26. Ari
TWENTY-SIX
ARI
Steam curled from the French toast as I carried the tray down the hall, balancing it with one hand and nudging the bedroom door open with my elbow. Warm maple and cinnamon drifted ahead of me, sweet enough to earn a grumble from Daddy before I even crossed the threshold.
He was propped up on a mountain of pillows, hospital bracelet long gone but the don’t-you-dare-fuss glare alive in his eyes. His hair was a mess—just enough to make him look human and rumpled and mine.
“You’re fussing again,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something deeper.
“You’re damn right I am.” I placed the tray on the nightstand, then moved to fluff the pillow behind him because it had shifted half an inch to the left and that would not do.
Daddy huffed. “My head’s not broken.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said, ignoring him as I adjusted the blanket around his waist. “And yet, your ass is on doctor-mandated rest, so you can hush.”
His hand lifted toward the tray.
I smacked it lightly. “Nope. Bedrest includes your wrists.”
“That’s not how this works.”
“It is now.” I angled the tray across his lap just so, added a cloth napkin like we were at a café, and set the fork where I knew he’d reach for it first. “Try me again and I’m calling your doctor and telling her you’ve been difficult.”
He didn’t smile—not fully—but his mouth twitched in that way that said he wasn’t all that mad about being babied. Or about being mine.
“Bossy little brat.”
“Grumpy oversized patient.”
He gave a soft grunt of approval. “Still got that mouth, huh?”
“Still got that concussion, huh?”
That earned me a long look. Then he picked up the fork and broke off a corner of the toast. His brows lifted after the first bite.
“Cinnamon vanilla?” he asked, chewing. “Trying to sweeten me up, huh?”
“No,” I said, feigning innocence as I crossed my arms. “Just making sure you’re strong enough to throw me over your shoulder again.”
He paused mid-chew.
I let my gaze drop deliberately, then dragged it back up. “You know... when you’re feeling better.”
Daddy’s eyes narrowed. That look—the one that said you’re trouble and I wouldn’t trade you for anything —sparked in his face.
“Boy.”
I grinned. “Just trying to motivate your recovery, Daddy.”
He shook his head and let out a low, breathy chuckle, setting his fork aside. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
But then his expression softened—some of the playful edge easing into something quieter. He reached for my wrist, fingers brushing lightly against the inside like he just needed to touch, to tether.
“I had a kid at camp tell me my nose was crooked,” I said after a beat. “She gave me a sticker to feel better.”
Daddy blinked, hand still lightly on me. “What?”
“She gave me a sticker to feel better,” I added, lips twitching.
He stared. “Was it at least a good sticker?”
“Glitter unicorn,” I said. “I’m keeping it forever.”
His grin tilted, lazy and fond. “Bet you’re killing it over there.”
“Mostly I’m being roasted by children under ten.”
He swallowed, then set the fork down. “I’m proud of you, Ari.”
The words hit harder than I expected. I blinked. “For getting verbally destroyed by six-year-olds?”
“For everything.” His gaze caught mine and didn’t let go. “For putting your heart in your art again. For showing up. For doing this.”
My chest tightened. I didn’t want to cry. Not over French toast and glitter unicorns. But his voice was so soft—his face was so open—it made something shift in me all over again.
Daddy moved like he was about to sit up straighter.
I rushed in. “Uh, what are you doing?”
“Stretching.”
“You are not stretching. You are plotting. Get back down.”
“I feel fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I look like a man being held hostage in his own bed.”
“Hostage with cinnamon vanilla French toast and fresh-squeezed juice.”
“That juice came from a carton.”
I leaned in, eyes narrowed. “Lie again and I’ll glue you to this mattress.”
His lips twitched. “You’re sexy when you’re mad.”
“You’re ridiculous when you’re injured.”
He reached out, hand sliding over my wrist and up my forearm. “But you love me anyway.”
“I do.” The words came out before I could stop them. Soft. True. “Even when you’re the worst patient in the world.”
