Chapter 4
four
. . .
Amanda
I wake up sore in places I've never felt before, wrapped in arms that could crush me but instead cradle me like I'm made of glass.
Ryker's massive body curls protectively around mine, one thick thigh thrown over my legs, his breath warm against my neck.
I should feel trapped. Should feel smothered.
Instead, I feel…safe. Cherished. Like something precious finally home.
The evidence of last night is sticky between my thighs—a virgin no longer.
My body throbs with a pleasant ache that reminds me with every shift that I belong to someone now. That I'm his.
We never made it to the bedroom. After the first time on the couch, he carried me to the shower, washed me with reverent hands, then took me again against the tile wall.
Then once more on the living room floor, slower, his massive body covering mine completely.
Three times, and each time I called him "Daddy" when I came.
The word had slipped out unbidden the first time (I have no idea why), but his reaction—that primal growl, the way his eyes darkened to midnight—made me bold enough to say it again. And again.
"You're awake." His voice rumbles against my back, vibrating through my bones. Not a question.
I turn in his arms to face him, suddenly shy in the morning light. Last night feels like a fever dream—the kind of wild, abandoned thing that happens in darkness. But here he is, real and solid. Battle-scarred and beautiful.
"Hi," I whisper, unable to find better words.
His gray eyes soften as he studies my face. One calloused hand comes up to brush hair from my cheek, so gentle it makes my chest ache.
"Sore?" he asks, a hint of masculine pride in his voice.
I nod, feeling heat rush to my face. "Good sore."
His answering smile is predatory. Satisfied. "Hungry, little girl?"
The endearment makes my stomach flutter. It should sound condescending, but from him, it feels like worship.
"Starving," I admit.
He kisses me once, hard and possessive, then rises from the couch. I can't help but stare at his naked form—all rippling muscle and intricate tattoos, scars mapping old battles across his skin. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, and just looking at it makes me clench with remembered fullness.
He catches me staring. “Eyes up here, princess, or you’re going to start something you can’t stop, and I need to feed you,“ he tease. But he makes no move to cover himself. If anything, he seems to expand under my gaze, shoulders broadening.
I blush and wrap myself tighter in the throw blanket.
He scoops me up, blanket and all, and carries me to the kitchen. Sets me gently on a counter stool.
"Stay," he commands, voice dropping to that register that makes me instantly wet. "I'm going to feed you."
I watch, mesmerized, as this hulking warrior moves around my tiny kitchen with surprising efficiency.
He finds eggs, bread, butter, moving with purpose.
His back muscles flex as he reaches for a pan.
The domesticity of it all—this dangerous man making me breakfast after claiming my virginity—makes my heart squeeze painfully in my chest.
"How do you know how to cook?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Lived alone since I was seventeen," he replies without turning. "Learn or starve."
There's a story there, but I don't push. We have time for stories. The thought hits me suddenly—we have time. This isn't just one night. The realization makes me dizzy with possibility.
Soon, he places a plate in front of me—perfect eggs, buttery toast. But instead of sitting across from me, he stays standing, picks up a piece of toast, and holds it to my lips.
"Eat," he says softly. "Need to keep your strength up."
Something about being fed from his hands makes me feel impossibly small and cherished. I take a bite, and his eyes darken as they fix on my mouth. Each bite he feeds me becomes an act of intimacy, his fingers occasionally brushing my lips.
"So sweet," he murmurs, thumb wiping a crumb from the corner of my mouth. "Everything about you is perfect."
The praise washes over me like warm honey, making me squirm in my seat. No one has ever looked at me the way Ryker does—like I'm simultaneously precious and edible.
"I've never felt like this," I confess, looking down at my hands. "You make me feel..."
"How do I make you feel, princess?" he prompts, tilting my chin up with one finger.
"Safe," I whisper. Then, bolder: "Protected. Like nothing bad can touch me when you're here." I swallow hard, gathering courage. "I love how…how possessive you are. How you just took control last night but still let me know I had a choice.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He moves closer, caging me against the counter, his hands gripping the edge on either side of my hips.
"Say that again," he growls.
"I love how possessive you are," I repeat, my voice stronger. "How protective. How you make me feel…”
In one fluid movement, he lifts me and deposits me on the kitchen table, scattering the breakfast dishes. The blanket falls away, leaving me naked and exposed. But I don't feel vulnerable—I feel powerful. His eyes devour me, hungry and wild.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he rumbles, spreading my thighs with his broad hands. "Saying shit like that. Looking at me with those innocent eyes." He drops to his knees, bringing his face level with my center. “Crazy about you. Say the word and I’d burn the world down for you.”
His mouth closes over me without warning, his tongue finding my clit with unerring accuracy. I cry out, back arching off the table. He devours me like a starving man, big hands holding my thighs apart as I try to squirm away from the intensity.
"Ryker!" I gasp, my hands clutching at his short hair.
He looks up, his chin glistening with my arousal. "No. What do you call me when you come?"
Heat rushes to my face, but the word falls from my lips naturally: "Daddy."
A feral sound rumbles from his chest. He rises, positioning himself between my thighs, the head of his cock nudging my entrance.
"Again," he demands, pushing just slightly inside.
"Daddy," I whimper, lifting my hips to take more of him.
He slides in with one powerful thrust, filling me completely. The soreness from last night flares briefly, then melts into pleasure so intense tears spring to my eyes.
"That's right," he growls, starting a punishing rhythm. "This sweet pussy belongs to Daddy now."
His strokes are deeper, rougher than last night—confident now that my body can take him. One hand grips my hip, the other splayed across my lower belly, pressing down slightly to feel himself moving inside me.
"You feel that?" he grunts, applying more pressure. "Feel how deep I am? Gonna breed you full, little girl. Fill this virgin pussy with my babies."
The filthy words should shock me. Should scare me. Instead, they wind the tension tighter, pushing me toward the edge.
"Yes," I pant, meeting his thrusts. "Please, Daddy. Make me yours."
He growls, leaning down to capture one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to mark. "Already mine. Been mine since I first saw you." His rhythm becomes relentless. "Come for Daddy, let me breed you full."
The command triggers something primal in me. My orgasm crashes through me without warning, tearing a scream from my throat. My body clamps down on him, milking him, begging for his release.
"Fuck!" he roars, driving in to the hilt. I feel him pulsing inside me, hot and deep, marking me from within.
He collapses over me, careful to brace his weight on his forearms. Our breaths mingle, bodies slick with sweat. Slowly, he lifts his head to look at me with wonder.
"You're fucking perfect," he murmurs, brushing tears I didn't know I'd shed from my cheeks. "My perfect little girl."
In this moment, stretched out beneath him on my kitchen table, filled with him in every way possible, I know I'm exactly where I belong. Three years of hiding, of making myself small and invisible, and somehow I've found safety in the arms of the most dangerous man I've ever met.
"Yours," I whisper, and it feels like coming home.