Chapter 18
Marcus
I leaned against the door frame of the living room, arms crossed, watching Lucy dart between the kitchen and the entryway like a hummingbird. Her auburn hair bounced with each step, strands slipping from the loose braid she’d thrown together earlier. She muttered to herself as she adjusted a stack of plates on the buffet table, then spun back toward the kitchen, only to stop mid-step and pivot toward the bookshelf instead.
"Lucy," I called, keeping my voice low but firm. "It’s a housewarming party, not a presidential gala."
She shot me a glare over her shoulder, green eyes sharp and bright. "If you’re just gonna stand there looking pretty, Marcus, at least stay out of my way." A flicker of a smile tugged at her lips.
"Yes, ma’am," I said, unable to keep the smirk off my face. I wasn’t exactly a “Party guy” but when Lucy had asked to put together a little housewarming thing, I hadn’t been able to say no.
"So, Daddy?" Lucy snapped, hands on her hips. "Are you going to stare all day, or are you going to help?"
"Staring’s easier," I teased, pushing off the door frame. Before I could take a step, though, the front door swung open, and Brett strolled in without so much as a knock, a six-pack dangling from one hand. He was already grinning.
"Well, look who’s domesticated," Brett said, his voice a warm rumble that filled the room. He set the beer on the counter and clapped me hard on the shoulder. "Thought I’d come early and see if you needed help setting up—or if Lucy needed me to rescue her from your party-pooper vibe."
"Funny," I said, shaking my head, though I couldn’t help but grin. "Feel free to take over. She’s got me running laps."
"Hey, Brett," Lucy chimed from across the room, flashing him a quick smile before disappearing into the kitchen. She was all energy tonight, half nerves, half excitement. I loved seeing her this alive.
"Finally making an honest woman out of her, huh?" Brett said, leaning on the counter next to me. His tone was playful, but his eyes softened just enough to give him away. That old softy.
"Yeah," I said, glancing toward the kitchen doorway, where Lucy’s hum drifted through. "Something like that."
"About damn time." Brett cracked open a beer and took a long sip, then turned serious, his hazel eyes locking on mine. "I’m proud of you, man. After everything with Emily . . . I wasn’t sure—I mean, I didn’t know if you’d ever—" He stopped, shook his head. "You know what I’m saying."
"Yeah," I said quietly.
Marie burst through the front door like a whirlwind, nearly knocking over Lucy’s carefully arranged welcome sign in the process. “Honey, I’m home!” she sang out, her voice carrying through the house. She was loaded down with an enormous wicker basket that looked ready to collapse under the weight of pastries stacked inside it.
“We should really consider locking the front door,” I said, stepping aside as she barreled past me without so much as a glance. Her wild curls bounced as she moved, a force of nature in bright yellow sneakers and a denim jacket covered in enamel pins. "Lucy! These are fresh outta The Daily Grind oven. You’re welcome."
"Thanks, Marie," Lucy called from the hallway, but her voice was muffled—probably trying to wrangle something else into place before more guests arrived.
I followed Marie into the kitchen, where she’d already started unpacking her haul. Scones, muffins, croissants—it was like she’d looted the entire display case at the coffee shop. She lined them up on the counter with military precision, muttering critiques about my arrangement of the serving platters.
"Looks like you’ve got everything under control," I said dryly, leaning against the doorway.
"Someone has to," she shot back, hands on her hips. Then her eyes softened, just a little. "Seriously, though. This place? Gorgeous. You two knocked it out of the park." She turned toward me, one hand sweeping through the air. "The crown molding? The light fixtures? It's giving 'restoration dream' vibes. Mrs. Henderson is gonna have a field day with this."
"Speaking of which," I started, but before I could finish, the woman herself appeared in the doorway, casserole dish clutched protectively in her oven-mitted hands.
"Marcus, dear!" Mrs. Henderson's smile practically split her face. "Do take this before my arms give out. It’s my famous sweet potato casserole—don’t drop it now!"
