5. Damian
DAMIAN
My shirt swallows her whole.
The white oxford hangs past her thighs, sleeves rolled up six times and still covering half her hands. She looks like a child playing dress-up in daddy's clothes, and fuck if that doesn't do something to the primal part of my brain.
Mine. The word thunders through my skull. My shirt. My girl. My come still inside her cunt.
"You keep staring at me like that," she whispers, tugging the hem lower.
"Like what?"
"Like... like you want to eat me."
I cross the room in three strides, cup her jaw, force those hazel eyes up. "Already did, little girl. Might do it again after we feed you proper."
Pink floods her cheeks. Her tongue darts out, wets her bottom lip. I want to bite it.
The doorbell cuts through the tension.
"Food," she breathes, eyes going wide.
I grab my wallet, head downstairs. The delivery guy has three bags—way more than whatever pizza she ordered. I paid extra for speed, called in favors to get Thai, Italian, and a proper steakhouse meal delivered within the hour.
Street bums don't know how to eat. They shovel down whatever cheap garbage they can find. I've seen it before in some homeless people I've pulled off corners through my foundation. Malnutrition hidden under baggy clothes. Bodies that never got the fuel they needed.
Dusty's going to eat. Really eat.
I carry everything upstairs. She's perched on the edge of my bed, legs tucked under her, hands folded in her lap. When she sees the bags, her whole face lights up like Christmas morning.
"I only ordered one pizza."
"I know." I set everything on the bed, start unpacking. Pizza first—her choice, so it gets respect. Then pad Thai, spring rolls, mango sticky rice. Fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken. Caesar salad. Finally, the good stuff: medium-rare ribeye, loaded baked potato, grilled asparagus.
Her eyes track every container. Wider and wider. Her throat bobs when she swallows.
I arrange the last container and step back.
She doesn't move. Just stares at the spread like it might vanish if she blinks. Her hands stay folded, knuckles white with tension.
"Go ahead, baby."
The leash snaps.
She lunges for the pizza first, grabs a slice with both hands, shoves half of it in her mouth before she's even done chewing. Sauce smears her lips. She's already reaching for the pad Thai with her other hand, fork abandoned, just scooping noodles with her fingers.
Christ.
I've seen starving dogs eat cleaner.
She tears into the fettuccine next, slurping noodles so fast she's gasping between bites.
One hand in the pasta, the other clutching bread, crumbs falling down the front of my shirt.
She eats like someone's going to rip it all away.
Like the food will disappear if she doesn't consume everything right now.
My chest tightens watching her. How many times has someone taken her plate? How many nights did she go to bed with nothing?
She's reaching for the steak when she catches me staring.
Freezes.
The fork clatters against the plate. She swallows hard, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she picks up the fork again, cuts a tiny piece of meat. Puts it in her mouth. Chews slow. Dabs her lips with a napkin.
Like she can rewind the last five minutes.
"Dusty."
"I can eat normal." Her voice comes out small. "I just... I was really hungry, but I know how to?—"
"You eat like you're afraid someone's gonna steal your plate."
Her face crumbles. She sets down the fork. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." I move to the bed, sit beside her. "But if you're gonna be my woman, you need to learn how things work in my world."
Her eyes snap to mine. Hope and fear mixed together.
"Sophisticated ladies don't eat with their hands unless it's finger food. They take their time. Enjoy it." I pick up her fork, cut a proper piece of steak. "Small bites. Chew. Breathe."
She nods, eager. Hungry for instruction the same way she was hungry for food.
"Mouth closed when you chew. Napkin in your lap." I demonstrate. "You want that bakery? You want respect? This is part of it."
"Teach me." She leans forward, intent. "Please, daddy."
The word punches through my gut. She doesn't even realize she said it.
"Wipe your hands first." I hand her a napkin. "Then we start over."
She cleans her fingers, spreads the napkin across her thighs. Picks up the fork the way I showed her. Cuts a small piece.
"Good girl. Now bring it to your mouth. Slow."
She follows every instruction, watching my face for approval.
She takes the bite like I'm watching her perform surgery. Closes her lips around the fork, chews with her mouth shut, swallows before reaching for the next piece.
"Better." I lean back against the headboard. "Now tell me what you taste."
Her brow furrows. "It's... good?"
"Good how? What makes it different from whatever garbage you've been eating?"
She cuts another piece, smaller this time. Chews slower. Her eyes close.
"It's soft. Not chewy like... like the meat from corner stores." She opens her eyes, looks at me. "And it tastes like... butter? But not just butter. Something else."
