Chapter 4
Four
D elaney
He's outside splitting logs like they insulted his mother.
Each swing of the axe lands with a satisfying thud that rattles the floorboards under my bare feet. I can feel it in my teeth, and in my core where he hasn't even touched me yet—but somehow, my body already recognizes him.
Jack Boone is six and a half feet of raw, mountain-wild dominance. Twenty years my senior. My father's best friend, who probably remembers me in pigtails from pictures. The kind of man whose hands could span my waist entirely, who could break me or save me with equal ease. The kind of man you don't walk away from.
The kind you run from—if you're smart.
But I'm curled on the edge of his couch, barefoot, wrapped in one of his flannels that smells like him—like the man who shouldn't want me but who looked at me earlier with hunger that made me forget he's old enough to have raised me. I'm pretending I'm not watching the way his back flexes, how sweat rolls down the line of his spine. How each movement broadcasts strength that makes something primitive in me want to call him names I've never called anyone before.
I’m so freakin’ tired I could fall asleep sitting up, but instead, I'm eyeing his laptop sitting on the coffee table between us, its silver edge gleaming in the firelight. It’s modern sleekness a contrast to the sort of homestead primitiveness that seems to embrace the rest of the space.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I slide the computer onto my lap and open it like a trespasser.
His password is taped to the bottom—a string of numbers and letters I type in with guilty fingers. The desktop appears, sparse and organized like everything else in his life.
My stomach is knotting as I open the browser, type in my Instagram login. My fingers shake.
I haven't posted since the funeral. Haven't touched socials since the last fight I had with my ex when he smashed my phone, and I was too scared to go back to my little rented room above the donut shop on the outskirts of Flint for longer than the few minutes it took to grab a few of my favorite rocks, a change of clothes and the Hello, Kitty make-up bag that contained three hundred dollars and my favorite mascara and lip gloss.
I do miss the free donuts they’d give me every afternoon when they closed up, and waking to the smell of frying sweet dough, but the second I log in to my IG, those sweet memories fade.
DMs. Notifications. Screenshots.
Him.
My ex, the reason I came here in the first place. The reason I ran.
I stare at the messages on the screen, sourness turning in my stomach.
David—the young medical intern with dimples, the one who brought hot chocolate during Dad’s overnight stays. He seemed sweet at first. Familiar. He won me over enough to share a few meals in the hospital cafeteria.
Then came the dinner invitation, a week after Dad passed. I was searching for something, and he felt like a connection to what I'd just lost.
Calm and comforting in scrubs one moment, eyes cold and distant the next. The hospital staff adored him, but it didn’t take long for the possessiveness to show.
The putt-putt dates and movie nights squeezed into his busy schedule gave way to: ‘ Where are you?’ and ‘ My patience isn’t infinite.’
It wasn’t just the Jekyll-and-Hyde routine or the sharp, cutting words— "You’re lucky I show any interest. I might be just an intern now, but in a few years, I’ll be head of oncology. And what will you have? Nothing and no one."
Then worse. "I’ll find you wherever you go."
And the bruises. His “gentle” touch turning hard in an instant. Finger-shaped marks on my wrists I learned to hide under bracelets and long sleeves.
His name is everywhere on my screen. Messages. Voice memos I'd saved—evidence of his rage, his threats, the side of himself he never showed at the hospital. Evidence that could end his medical career if anyone else heard them. The real reason he's desperate to find me. I changed my passwords before I left, locked him out of the accounts he once controlled. His perfect future depends on making sure I never share what I know.
A man who could charm an entire hospital but couldn't handle being told "not yet” or God forbid, “no”. A man whose rage I still feel crawling on my skin even here, miles away, on a mountain where he can't reach me.
I snap the laptop shut and return it to the coffee table, drawing my knees to my chest as I hear the cabin door open. Mountain air rushes in, carrying Jack’s scent—cedar, sweat, man.
He enters, shirt abandoned somewhere, skin glistening, chest heaving. His gaze lands on me first thing, sharper than it should be for someone who's been mindlessly chopping wood.
"You okay?" His voice is rough gravel over velvet. "You don’t look right."
I shake my head, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "Just tired."
He studies me, thick brows drawing tight, not believing me but not pushing. Then he nods, that silent acknowledgment feeling more intimate than words. I watch as he moves to the kitchen sink, his shoulders nearly spanning the width of the doorframe. The cabinet handles hit him at mid-thigh—they'd reach my hip bone. When he turns on the faucet, his hand engulfs the entire fixture.