"Got it," I said, stepping forward to relieve her. The thing weighed a ton. Famous or not, I wasn’t sure how anyone could eat more than a spoonful of whatever was underneath all those marshmallows.
"Smells amazing, Mrs. H," I said, setting it carefully on the counter next to Marie’s pastry spread.
"Wait until you taste it," she replied with a wink, surveying the room with approval. She adjusted her cardigan and leaned in closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "You’ve done wonders with this old place, Marcus. Your daddy would be proud. And Lucy—" her gaze drifted toward the hall—"she’s brought such life into it again. A perfect match, you two."
"Thanks," I said, feeling the tips of my ears heat. Mrs. Henderson’s compliments had a way of cutting straight through your armor whether you wanted them to or not.
"All right, out of the way," Marie announced, shooing Mrs. Henderson toward the living room. "Go mingle! I've got a kitchen to run."
"Bossy as ever," Mrs. Henderson teased, but she shuffled off, leaving us with the scent of sweet potatoes and nostalgia hanging in the air.
Before I could say more, the sound of laughter spilled in from the foyer. Lucy’s laugh—bright and lilting—and another voice I didn’t recognize right away. I stepped into the hallway just as Lucy swung the door shut behind Rebekah.
"You're here!" Lucy exclaimed, throwing her arms around her friend in an uncharacteristically exuberant hug. Rebekah laughed, hugging her back just as tightly.
"Of course I am," Rebekah said, pulling away to hold Lucy at arm’s length. "Wouldn't miss it for the world. This is gorgeous, by the way"—she gestured toward the entryway—"you’ve been busy."
Rebekah was Lucy’s newest friend. She was from a town nearby, and she was a Little. Lucy had been hosting gatherings of local Littles in out nursery, as a way to make friends and enjoy Littlespace together. It was beautiful.
"Wait till you see the backyard," Lucy said, grinning. She glanced over her shoulder and caught me watching. Her cheeks flushed instantly, but she didn’t look away. "Marcus, you remember Rebekah?"
"Of course," I said, stepping forward to shake her hand. Rebekah had a firm grip, her dark eyes sharp but kind. She was dressed simply—a striped blouse and jeans—but there was a confidence about her that made her stand out.
"Good to see you again," she said with a nod, then turned back to Lucy. "So, when’s the next Little League meeting? I’ve got some ideas I want to run by you."
Little League. That’s what Lucy called the play dates. It was cute as hell.
"Next Thursday," Lucy said, her excitement bubbling over. She launched into a rapid-fire explanation about crafts they were planning, and play dates, and how one of their members had suggested a book club tie-in.
I stayed quiet, watching. The way Lucy’s eyes lit up talking to Rebekah—it was different, freer. Like she didn’t have to filter herself, didn’t have to worry about being misunderstood. It was good to see. More than that, it was a relief.
"Sounds like you've got your hands full," Rebekah was saying with a grin.
"Wouldn’t have it any other way," Lucy replied, and for once, I believed her.
Guests started trickling in, their laughter and chatter filling the air. I stood by the door, shaking hands, nodding at familiar faces—neighbors, old friends, even a few folks I barely recognized but knew by association. Small Falls was that kind of town. Everyone knew of you, even if they didn’t know you.
"Marcus!" Sam Tucker clapped me on the back hard enough to make me stumble. "This place looks brand new." His eyes roamed over the freshly painted trim and restored stained-glass windows. "You and Lucy done good."
"Thanks," I said, shifting my weight. "Lucy had the vision. I just followed orders."
"Smart man," Sam chuckled, before disappearing into the living room where Marie was already commandeering conversation like it was an Olympic sport and she was in the running for gold.
I caught Lucy near the entrance again, her cheeks pink as she fielded compliments and questions about the house. She looked happy, though slightly flustered. I wanted to go to her, smooth the tension from her shoulders, but there wasn’t time. Someone else needed my attention—a quick question about the hinges on the front door, another comment about the oak staircase. It was endless.
