Chapter 13
Marcus
T rust. I couldn’t remember any other trust exercise like the one we engaged in last night. I’d never forget it.
How responsive she was. How naturally submissive. But the sexiest thing, the most powerful thing, was the way she gave herself to me. With trust. With passion. She was everything I’d ever dreamed of in a woman.
We’d navigated sensory deprivation exercises—her idea—and the experience had stripped away layers between us. She let herself be vulnerable, and I felt honored to guide her through it. That kind of raw connection was rare, more potent than anything I’d felt in a long time.
I woke up to Lucy's gentle breathing beside me. Her auburn hair spread out on the pillow, and her face was peaceful. Seeing her like that filled me with something I hadn't felt in a long time—contentment.
Last night, we’d stopped short of making love. Even though something was brewing between us, I still wanted to take my time, make sure that Lucy didn’t feel rushed or pressured.
Careful not to wake her, I brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. She stirred slightly but didn't wake up. I decided to let her sleep a bit longer. Slipping out of bed, I headed for the kitchen.
She’d made me some delicious pancakes the other day, so I wanted to return the favor. Scrambled eggs, coffee, fruit. It sounded good.
It didn’t take long for her to emerge from my room, wearing one of my shirts, her hair tousled. "Something smells good," she said, flashing me a warm smile.
"Yeah, I guess I do smell pretty good,” I I joked. “Hope you're hungry." I pulled a chair out for her.
"These eggs are perfect," Lucy said between bites.
"I’m a man of many talents," I joked, earning a soft laugh from her.
"You certainly are,” she shot back with a grin. “You showed me a few extra ones last night.” She gave me a dirty look. “You made me come so hard I thought I was going to explode.” My throat went dry.
“Is that right?”
“Mmmhmm,” she said.
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t actually explode.”
“Me too. Plus, there’s always next time for that.”
Lucy took a sip of her coffee, her eyes meeting mine with that familiar spark. "So, what's the plan for today?" she asked, her voice light and curious.
"Thought we could tackle your dad's glass house," I replied, cutting into my toast. "It's a big project, but with both of us, we'll make good progress."
She nodded, a smile lighting up her face. "I'm in. Besides, it needs to be done, right?"
"Definitely. We'll gather up what we need after we eat," I said, taking another bite, savoring the easy morning rhythm between us.
"Thanks, Marcus," she added, sincerity clear in her tone.
"Anything for you," I replied, keeping it casual. But inside, I felt a warmth spreading, knowing she appreciated my help.
We finished breakfast, cleared the table, and headed over to her place.
I took a moment to admire what we'd accomplished so far. Fresh paint on the walls, new fixtures glinting in the morning light. It was our work, a testament to what we could do together.
"Looks good, doesn't it?" Lucy said, catching my gaze.
"Yeah, it does," I agreed, feeling a hint of pride mixed with something deeper.
We changed into work clothes, ready to dive into the task at hand. The glass house had seen better days—boards splintered, nails rusted, old panes cracked. We got to work, side by side, peeling away the old to make room for the new. We couldn’t do much about the glass, but the wooden structure needed attention, too.
"Pass me the tape measure?" Lucy asked, stretching out a hand. I handed it over, enjoying the flow of working in tandem.
"Sure thing," I said, watching her focus, every movement precise.
As we measured and cut, the sounds of saws and hammers filled the air—a symphony of productivity. But more than that, it was the companionship I valued. This unspoken understanding between us made the hard work feel almost effortless.
"You're quiet today," Lucy noted, glancing over.
"Just thinking," I replied, not wanting to break the spell.
"About what?"
"About how good this feels," I admitted, keeping my voice steady.
"Yeah, it does," she echoed softly, and we shared a look that said more than words ever could.
With each board fixed in place, the glass house started to come alive under our hands. But it wasn't just the physical transformation that mattered. It was the sense of building something together—something real.
I wiped sweat from my brow, feeling the grit of sawdust against my skin. Lucy was beside me, steady and sure, with a smudge of dirt enhancing the determined look in her eye. She was focused, measuring twice before cutting once—a lesson we learned the hard way last week.
"Looking good," I commented, nodding toward the beam we'd just installed. Her concentration didn't waver, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Thanks. It's coming together," she replied, eyes fixed on her work. There was something about seeing her like this—committed, strong—that made my heart clench. It reminded me of last night, of trust built in quiet moments and whispered words. Vulnerability laid bare.
"You're doing great, by the way," I added, unable to stop myself. Her eyes flicked up to meet mine, a glimmer of shared understanding passing between us. “You’re a really quick study.” I wondered if she felt it too—the connection, the pull that seemed to draw us closer with each passing day. I wanted to ask, to speak the truth that lingered just beneath the surface.
