3. Dusty
DUSTY
The warm spray cascades over us, his large hands so careful as they cup and knead, drawing milk from my sensitive breasts in steady streams that make my knees weak. Nobody's ever touched me like this—with patience, with hunger, with something that feels almost like worship.
My body buzzes with electricity, every nerve ending alive in ways I never imagined possible.
This has to lead to sex, right? My heart hammers against my ribs as anticipation coils low in my belly.
I've never wanted anyone before—never met a man who made me feel safe enough to even consider it.
But Damian? God, he's everything. Strong, commanding, gentle when it matters.
If I'm going to lose my virginity, it should be with someone who makes me feel this way, someone who looks at me like I'm precious instead of disposable.
The water shuts off with a decisive click. He reaches for a towel, wrapping it around my trembling frame before securing one low on his hips. My eyes trace the path of water droplets sliding down the defined planes of his chest, following the trail to where the towel barely clings.
"Now then, little girl." His voice drops to that authoritative register that makes something flutter deep inside me. "We need to discuss your punishment."
Wait. What?
My gaze snaps to his face. Those slate-gray eyes hold firm, steady, brooking no argument.
"Good girls don't steal from their daddy." He tucks a wet strand of honey-blonde hair behind my ear. "And you need to learn that lesson properly."
Heat floods my cheeks. Part embarrassment, part something else entirely—something that makes my pulse quicken for completely different reasons. He's not going to just take me to bed. He's going to make me earn it, make me understand the rules of whatever this is between us.
"I—" My teeth catch my lower lip, worrying the soft flesh. "I consent."
The words come out barely above a whisper, but they're sure.
Certain. Because despite every survival instinct screaming that I should run, that powerful men are dangerous, that this whole situation is insane—I trust him.
This stranger who caught me stealing, who didn't call the cops, who held me with reverence instead of rage.
His expression shifts, approval warming those cold gray depths.
"Good girl."
He guides me from the bathroom, his hand firm at the small of my back. The bedroom looms before us—all dark wood and masculine elegance—and the massive four-poster bed dominates the space like a throne. My stomach flips.
"On the bed, Dusty. Face down."
I climb onto the mattress, the cool silk sheets sliding against my damp skin. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it. He produces lengths of soft rope from somewhere, and methodical hands secure my wrists to the bedposts, then my ankles, spreading me wide and vulnerable.
The position exposes everything. Heat crawls up my neck as air kisses places no one's ever seen before. I test the bonds—they hold firm but don't bite into my flesh.
"Comfortable?"
"Y-yes."
"Good." His footsteps retreat toward what sounds like a closet. A drawer opens. Closes.
When he returns, leather whispers against his palm—a steady, rhythmic tap that makes my pulse spike. I crane my neck, catching a glimpse of the whip in his hand. It's sleek, purposeful, terrifying and thrilling all at once.
"Twenty lashes." His free hand traces down my spine, raising goosebumps in its wake. "Count each one. If you lose count, we start over."
Oh God.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Daddy."
The word slips out unbidden again, natural as breathing. His sharp inhale tells me he felt it as deeply as I did.
The first strike comes without warning—a line of fire across my backside that steals my breath. Pain blooms, sharp and immediate, but underneath it something else unfurls. Something warm and liquid and desperately needy.
"One," I gasp.
Another crack. The leather kisses my skin with precision, painting heat across my curves.
"Two!"
By the fifth lash, wetness pools between my thighs.
The pain transforms into something almost unbearable—not because it hurts too much, but because it doesn't hurt enough.
My body craves more, craves him, craves release from this mounting pressure.
Being fertile has turned me into something wild, something that needs.
"Six—oh God—seven!"
Each strike drives the ache deeper. My nipples press against the silk sheets, leaking in response to every sensation. The scent of my arousal must fill the room. I should be mortified. Instead, I arch into the next blow, chasing the exquisite agony.
"Twelve!"
Tears prick my eyes but they're not from pain—they're from overwhelming everything. From being seen, being claimed, being made to submit in ways that somehow make me feel more powerful than I ever did stealing through dark windows.
"Fifteen!"
My voice breaks on the number. Damian pauses, his palm smoothing over the heated skin of my backside. The gentleness after the sting makes me whimper.