There's something almost comical about watching him navigate a space clearly built for normal-sized humans—except there's nothing funny about the way my body responds to all that excess. In New York, he'd count as a fire hazard in any apartment under 1,000 square feet.
He turns, leaning against the counter, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve. One of his precious Rubik's cubes, but infinitely more complex.
"Hungry?" he asks, drying his hands methodically. His eyes narrow when I don’t respond. "What and when did you eat last?"
I blink, a little surprised by the direct question. "I... yesterday, I think? I had a granola bar on the bus."
"A granola bar." His tone makes it clear that doesn't count as food. "And before that?"
"Why does it matter?" I extend my legs, then draw them up again under the flannel, clasping my hands around my knees, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with clothing.
He crosses the space between us in three long strides, drops to one knee beside the couch. Even kneeling, he's nearly at eye level.
" Because, that’s why. You’re on my mountain, remember? My mountain, my way." His voice drops lower, something primal threading through it. "And that means I decide when you eat, how much you eat, and what you eat."
My mouth goes dry. "I'm perfectly capable of—"
"I didn't ask if you were capable." His hand comes up, thumb brushing my bottom lip with surprising gentleness. "I'm telling you how things work here. You eat regular meals. You sleep proper hours. You tell me when something's wrong. That's the price of my protection."
Something hot and unfamiliar coils in my belly. This should feel controlling. Should remind me of David. Instead, it feels like safety with teeth.
"Fine," I whisper, unwilling to give him anymore because this is still strange. And honestly, he is a stranger.
"Okay, glad we got that settled. Now, are you feeling better?" His voice is gravel and smoke.
"Yes." The room is warming with him so close. "Thank you. For everything."
He grunts but doesn’t move. Those eyes—steel blue rimmed with a darker, more dangerous shade like the ocean under the moon—catch the light coming through the window. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I wiggle nervously, running my hands down my flannel-covered calves, his eyes following the movements, and something flashes across his rough features, his jaw muscles moving under the black covering of his beard.
"Those bruises on your wrists. They're not from the river."
My breath catches. I thought the flannel sleeves were long enough...
"No," I admit, more heat climbing up my spine and exploding on my face.
"Name," he demands.
"It doesn't matter anymore. I'm here now."
"Name." Not a request. A command.
I swallow, an instant debate over what to reveal decided when my lips move before my brain can engage. "David. David Mercer."
Jack's breathing slows, a muscle ticking beneath the skin below his left eye. He stands, one hand sliding down his mouth, squeezing its way down his beard before he clears his throat. “That won’t ever happen again.”
The certainty in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it unravels something tight inside my chest. There’s ten seconds of silence that feels like a spring being wound too tight. His nostrils flare, teeth biting into his lower lip as a low rumble grows in his chest.
The air is primed, like runners waiting for the starting gun to go off. Tension mounts in my belly, pressure building in my ears.
Something is about to happen. I wiggle on the sofa cushion, lowering my legs from their flannel prison, crisscrossing them, then following where his eyes are pinned on my chest.
Oh shit.
“Oh, God. Wardrobe malfunction…” A flush creeps like wildfire up my neck as I adjust the popped buttons on his shirt that are giving him full view of my right boob and tightened pink nipple through the brown and black plaid flannel.
"I need to... do... something," he says, abruptly leaving me wide-eyed as he turns and stomps toward a hallway that leads out of the kitchen and toward a closed door. "In the workshop. You rest. I’ll be back."
Did my boob flash send him running? Was it embarrassment or excitement? The recognition sends a thrill through me I can't quite name. I feel powerful, one little nip slip, and I’ve turned the grumpy mountain man on his head.
“Do whatcha gotta do,” I call after him, but he's gone, the door shutting firmly somewhere down the hall as I squeeze those special inside muscles and grit my teeth, which does nothing to stem the warm wetness seeping into his boxers.
The idea that my throbbing girly bits are touching the same cloth where his balls rest is not helping things at all.
I wonder if they have the same size proportions as the rest of him?
God, if so they would be the size of bull balls. I’ve seen bull balls once at the county fair. Why is that the sudden image that pushes me to the edge of an orgasm as visions of them swinging down low between Jack’s legs turn me on in a way I’ve never been before.