He tugged me in closer. “You spoil me.”
“Someone has to.”
“And you’re doing a damn good job of it, baby.”
Daddy watched me like I’d painted the sky. Like every small thing I did—bringing him breakfast, brushing away crumbs, putting the tray on the nightstand—was more beautiful than it had any right to be.
“You take such good care of me, baby.”
My chest tightened. He didn’t say it like it was a passing compliment. He said it like it mattered.
He shifted a little, his hands light on the comforter. “Let me take care of you back.”
That look in his eyes—that heat and gravity wrapped up in something soft—I felt it in my spine.
“You’re on doctor’s orders,” I said, trying for breezy. “Remember?”
Daddy’s mouth tugged into a slow smirk. “It’s only the head on my neck that needs rest.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“It’s your whole damn body, Daddy McStubborn.”
That got him.
His grin widened, lazy and smug, and his voice dipped low. “So come and lie on top of me.”
I stared at him.
He patted his chest—his big, broad, infuriatingly tempting chest—and raised an eyebrow like he dared me not to.
My resolve didn’t just crack. It folded completely.
“You’re impossible,” I muttered, already tugging my shirt over my head.
Daddy’s eyes darkened.
“Come here, boy.”
I did. Carefully. I helped him ease the soft cotton tee over his head, eyes sweeping over the curve of his chest, the tattoos I’d come to know by heart—lines I wanted to trace with my mouth.
I climbed into the bed, careful of his ribs. He caught my hips and tugged me into place with a quiet, breathless sound that went straight to my gut.
“Slow,” I said. “We go slow.”
He nodded, but his hands said different things. They said mine . They said closer .
I lay down over him—skin to skin, chest to chest, hips flush—and kissed him like I had all day. Kissed him like I’d been holding it in since the ambulance.
His lips were warm and sure, mouth parting easily under mine. I kissed down his jaw, over the tattoo on his collarbone, tasting salt and skin and him . He let out a low sound when I mouthed along his pec, my tongue tracing the lines of ink like I had every right to worship them.
“That’s my good boy,” he murmured, voice rough with heat.
I rolled my hips against his, teasing him through both our briefs. The friction hit just right—slow and hungry. I wanted to make him feel everything.
“God, baby,” he groaned. “You’re making Daddy lose his mind.”
I rocked harder, faster, grinding down just enough to make him curse.
I moaned, leaning down to kiss him again, swallowing the growl in his throat.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that, baby.”
I kept going, hips moving in that rhythm he liked, lips trailing over his chest, then lower, sucking a bruise just below his nipple. His body tensed beneath mine.
The praise came low and rough, thick with love and hunger. “You take such good care of me,” Daddy murmured. “Look at you. My boy. Riding me so sweet.”
I rocked harder, moaning against his skin, thighs trembling, pressure cresting fast and hot. Daddy shifted beneath me, palms guiding my pace, grounding me while everything inside burned bright and came undone.
We were all mingled breaths and heat and hands and mouths.
“That’s it,” he whispered, hands framing my waist. “Let go for me, boy. I’ve got you.”
His breath stuttered.
My pulse skipped.
“I’m gonna—oh fuck , Daddy.”
My body shook as I came, helpless and loud. His orgasm followed moments later, one hand gripping my ass, the other pressed flat to my back.
Our seed spilled between us, our cocks pulsing against each other.
My muscles gave out, and I collapsed onto his chest, boneless and gasping. A laugh shook out of me—shaky and full of everything I didn’t have the words for.
“You good?” he asked, breath heavy.
“Mmm. Perfect.”
The room was a mess. The sheets were a tangle. The tray sat on the nightstand like it had no idea what just happened.
I pressed my face into his neck and sighed. “I should be getting ready for camp.”
Daddy kissed the side of my forehead. “Let me hold you a minute longer.”
And so I stayed—boneless in his arms, his breath warm against my temple—as the early morning light filtered softly through the window, the rest of the world waiting on the other side of the bedroom door.