"Please don't stop."
"That's my good girl."
The final five come harder, faster, driving me to the edge of something vast and terrifying. My fingers clutch the bedposts, knuckles white as I force the numbers past my lips.
"Twenty!"
The whip drops. Silence fills the space between my ragged breaths. Then his weight settles on the bed beside me, one hand threading through my hair while the other traces the welts he's created.
"Perfect."
His lips press featherlight kisses across my burning skin, each touch a benediction that makes me shiver despite the heat radiating from my punished backside. Strong hands knead the tender flesh with expert care, soothing the sting he created.
"So beautiful like this." His beard scrapes against my sensitive curves. "Marked by me."
A whimper escapes my throat. The ache between my thighs has become unbearable, a pulsing need that threatens to consume me whole. When his fingers trail lower, exploring where I'm slick and ready, my hips buck involuntarily.
"Please, Daddy."
He groans—a raw, masculine sound that makes my belly clench with want.
The ropes fall away from my ankles, then my wrists.
He flips me over with ease, positioning himself between my spread thighs.
Those slate-gray eyes bore into mine, dark with hunger and something deeper, something almost reverent.
The blunt head of him nudges my entrance. Panic and anticipation war in my chest.
"Wait!" The word bursts out. "I need to tell you something."
He stills immediately, proving once again why I trust this near-stranger with my body, my safety, everything.
"I'm—" Heat floods my face. "I'm fertile right now. My cycle, it's—I'm ovulating. You could get me pregnant."
There. I said it. Gave him the out, the warning, the chance to grab a condom or pull away entirely. My heart hammers as I wait for his reaction, for the moment reality crashes through whatever insanity has possessed us both.
But he doesn't pull away. If anything, his eyes darken further, a predatory gleam igniting in those stormy depths. His hand cups my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze.
"Even better."
My breath catches. "What?"
"You heard me, little girl." His hips roll, sliding himself against my wetness in a deliberately slow stroke that makes my toes curl. "The thought of filling this sweet body with my baby? Watching your belly grow round with my child? It's perfect."
"But—we just met?—"
"And you're already mine." He cuts off my protest with his mouth claiming mine, tongue sweeping past my lips in a kiss that stakes ownership more thoroughly than any words could. When he pulls back, I'm dizzy and gasping. "Aren't you?"
"Yes." The admission comes without hesitation because it's true. Somehow, impossibly, I am his. Was his from the moment I saw that portrait, from the instant he called me little girl instead of turning me over to the cops. "Yes, Daddy."
"Then let me give you everything you need."
He pushes forward in one steady thrust that steals my breath and tears through the barrier of my virginity. Pain flares sharp and immediate—but underneath it blooms something else. Fullness. Completion. The rightness of being stretched around him, claimed from the inside out.
"Oh God?—"
"That's it, baby. Take all of me." His voice roughens as he seats himself fully, giving me a moment to adjust to the intrusion. "Your body was made for this. Made for me."
Tears slip down my temples but they're not from the pain. They're from the overwhelming sensation of being filled, being wanted, being chosen. Of knowing that in nine months I might swell with proof of this moment, this man, this impossible connection.
His hips start to move, slow and deep, building a rhythm that makes my back arch.
His mouth crashes onto mine, swallowing my gasp as he drives deeper. Each thrust sends lightning through my core, building pressure that threatens to shatter me completely. Our lips move together, desperate and claiming, his tongue mimicking the rhythm below.
He breaks away just enough to speak, his words hot against my ear.
"Look at you, taking my cock like you were born for it." His hips snap harder, punctuating each filthy phrase. "This virgin cunt squeezing me so tight—fuck, Dusty. You feel that? Feel how perfectly your body fits around mine?"
"Yes!" The word tears from my throat, raw and needy.
"Going to fill you up." His teeth graze my neck, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Going to pump you so full of my cum there's no question you'll catch. You want that, little girl? Want me to breed this fertile body?"
My nails dig into his shoulders as another thrust hits somewhere deep inside that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
"Please, Daddy—I need?—"
"I know what you need." His hand slides between us, fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves that makes me cry out. "Need me to put a baby in this belly. Need to walk around carrying proof that you belong to me."