I fall back on the cushioned arm of the sofa, pulling a scratchy plaid blanket from the back over me, but I can’t fall asleep. No way.
After twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, counting the knots in the wooden beams, telling myself my father’s best friend is not a turn on, oh no, definitely not… and trying to get that image of the size of his, ahem , out of my head—I can't take it anymore. The silence. The waiting. The not knowing what comes next.
I slip off the couch, padding barefoot across the cabin. The smooth, varnished wooden floor is cool beneath my feet. Everything here is so solid. The house, the floor, the sound…
Jack.
After three years of unknowns and barely hanging on, it feels both confining and like a long-awaited exhale.
I work my way down the hall to where he disappeared, but hesitate at the door at the end, putting my ear against the smooth wood and hearing nothing. Then I turn the handle, ninja style, my inner toddler unable to keep her curiosity from more than likely killing the cat. Or the possum, which around here is far more likely.
I’m hit with the warm pleasant scent of fresh wood shavings. The workshop is a cathedral of wood and metal. Tools hanging in perfect order. Projects in various stages of completion. There’s the low sound of Fleetwood Mac playing…Stevie Nicks belting out ‘Edge of Seventeen’…
And there's Jack.
Not working. Not building.
Standing.
His back is to me, one hand braced against the workbench, the other—
Oh.
Oh.
He's stroking himself. Hard, fast, desperate. His bare shoulders bunch and twitch with each movement, muscles shifting beneath his skin.
I should leave. I should turn around. I should pretend I never saw this.
Instead, my stupid brain shuts down and I whisper, " Jack ."
He freezes. His entire body goes rigid. Slowly, he turns his head, catches me watching from the doorway. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide, expression caught between shame and defiance.
"You shouldn't be here." His voice is wrecked, strained.
I step forward, barely knowing myself as fascination and lust tangle my brain circuitry. "I've never..." I swallow, then try again. "I mean, I've never seen…like this, before.” I babble unintelligibly, half a beat away from sounding like Oliver Twist...
Please, Sir, may I have some more?
His brow furrows. "Like what?"
"That.” I gesture vaguely toward where his hand looks like it’s about to pull his dick off.
Something shifts in his expression—disbelief, wonder, a flash of that primal possession that makes my knees weak.
"This?” He laughs, turning his body so I get a full view and all those images of the bull come rushing back. He adds a snort, low and dangerous, only embellishing my stupid bull metaphor. "Baby girl, this is about need . You should go back inside. This is a big boy problem and not for a little girl to watch."
I should run. But my feet have ideas of their own as they slide forward on the sawdust.
"Show me," I whisper. "I want to see."
His nostrils flare. His chest expands on a sharp inhale. "Oh, God, Delaney...don’t do this."
"I mean, no one will know. It’s not like you’ll be touching me." Another step. “Please?".
That breaks him. I see it happen—the last thread of restraint snapping behind his eyes.
"Jesus, I’m going to regret this. Come here." He doesn't move from the workbench. He makes me come to him, but now my traitorous feet don’t want to move. Finally, my thighs drive my feet forward, the flesh rubbing on the boxers as I close the gap. "Fucking brat. I can already tell you’re going to enjoy wrapping me around your fingers."
With a tiny smirk, I’m drawn to him like he's gravity itself. Shuffling through the sawdust like a toddler toward the cookie jar. I finally stop when barely a breath separates us.
"You want to watch?" His voice drops lower, rougher. "Then watch. Let’s just hope your father isn’t watching from heaven." He looks up at the ceiling, mumbling something about, ‘I’m sorry brother.’
He begins again, hand on his sex, stroking slow and deliberate now. Meant for display. Meant to teach.
"This is what you do to me," he growls. "Every fucking second since I pulled you from that river. Every time you look at me with those angel eyes. My fucking dick hurts. Every time you breathe. Then? Then? " He grits his teeth, finishing with a nod to my chest, “I’ve never been so fucking turned on by a nipple in my life. So fucking innocent, and so fucking not innocent enough.”
Heat pools between my thighs. I'm mesmerized by the movement of his hand, the thickness of him, the raw need etched into every line of his face.
"I shouldn't want this," I whisper, somehow emboldened by the way he said he’s never been so turned on his life. "I barely know you. You’re my dad’s friend."
"But you do know me." Not a question. "I can smell it on you."
