Asher's Answer (Littles & Lace, #1)

by Anna Sparrows

What’s more humiliating than being kicked out of home by your already homophobic father because he opened your private delivery to discover the adult-sized diapers, onesies and pacifier you’d bought yourself on a drunken whim? Turning up to your boyfriend’s place with your rolling suitcase filled with the only possessions you could gather in ten minutes only to find him balls deep in someone else. Someone with breasts and a vagina.

He might be a cheater -and incredibly selfish- but he wasn’t a horrible person. Or maybe I’m just that starved for affection.

“We’re just gonna sit out here in the sunshine and have a chat, okay?”

“Thanks, Josh. I’ve got him from here.” Wait. Hold up. I’m being left here with this new guy all alone? Nope. This is how serial killer movies start. The thought is such a valid one, in fact, that I stamp my foot and repeat it aloud.

Asher sighs and snuggles into my chest and I’m officially a goner. Five fucking minutes alone with this kid, and I’m wrapped around his little finger. I can’t even pretend that it’s not happening.

He’s not quite in little space, but he’s certainly not with me as an adult, either.

“Says the hot cop who doesn’t wonder what it’s like to wear a diaper.” My stomach turns to lead, the words having bypassed my filter entirely. Jesus fucking Christ, who is in control of my mouth?

I don’t need him regretting taking me in like the pathetic street urchin I’ve become.

And let’s not get started on his refractory period. That boy can come five times in a two-hour period. Five. That has to be a superpower. I consider myself lucky when I can get it up a second time within an hour.

“Well, if it isn’t my firstborn,” she answers, and I can picture the shit-eating grin on her face. “You finally remembered that you have parents, huh?” “I texted you last week,” I sigh dramatically, deliberately poking the bear. “You sent a thumbs up when I texted to say hi.”

Dad looks me up and down with a sneer. “You landed on your feet, then?” It shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t. But the implication that he was hoping that I wouldn’t recover eats away at me.

“Everyone, Max Dalton. Max, everyone.” Max. Charlie’s partner. My eyes zero in on the stains on his shirt and pants. That’s Charlie’s blood, I’m betting. I feel woozy. “Down he goes,” Ted says, catching me as my knees buckle.

Mom’s off the couch like lightning, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around my middle like a short, plump linebacker going in for a tackle.

“Come on, Dad. Stop her. This is madness.” “I’ve tried,” He follows his words with the same beleaguered sigh that he gives every time she does something like this. “It’s not like I want to hear about your sex life, either.” “I’m thirty-one! Nobody in this room needs to be talking about my sex life.”