8. Damian #2
The slick sounds of our coupling fill the room. My balls slap against her ass with each thrust, the obscene rhythm driving me closer to the edge. She's soaked, making everything easier, messier. Cream coats my shaft, gathering at the base.
"Gonna pump you full." I lean down, crushing her into the mattress. "Flood this fertile cunt until my cum leaks out around my cock."
"Please—" Her back arches, pushing those leaking tits harder against me. More milk seeps through the fabric, warm and sticky. "Need it—need your seed?—"
Her words snap something primal loose. I hammer into her, chasing the pressure building at the base of my spine. She wraps her arms around my neck, clinging, those hazel eyes unfocused and glassy with pleasure.
"Take it, baby." My rhythm falters, thrusts going erratic. "Take every fucking drop."
"Yes—daddy—yes?—"
Her pussy clamps down like a vise. Her mouth falls open in a silent scream, eyes rolling back as her orgasm hits. I feel it ripple through her core, muscles contracting in waves that milk my cock. Her entire body goes rigid beneath me, thighs quaking where they press against my ribs.
The sight destroys my control. Heat detonates up my shaft and I bury myself to the hilt, grinding against her cervix as thick ropes of cum pour into her womb.
My jaw locks, teeth bared, every muscle drawn tight while I empty myself inside her willing body.
Pulse after pulse floods her channel, so much that it starts seeping out around my cock despite how deep I'm seated.
"Fuck—" The word grinds out between clenched teeth. My hips jerk with aftershocks, pumping more cum into her already overflowing pussy. "Gonna take root—gonna give you a baby?—"
"Yes—" She sobs the word, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Her inner walls continue fluttering around me, drawing out every last drop. "Want your baby—want it so bad?—"
I collapse on top of her, bracing on my forearms to keep from crushing her completely.
We're both panting, sweat-slick and trembling.
My cock stays buried inside her, still twitching with fading pulses.
Her milk has soaked through my shirt completely, sticky and warm where our chests press together.
Her fingers stroke through my hair, gentle now. Soothing.
"Love you, daddy."
The words should feel natural. Instead, they make that earlier unease stir again in my gut.
Something's off. I just can't figure out what.
Her fingers trace lazy patterns through my hair while I lap the milk from between her breasts, following the sweet trail down her sternum. The taste coats my tongue—warm, almost honey-sweet. I seal my lips around one nipple and suck, drawing more of the liquid warmth into my mouth.
She gasps, arching into me.
"Do you think about it?" Her voice floats above me, dreamy and soft. "About what they'll look like?"
I switch to her other breast, tongue circling the peaked bud before drawing it deep. "Who?"
"Our babies." Her hand stills in my hair. "If we have them. What color eyes they'll get. Whether they'll have your stubble or my?—"
The shift in her tone makes me pause mid-suck. I release her nipple with a wet pop and look up at her face.
Tears glisten in those hazel eyes.
"When they're older," she continues, staring at the ceiling like she's watching a movie only she can see, "and they bring friends home from school. Will you teach them table manners like you taught me? Will you be patient when they spill things or forget which fork?—"
"Dusty."
"And birthdays." A tear escapes, sliding into her hair. "Blowing out candles, making wishes. Teaching them to bake. Flour fights in the kitchen while you pretend to be annoyed but you're actually?—"
"Baby, what's wrong?"
She blinks rapidly, forcing a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Nothing. I'm just tired." She cups my face, thumb brushing my beard. "It was a big day. All that cooking."
Bullshit.
But she's already shifting beneath me, wincing slightly as my softening cock slips free. Cum leaks out of her, coating her inner thighs.
"Can we just sleep?" She curls into my side, pressing her face against my chest. "Hold me?"
I wrap my arms around her petite frame, pulling her close. She fits perfectly against me, all soft curves and warm skin. Her breathing evens out within minutes, but I stay awake longer, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders.
Something's wrong. Something she won't tell me.
Eventually exhaustion claims me too.
Sunlight cuts across my face through a gap in the curtains. I reach for her automatically, fingers finding only cold sheets.
"Dusty?"
Silence answers.
I sit up, scanning the room. Her clothes from last night—or rather, my shirt—lies crumpled on the floor. But the rest of her things, the small collection she'd been accumulating, all gone.
Ice floods my veins.
I'm out of bed in seconds, not bothering with clothes as I check the bathroom, the closet, the entire bedroom. Nothing. The master suite feels cavernous and empty.
Then I see it. A piece of paper on my nightstand, folded once. My name in her careful handwriting across the front.
My hands shake as I open it.
Damian,
I'm sorry. Last night was perfect—you're perfect—and that's why I have to go. You showed me what life could be like, gave me a glimpse of something beautiful. But I can't pretend anymore.
I'll always be that girl who climbed through your window to steal from you. A street rat playing dress-up in expensive clothes. You deserve someone who belongs in your world, not someone you have to constantly fix and teach and mold into something acceptable.
Our time together was the best of my life. I'll never forget how you made me feel safe, wanted, cherished. How you called me your good little girl and made me believe it might be true.
But reality doesn't care about fairy tales. I know what I am. What I'll always be.
Please don't look for me. Let me disappear back where I belong.
I love you. That's why I'm leaving.
—Dusty
The paper crumples in my fist.
The dinner. The questions about my encryption system. The desperate sex like she was memorizing every touch.
She was saying goodbye.
"Fuck!"
I slam my fist into the wall, plaster cracking under the impact. Pain radiates up my arm but I barely feel it through the rage flooding my system.
My little girl is out there, alone and scared, thinking she's protecting me by running.
She has no idea what I'm capable of when someone threatens what's mine.