My cheeks burn. My skin feels too tight. Too hot. The air between us seems to crackle with something primitive and unnameable, making it hard to breathe, hard to think beyond the rhythm of his hand and the answering pulse between my thighs.
The sound is mesmerizing. Soft and sharp. Fast and yet nuanced. He knows himself and it’s fucking hot.
Up and down, up and down, I watch until my eyes cross, then he does this little stall, pressing the tips of his four fingers around half-way up on the bottom side, switching from long, brutal pumps to short, staccato almost vibration type movements and oh shit, there’s a drop of clear liquid seeping out of the tip and I start to salivate.
Like, drool is pooling under my tongue.
"I never..." I swallow down the spit, wrapping my fingers around the base of my throat, ripping my eyes from the hypnotic movement of his hands on the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. "I've never felt like this before."
Everything below my waist comes alive, twisting and breathing and grunting like a beast awakened from a thousand-year hibernation.
His eyes darken, pupils expanding until they nearly swallow the color. "Felt like what?" His voice drops lower, rough velvet dragging across my senses. "Let me guess,” he amends as his tongue takes a slow trek across his upper teeth, stalling the movement of his hand before brutally squeezing the meat at the base where it’s jutting out from the opening in his jeans, turning the tip an angry purple. "You’re squeezing those pretty little thighs together trying to hold something back, but it only makes it worse. Heat is rushing around inside you—”
"Like I'm burning," I cut him off, the confession slipping out before I can censor it. "Like I need something I can't name. Like I’ve never been so hungry for something, but it’s deeper, needy. Desperate."
The sound he makes is almost pained. "I can name it." His strokes slow and deliberate now, showing off as I wet my lips. “God help me,” conflict twists the lines of his face before he blurts out, “you shouldn’t have come in here.”
I take a half-step closer without meaning to. "But... my dad said, if you need anything, Jack Boone will take care of you. And I need to learn. I want you to teach.”
"Holy shit, little girl." His gaze is molten, pinning me in place. “You know I’m old enough to be your fucking father.”
Somehow that only makes it hotter and all I can do is shrug, watching as his cheat heaves. The dark hair curls into little tufts which contrasts with the hard lines of the twitching muscles underneath.
"Sit your ass down. There. Is my best friend’s daughter being a cock teasing little brat, or was that really just a little oopsie having your tit winking at me from under my own god-damn shirt in there?" He’s making demands, throwing around orders, and instead of doing the sensible thing and bolting for the door, I move to the wooden chair next to me and plop down as instructed, the boxers sticking to my sex between my legs. “Now, you’re going to sit there and trust me, aren’t you? I’m not going to touch you, and you’re sure as shit not going to touch me, got it?”
His voice takes on a harder edge, frustration and a seductive sort of forced calm coming over him.
The word 'trust' should scare me after David. Should make me retreat. Instead, it settles between my legs like a sex toy and I manage a nod as he grabs the back of a matching unfinished wooden chair and swings it into place in front of me, dropping into a wide manspread so we are nearly knee to knee.
I consider the craziness of this situation for a moment. I’ve been here, what? A day? Probably not even quite that. I’m alone in a cabin with no one for miles and maybe this man isn’t who my father thought he was. I mean, clearly, he’s a recluse. How much could my father know about him?
He never came around in the eighteen years I’ve been alive. I remember my dad saying he was going to visit Jack a couple times, but other than that, I don’t know how much contact they had after I was born.
He could be like the Deliverance guys. Am I three minutes away from being collared and shoved in a cage with a piggly wiggly butt plug as my new best friend?
And why does that turn me on so much?
Jesus, girl, get a grip!
“You need to answer me when I ask you a question.” Jack’s voice takes on a fatherly sternness as he snaps his tongue in his cheek, a tick twitching under his eye as he continues slowly, tortuously stroking himself, turning any survival fear I try to concoct into blissful wet eagerness down low.
“Yes,” I breathe, chewing on the inside of my lip. “I trust you. I’m going to do as you tell me.”
He nods, and that tiny look of approval in his eyes has my insides turning to girl goo.
“That’s where everything starts. The entire foundation is built on trust.” He slow blinks twice as I curl my toes, sawdust squeezing between them. His dark lashes are longer than should be allowed on a man.
“I trusted my father. He’s the one that sent me to you. So, you’re sort of my new father.”