"Marcus," she said softly, pausing as if reading my thoughts. But before either of us could continue, the distant purr of an engine broke the spell.
A sleek car rolled into the driveway, its polished metal glinting in the light. My stomach tightened. Out stepped a woman, all confidence and sharp business attire. She approached with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hello!" she called out, voice carrying across the yard. "I'm Vanessa Mitchell from Mitchell it was an invitation.
I lifted her effortlessly, carrying her inside, feeling the strength of her trust in every step. The house felt alive around us, shadows and light playing across the walls as we moved. We paused at the bedroom door, breathless but certain. I set her down gently, our eyes meeting in silent agreement.
We undressed slowly, savoring each moment, each revelation. Her skin was warm under my hands, soft like silk. She shivered as I traced a line down her spine, a delicate dance of fingers against flesh. Her scent filled the air—something floral, mixed with earth and summer rain.
"Are you sure?" I asked, needing to hear her say it, needing to know we were crossing this threshold together.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice steady and sure. "I'm sure."
With her consent echoing in my ears, I laid her back gently on the bed. Her eyes were bright with anticipation and trust, urging me forward. I kissed her again, a slow exploration that spoke of all the things I couldn't put into words.
My lips traveled lower, along her neck, pausing to savor her soft gasps. She arched beneath me as I continued downward, worshiping each inch of her skin. When I reached her breasts, I took my time, kissing and teasing until she was writhing beneath me, her fingers clutching at my shoulders.
"Marcus," she breathed, almost a plea, and I answered by moving further down her body. Her thighs parted for me, welcoming, and I settled between them, tasting her sweetness. Every flick of my tongue drew a new sound from her—breathy, urgent sounds that fueled my desire. She held me tight, her voice rising as she whispered, "Daddy."
Hearing that name, edged with need, sent a shiver through me. It was intimate, tender—a bond forged in trust. I moved back up to kiss her, feeling the heat radiating from her body, the way she responded to every touch.
"Lucy," I said softly, positioning myself above her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes held mine, wide and vulnerable, but filled with a fierce determination that took my breath away.
As I entered her, it felt like coming home. She was tight, warm, surrounding me in a way that felt right. We moved together slowly at first, savoring the moment, learning the rhythm of one another.
"Marcus," she gasped, her hands clutching at my back, pulling me closer. The sound of our bodies moving together filled the room, a symphony of shared desire.
The pace quickened, urgency building between us. My senses were heightened—all I could feel, hear, see was Lucy. Her body, her voice, the way she responded to me. It was everything.
"Marcus, I'm going to come," she warned, her voice catching, filled with that edge of ecstasy.
"Wait," I murmured, my voice rough with need. "Wait for me."
I pushed us both to the edge, holding her there, feeling the tension coiled between us. It was exquisite, this balance between control and release.
"Now," I said, and we fell together, a cascade of sensation and emotion that left me breathless, blown away by how wonderful it felt. It was more than physical—it was a promise, sealed in the most intimate way possible.
Lying there, with Lucy nestled against me, every breath felt like a promise. Her head rested on my chest, and I could feel her fingers drawing lazy patterns on my skin, tracing the outlines of an unspoken future. The room was quiet, save for the gentle rhythm of our breathing.
"I think I want to stay," she murmured, and those words washed over me like a balm.
I turned slightly, careful not to disturb her comfort. "I'd like that," I replied, unable to keep the smile from my voice. Relief mingled with joy, creating a hum of contentment beneath my skin.
We began talking about the future, voices low and intimate. She shared ideas for the house—plans to transform it into something uniquely hers yet respectful of its history. We touched on possibilities for Wilkins' Hardware, expanding its reach while keeping its heart. Our dreams intertwined seamlessly, each supporting the other.
"With you, everything feels possible," I said, realizing the truth in those words.
"Together," she agreed softly. There was strength in that word, a commitment to face whatever lay ahead.
The moment stretched, timeless and perfect. But then, a buzz shattered the peace—a reminder that life rarely paused for long.
Lucy reached for my phone on the nightstand, intending to hand it to me. Her eyes flicked to the screen, and I saw her expression shift, curiosity giving way to something else. A shadow passed over her features as she read the message.
"Marcus," she said, her voice hesitant. She handed me the phone, the screen still lit with the text from my ex-wife:
"Marcus, I was wrong. I am a Little."
A knot formed in my stomach. The past, which I'd thought neatly packed away, had just spilled open again.