share. “Bet they feel real good inside somebody,” Robin hummed thoughtfully. I choked. “I’m just saying,” he shrugged. “Bet your cock’s big too.” “Jesus Christ.” I pinched my eyes shut, face bright red.

“A doctor?” Robin grinned. “Big hands, big dick, not afraid of gay sex, would wear nail polish, writes smut, and is a doctor.”

I’d get to see him.

A lot, apparently. And I was…embarrassingly excited about that.

In my defense, Ben Montgomery was a total snack. Not that I’d tap

that, because I wouldn’t. Family, duh. And I was only here temporarily. I’d be leaving right before Christmas Eve, so there was no reason to shake the foundation that Miles had painstakingly built. But still—I could look at him and think that, couldn’t I? In the privacy of my own head. It wasn’t illegal to want to climb him like a tree.

Praise kink.

He might have a praise kink. My head spun. Stop thinking about his kinks, Ben, and feed him. He looks hungry.

And when he glanced up at me, grin softer than before, a private, giddy thing, I decided right then and there that I would make him smile like that as many times as I possibly could before he went back home, my dignity and dislike of the holidays be damned.

“Don’t you mean, hang on tight spider monk—eeeeeeee!” My screech turned into laughter as the sled pushed off and the world blurred white.

“You’re such a good boy.” In response, Robin released this high-pitched, muffled whine that made my knees instantly weak. It was so quiet, I wasn’t sure he’d even realized he’d been the one to make it.

“Yes, Daddy,”

“Is that too hard?” Ben asked, voice low and sugary sweet. “Is that too hard for my pretty little bird? Can’t stay quiet, can you, baby? You have such pretty notes to sing.”

Ben Montgomery was warm dinners, late nights, and laughter. He was solid, and sure, and dependable. He was the sun rising every morning, and the moon at night. He was caring and predictable in the way only truly good people were.