“Don’t say that. I’m nothing like your father. He was a good man, he would never do this.” He chokes on the words but his hand moves faster, telling me something he won’t.
I don’t know what comes over me, but the effect I’m having on him is intoxicating. I bite my lip, keep eye contact, wiggle and swing my feet like an impatient child. “Okay, Daddy,” I say in my most obedient voice.
He nearly chokes. “What the fuck did you just say?”
I’ve been so alone and so sad for so long, maybe I just want to be lost in this for now. Maybe I just want to feel good and Jack is doing that. So, I’ll let all the reasons this is wrong come back to bite me tomorrow, because right now, I want to see this man come apart because of me.
I shrug. “If you’re not a father, how about a Daddy? Because, Daddies do things fathers can’t, or won’t...”
Jesus, I’m a harlot all of a sudden. Steam is probably shooting out of my ears right now as I force myself to look up, barely meeting his eyes.
His hand is whipping up and down in a blur. “Put your fucking hand down in those boxers.” His voice is a rough sort of chug now, a voice you don’t ignore. “I’d have you take them off so I could see, but I don’t trust my fucking self if you do that.”
The idea of David touching me nearly made me lose my lunch. But what Jack is stroking inside me with just his eyes and the view of his giant fingers wrapped around that bull dick?
He could order me onto all fours and tell me to squeal like a pig right now, and I’m pretty sure I’d add on an oink just to make him smile.
"We’re doing this together, and you’re way behind, little girl," he breaks the silence and my core clenches. He adds a little violent sort of hiss at the end that makes my nipples contract. He adjusts his position, reaching down under his hard-on into the crotch of his jeans with his other hand, doing this little butt lift on a grunt, pulling something out with a crazy mountain man hip wiggle that lowers his pants down his hips a few inches, then, I think I black out.
The world swirls, consciousness fleeting as I take in the size of the balls he’s just pulled out of his pants to rest in a heap on the wooden chair.
"Get it in there," he orders as I swallow hard, skimming my fingers under the elastic of the boxers, my skin breaking into a heated sweat as I slip my hand downward, the little bit of hair I leave when I shave brushing my fingertips first as I draw a sharp breath, watching him palm the swollen head, spreading the liquid seeping out down to the ridge then leaning forward, releasing himself, his arm outstretched, hand open palm up.
“Spit.” He grunts as my fingers meet my own warmth, sending a jolt through me as I try to piece together what he wants. “Spit on my hand. I’m not gonna touch you, and you’re not touching me, but I want part of you touching me. Get dirty, little girl. I know your mouth is watering for me. You’re drooling watching Daddy lose his mind because of you, so don’t swallow it, there’ll be plenty of reasons for you to swallow very soon, this just isn’t one of them.”
He flicks his fingers in a ‘hurry up’ sort of motion and I hesitate, then obey, gathering the drowning spit in my mouth, tipping my head down and God forgive me, I spit into my dead father’s best friend’s hand so he can beat off in front of me using my saliva.
I’m going to hell. But first, I’m pretty sure this man is going to show me heaven.
“Good girl. That’s what I needed.” He spreads the slick clear liquid on his shaft, the veins snaking around like vipers ready to strike as he continues his movements, nodding to where my hand is frozen between the fabric of the boxers and my own shameful wetness. “Now, put your hand out here.”
“Wha—” I stop breathing. “What?”
I clear my throat like I don’t understand, but his scowl tells me he isn’t buying my innocent confusion act.
“Put your fucking hand out here. I can’t eat out that pretty cunt of yours right now, but my mouth is still going to be on it. Palm up princess, take your Daddy’s spit and get to work on that teasing little cherries jubilee you’re torturing me with.”
My hand is shaking as I raise it, but he doesn’t break his word, doesn’t touch me. Instead, he leans over and lets a long shimmering wad of spit fall from his lips, landing wet and warm in my palm before he nods to where my other hand is stone still down in the boxers.
“Get it down in there. I want my spit on that clit and then I want you to get that hand moving.”
This can’t be happening. This man’s mouth, Jesus, what’s wrong with me that it’s such a dang turn on to have him spit in my hand then order me to masturbate with it?
All I can do is swallow, cup his spit in my palm with loosely clenched fingers and nearly come just from the contact of his slick, still-warm saliva on my weeping, desperate sex.
“Good girl. Now, watch my hand, move your fingers round and round on that hard little spot the way I move mine up and down. It’s a dance, baby, same music, different steps.”