"Garlic. Herbs. They age the beef, cook it right." I nod toward the rest of the spread. "Try the asparagus."
She wrinkles her nose but spears a stalk anyway. The face she makes when it hits her tongue almost makes me laugh.
"It's weird."
"It's a vegetable. When's the last time you had one of those?"
The question lands heavy. She stares at her plate, shame creeping into her features.
"You're gonna eat three real meals a day now," I tell her. "Breakfast, lunch, dinner. With vegetables. Protein. None of that processed shit."
"I can't afford?—"
"You're mine now. I feed what's mine." I gesture at the containers. "Keep going. Pace yourself but finish what you can."
She picks up the fork again, works through the steak with careful bites. Then the pasta. The Thai. She eats until her movements slow, until she's pressing a hand to her flat stomach.
"Full?"
"I think so." But her eyes drift to the mango sticky rice.
"One more thing." I grab the container, scoop a spoonful. "Open."
Her lips part. I slide the spoon in, watch her eyes go wide as the sweet coconut and mango hit her tongue.
"Oh." The sound comes out breathy, almost obscene. "That's..."
"Dessert. You earned it." I feed her another bite. "Good girls who follow instructions get rewards."
She leans into the spoon like a cat seeking attention. Licks her lips when I pull back.
"More?"
I give her three more bites before setting it aside. "That's enough for tonight. You eat too much too fast after starving yourself, you'll get sick."
She nods, docile. Trusting.
Mine to teach. Mine to shape. Mine to fill with my child.
She swallows the last bite, and I watch her throat work. Can't stop staring at the way my shirt gaps at her neck, how it reveals the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her tits beneath the fabric.
Her tongue darts out, catches a drop of coconut milk at the corner of her mouth.
Fuck it.
I cup the back of her neck, drag her mouth to mine.
She gasps, and I swallow the sound. Her lips are soft, sweet with mango and rice. I kiss her like I need her to breathe, like she's oxygen and I've been drowning. My hand tangles in her honey-blonde hair, pulls her closer.
Her small hands flatten against my bare chest. She kisses back with desperate hunger, the same way she ate—like someone might steal this from her too.
I break the kiss long enough to shove the food containers off the bed. They clatter to the floor. Don't care.
"Daddy," she whimpers against my mouth.
The word ignites something feral. I kiss her harder, my tongue pushing past her lips. She meets me stroke for stroke, learning fast. Her fingers slide up my neck, into my hair, gripping tight enough to hurt.
Good girl.
I reach for the buttons on my shirt—her shirt now—and she's already helping, fumbling with shaking hands. We get three undone before I give up and rip it open. Buttons scatter across the sheets.
"Sorry," she breathes.
"Don't care." I peel the ruined oxford off her shoulders, expose those perfect tits. The sight of her pink nipples, still glistening from earlier, makes my cock throb. "You're so fucking beautiful."
Pink floods her cheeks, but she doesn't look away. Her hands drop to the waistband of my boxers, hesitate.
"Go ahead, baby. Take what you want."
She hooks her fingers in the elastic, tugs them down. I lift my hips, help her work them off. My cock springs free, already hard and leaking.
Her eyes go wide. Like she can't believe this is real.
I pull her back to me, skin to skin. Her breasts press against my chest, soft and warm. I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste of her. My hands map her body—the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips, the curve of her ass.
She arches into my touch, makes these small needy sounds that drive me wild.
Mine. All mine.
I ease her down onto the mattress, my mouth never leaving hers. She sinks into the sheets, hair fanning out like spun gold. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, holding on like I might float away.
I trail my lips along her jaw. She tilts her head back, giving me access. Such a good girl. Already learning to offer herself.
My stubble scrapes her throat. She shivers, whimpers. The sound shoots straight to my cock.
"Please," she breathes.
"Please what?"
"I don't know. Just... please."
I drag my tongue down the column of her neck, taste salt and sweetness. Her pulse hammers against my lips. I could bite down, mark her. Make sure everyone knows who owns this body.
Later.
My mouth moves lower. Across her collarbone. Down to the swell of her tits. They're small but perfect, topped with dusky pink nipples that are already hard and wet.
Leaking for me.
Christ.
I cup one breast, thumb circling the areola. Milk beads at the tip, a perfect pearl of white. Her back arches off the bed, pushing into my hand.
"Daddy, it aches."
"I know, baby. Gonna make it better."
I close my mouth over her nipple and suck.