Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Priscilla
I never thought I'd be the kind of woman who gets wet just hearing a man's voice.
But that's exactly what happens as I stand frozen in the hallway, listening to Woodrow talk on the phone.
His deep, rumbling tone carries through the cabin as he paces in his office, door slightly ajar.
I know I shouldn't eavesdrop, but I can't help it.
He's talking about me. About my father. About why those men came after me.
And with each cold, brutal word he speaks, I feel a strange mixture of fear and something else—something like relief that this dangerous man is on my side.
"I don't give a fuck what Marshall told you," Woodrow growls into the phone. "You tell Donovan that if he touches one hair on her head, I will personally ensure he spends the last moments of his life regretting it."
I press my hand over my mouth, muffling my gasp. Donovan. The name means nothing to me, but the menace in Woodrow's voice sends shivers down my spine.
"Three hundred thousand?" Woodrow's laugh is without humor.
"For what? Marshall's been bleeding him dry for years.
No, this isn't about money anymore. This is about power.
Control." A pause. "You know exactly what I'm capable of, Jensen.
I left that life behind, but I'll step right back into it if that's what it takes to protect her. "
My legs wobble beneath me. Three hundred thousand dollars? My father owes someone three hundred thousand dollars? The amount is staggering. Incomprehensible.
"I want a meeting. Just me and Donovan." Another pause. "I don't care if he's scared. He should be." Woodrow's voice drops even lower, deadly quiet. "Forty-eight hours. Then I start hunting."
I hear him end the call, followed by the sound of something—his phone, maybe—being slammed onto the desk. I should move, should retreat back to the bedroom before he catches me listening, but I'm rooted to the spot, my mind reeling.
The office door swings open fully, revealing Woodrow's imposing frame. His eyes narrow when he sees me standing there, obviously having heard everything.
"How much did you catch?" he asks, voice carefully neutral.
"Enough." My voice comes out small, shaky. "My father owes someone named Donovan three hundred thousand dollars? And this Donovan person is…what? Part of the mob?"
Woodrow sighs, running a hand through his short hair. "Come here."
I hesitate for just a moment before stepping forward, into his space. His arms wrap around me automatically, enveloping me in his warmth, his scent. I shouldn't find comfort in the embrace of my captor—or protector, or whatever he is—but I do. God help me, I do.
"Your father's been gambling with dirty money for years," he says, his chest rumbling against my cheek as he speaks.
"Cards, horses, anything he could bet on.
Donovan's not exactly mob, but close enough.
He runs most of the underground gambling in three states.
Your father kept borrowing, kept losing, kept making promises he couldn't keep. "
"And now they want to use me to get to him," I finish, the reality of my situation finally sinking in. "But I haven't spoken to him in six years. I don't even know where he is. I don’t think he would care enough if anyone threatened me.“
"They don't believe that. They think you're protecting him, or that he'll come running if they have you." His arms tighten around me protectively. "They're not completely wrong. Even a piece of shit like your father might surface if his daughter's life is in danger."
I pull back slightly, looking up at his face. "Did you know him? My father?"
Something flashes in Woodrow's eyes. "Not personally. But I know his type. I've dealt with plenty of men like him in my former line of work."
I don't press for details. I'm not sure I want to know exactly what Woodrow did before, what skills he has that make him so confident he can eliminate the threat against me. The way he talked on the phone—cold, brutal, matter-of-fact about violence—tells me enough.
"I feel so stupid," I confess, pressing my forehead against his chest. "All these years I've been careful, kept to myself, tried to build my own quiet life far away from him. And still, his mess finds me."
Woodrow's hand comes up, stroking my hair gently. The tenderness of the gesture, contrasted with the violence I just heard in his voice, makes my throat tighten with emotion.
"You're not stupid," he says firmly. "None of this is your fault."
"I know, but—" To my horror, tears spring to my eyes. The stress of the last twenty-four hours—the kidnapping attempt, Woodrow's rescue, losing my virginity, discovering his surveillance, learning about the danger I'm in—it all crashes over me at once. A sob escapes before I can stop it.
"Shh, little girl," Woodrow murmurs, his large hand cradling the back of my head. "I've got you. Nothing's going to hurt you."
I cry against his chest, soaking his shirt with my tears. He holds me through it, silent and strong, occasionally pressing his lips to the top of my head. When I finally quiet, hiccupping slightly, he tilts my chin up with one finger.
"Better?" he asks, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.
I nod, embarrassed by my breakdown.
"You need to relax," he says decisively. "Come with me."
He takes my hand, leading me to the bathroom off the master bedroom. It's larger than I realized last night, with a deep soaking tub in one corner. Woodrow turns on the taps, adjusting the temperature before adding something from a bottle that immediately creates a mountain of bubbles.
"You take baths?" I ask, the domestic image at odds with the dangerous man I've come to know.
His lips quirk up in a half-smile. "Even monsters need to soak sometimes. Especially after fieldwork."
Fieldwork. Such a benign term for what I suspect is violent, bloody work.