I apply pressure onto the slick spit where I'm already aching. A small eep sound escapes me—need, sure, and surprise at how good even this feels.
"That's it, baby girl." His voice drops an octave, the tempo of his breathing changing. Some of the hardness in his face shifts to something that looks almost like pride. "Show me you feel it too."
My hips move without permission, rocking against my palm as I pull my other hand out, bracing the heel of my palm on the edge of the chair, pushing myself upward, tensing and hitting that spot in a circular motion. His rhythm matches mine, like we're already connected.
The nub moves over the hard bone underneath, and each time it sort of slips to the side, I nearly come apart. I press harder, harder, until my vision starts to blur, holding my eyes open only because I get to see him.
"I shouldn't be doing this," I whisper, but I don't stop. Can't stop.
"But you are." His gaze burns into me. "Because you know who you belong to now."
"Jack—"
"No." His free hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin in a betrayal of his promise not to touch me. My whole body ignites at the contact. "Say it right."
The word rises from somewhere deep, primal, buried, erupting out of me like magma from my core. "Daddy."
His pupils dilate until his eyes are nearly black. A sound tears from his throat—half growl, half groan.
"Again," he demands.
" Daddy ," I stutter, the pleasure starting to pulse, making words hard to form. " Please ."
That breaks him, I see it. A shift, a grimace, a hardening of every muscle in his chest.
His strokes become harder, faster, more desperate. His breathing is ragged. I mirror him, pressing harder, moving faster against my own hand.
"Look at me," he commands on a deep, breathy pant. "Don't you dare look away."
I don't. I can't. Our gazes lock as tension builds in me, in him, between us like something living.
"You're safe with me," he growls, the words strained. "Daddy won’t hurt you, ever."
"I know, Daddy." And I do. Somehow, I do.
"Mine," he says, the word a prayer and a promise. “My good girl. My best girl.”
He comes with a sound that's barely human, eyes never leaving mine, his release spurting hot across his fist, his stomach. He roars through bared teeth.
The sight of it—of him completely undone because of me—pushes me over. My orgasm crashes through me, unexpected and overwhelming, wringing a cry from my lips that sounds like his name.
Like "Daddy."
I slap my thighs together, doubling over as the spasms take hold, my other hand gripping the chair to keep me from going over face first onto the floor between his boots.
That floaty feeling is back as I force myself upright, riding out the last remnants of the orgasm, mouth wide, shoulders tight, sounds tearing from my throat like an animal.
When it's over, when we're both panting and staring at each other in stunned silence, his eyes soften and there’s a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.
“You make me do things I shouldn’t,” he growls, reaching for a box of tissues, popping a few from the top and cleaning himself as I draw my fingers from my own messy heat.
My fingers glisten in the bright shop lights and my cheeks warm at the sudden realization this could have been just a moment of bad judgment for Jack. A lonely man in the mountains with a girl barely dressed, and he lost control.
Who could blame him? How long has he lived out here like this, with no one?
Reaching for the tissues for myself, my fingers quiver and my heart lodges in my throat. Jack drops his tissues in a bucket next to the chair, his hand darting to my wrist and locking around it like a vice.
His grip is solid as a new rush of heat flows through me.
"I’m touching you now, I can’t bear to watch all that magic wasted on a fucking Kleenex,” he snarls. “I was supposed to protect you," he murmurs, leaning forward, his dick still thick and standing tall as he brings my fingers to his lips. "Not corrupt you."
I press my forehead to the hard muscle of his shoulder, breathing him in as smooth, wet warmth engulfs my fingers. “You can protect and corrupt me. They aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”
His chest rumbles with a sound that might be a laugh. Or might be a groan. He sucks and licks, his tongue moving up and down my middle finger, sending a delicious new wave of pleasure through me.
Desperate moans catch in my throat as he finishes cleaning my digits, then flattens my hand on his chest where the solid, low thump thump of his heart brings me back down to earth.
"Next time," he says, voice dark with promise, "I'll touch you everywhere. There’s not an inch of you that will be off limits."
Next time.
I should be frightened. Instead, I melt against him, wrapping my arms around his waist.
"I'm safe with you," I whisper, trying to convince myself it’s true. “Daddy will protect me.”
His thumb runs over the bumps in my spine, comes to rest on the small of my back.
"From everything," he vows. "Everything except me."