He turns to me, his hands going to the hem of my borrowed t-shirt. "Arms up," he commands softly.
I obey without thinking, letting him pull the shirt over my head. Standing naked before him should make me self-conscious—I've never been nude in front of anyone before him—but the reverent way he looks at my body makes me feel beautiful. Desired.
"Get in," he says, his voice rougher now, eyes darkening as they travel over my exposed skin.
The water is perfect, hot but not scalding.
I sink into the bubbles with a sigh, tension I didn't even realize I was carrying beginning to melt away.
Woodrow strips quickly, efficiently, his powerful body revealed inch by inch.
Even after everything we've done, the sight of him naked still takes my breath away.
Scars crisscross his torso, telling stories of violence and survival.
His cock is already half-hard, thickening under my gaze.
He steps into the tub behind me, his large body making the water rise dramatically. His legs bracket mine, his chest a warm wall against my back as he pulls me against him.
"Lean back," he murmurs into my ear, his hands already sliding up my rib cage. "Let Daddy take care of you."
I shouldn't like it when he calls himself that. Shouldn't melt into him at those words. But I do, relaxing against his chest as his hands begin to explore my body beneath the water.
"Such perfect tits for Daddy to suck," he growls appreciatively, cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden into tight peaks. "So responsive. So fucking beautiful."
I gasp as he pinches one nipple, a sharp pleasure-pain that shoots straight to my core. His other hand drifts lower, over my stomach, between my thighs.
"Spread your legs," he commands, and I comply instantly, parting my knees. "Good girl."
His fingers find my center, already slick and swollen with need. He groans in my ear. "Always so wet for me. Your body knows who it belongs to."
"Yes," I whisper, my hips lifting to meet his touch. "Yours."
"Mine," he confirms, slipping two thick fingers inside me. "This tight little pussy is all mine."
I moan, my head falling back against his shoulder as he works his fingers in and out of me. His thumb finds my clit, circling it with just the right pressure. How does he already know my body so well? How does he play it so expertly when no one—not even me—has ever made me feel this way before?
"I love the sounds you make," he says, his voice a rumble against my back. "So sweet. So honest. Can't hide how much you love Daddy's touch."
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for. More. Everything. Him.
He withdraws his fingers, leaving me empty and aching, only to lift me slightly, positioning me over his thick length. "Is this what you want, little girl? Daddy's cock filling you up?"
"Yes," I breathe, feeling the blunt head pressing against my entrance. "Please, Woodrow."
"What do you call me?" he growls, holding me poised above him, denying me what we both want.
"Daddy," I correct myself, my cheeks burning with shame and arousal. "Please, Daddy."
He rewards me by lowering me slowly onto his cock, filling me inch by delicious inch. The position is new, my back to his chest, sitting in his lap. It lets him go impossibly deep, touching places inside me I didn't know existed.
"So perfect," he murmurs against my neck, hands gripping my hips, guiding my movements. "So tight around my cock. Like you were made for me."
Water sloshes around us as he helps me rise and fall on his length, setting a slow, steady rhythm. It's different from the frantic coupling on the counter or the possessive claiming in the woods. This is deliberate, intimate, almost worshipful.
"Going to fill you up," he promises, one hand sliding around to rub my clit as I ride him. "Going to pump you so full of my cum that it takes root. Put my baby in you."
The words should terrify me. I'm twenty-four, unmarried, barely know this man. But in this moment, with his cock stretching me perfectly, his hands everywhere, his voice in my ear—it sounds like the most natural thing in the world.
"Yes," I moan, my movements becoming more urgent as pleasure builds within me. "Please, Daddy. Want to feel you come inside me."
He groans, the sound echoing off the bathroom tiles. "Such a good girl. Taking Daddy's cock so well. Going to make you come first, then fill you up with my seed."
His fingers work my clit faster, his thrusts from below becoming more forceful. I'm close, so close, teetering on the edge of something monumental.
"Come for me, little girl," he commands, his voice strained with his own approaching climax. "Let me feel that sweet pussy squeezing my cock."
His words push me over the edge. I come with a cry that bounces off the bathroom walls, my body convulsing around him, pleasure radiating outward in waves. He holds me tight against him, grinding up into me as my orgasm pulses around his length.
"Fuck," he growls, and then he's coming too, his cock pulsing inside me, filling me with his hot release. "Taking my seed so well. So perfect. Mine."
We stay joined together as our breathing slows, the water cooling around us. His arms wrap around me possessively, one hand splayed across my lower belly as if he can already feel his child growing there.
"You've ruined me," I whisper into the steam-filled air, not even sure if I mean for him to hear.
But he does. His arms tighten around me, his lips pressing against the mark he left on my neck. "Good," he murmurs. "Because I'm never letting you go. No matter what happens, you're mine now. Forever."
And God help me, despite everything—the danger, his obsession, the frightening intensity of what's happening between us—I believe him. Want him to be right.
What has he done to me? What have I become in the space of a day?
And why does it feel like I'm finally where I belong?