"Marcus, can we get a tour?" Mrs. Henderson called from the foyer, holding a glass of punch. Her husband stood behind her, looking as enthused about home renovations as a cat in a rainstorm.
"Sure thing," I said, motioning for them to follow me. A small group formed quickly, eager to see every inch of what Lucy and I had worked so hard to restore.
"Over here’s the dining room," I began, gesturing toward the heavy walnut table Lucy had picked out at some antique store upstate. "We stripped the floors ourselves—"
"Turned out perfect," someone murmured approvingly.
"Thanks. And this..." I led them into the parlor, keeping my tone casual, "...was the biggest pain in the ass to paint, let me tell you. Those crown moldings? Took three coats of primer."
Polite laughter rippled through the group, but my focus stayed sharp. As we moved from room to room, I steered clear of the nursery. My hand brushed against the locked doorknob once as we passed, a reflexive habit I'd developed without thinking. That space was ours. No one else needed to see it.
"Kitchen's next," I announced, pushing forward. The crowd murmured appreciatively at the gleaming counter tops and farmhouse sink Lucy had insisted on. I glanced out of the corner of my eye, spotting her in the hallway, laughing with Rebekah. Relief settled over me. She deserved this—the sense of belonging, the pride radiating from her. It filled her up in a way I hadn't seen before.
"Feel free to look around," I told the group. They spread out, admiring the intricate carvings on the fireplace mantle or flipping through spines of old novels. I stepped back, giving them space—and spotted Lucy tucked into a corner.
She was perched on the edge of the reading chair, fiddling with something. From this angle, I could see it was a ring, catching the light. Our ring.
"Hey," I murmured, crossing the room quickly, quietly. She jumped a little, startled, then relaxed when she realized it was me.
"Hey Daddy," she whispered back, her voice soft, almost shy. Her fingers tightened around the chain instinctively, and my chest ached at the sight.
"Stealing a moment?" I asked, leaning down so only she could hear me.
"Maybe." Her lips curved into a slight smile, but her grip on the ring didn’t ease. "Needed a breather. It’s . . . a lot."
"Yeah." I crouched beside her, resting my hand lightly on her knee. She looked at me then, green eyes wide, vulnerable. I couldn’t help myself—I reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her cheek. My thumb lingered, tracing the curve of her jaw.
"Still not ready to tell everyone?" I teased, my voice low, rougher than I intended.
"Not yet," she admitted. Her fingers loosened on the chain, letting the ring dangle freely now, swaying between us. "I just . . . it feels private. For now."
"Private," I echoed, leaning closer. My hand slid higher, resting just above her knee now. Her breath hitched, and damn if that didn’t stir something deep in me. "I can handle private. But, Lucy?"
"Yeah?" Her voice was barely audible.
"I can’t wait much longer."
The blush that crept up her neck was worth every second of restraint.
The smell of charcoal hit me before I even stepped into the backyard. Brett stood over the grill, flipping burgers with one hand and holding a beer in the other like he was born to do it. His laughter rumbled through the air, mixing with the hum of conversation and the faint clink of someone setting down a glass too hard on the patio table.
"About time you got out here," Brett hollered, eyes gleaming under the string lights I’d spent two solid weekends getting just right. They cast a warm glow over everything—over everyone. The yard looked almost magical. Almost.
"Don’t burn those," I shot back, strolling closer, my hands shoved in my pockets. "Lucy will murder you if her veggie skewers get torched."
"Relax, big brother." He smirked, flipping one of the skewers. "I’ve got this under control. Maybe you should relax for once."
"Funny." I clapped him on the shoulder before stepping back, surveying the crowd. Neighbors mingled near the fire pit, Marie was fussing over something with a wooden spoon at the picnic table, and Lucy—
She was by the garden, standing next to Rebekah. Her head tilted as she laughed at something her friend said, that bright, easy sound carrying across the yard like music. Marie joined them, apron still tied around her waist, and something about the way they all leaned into each other made me pause.
Lucy’s cheeks were flushed, her green eyes practically glowing under the lights. She gestured with her hands, always animated, always so damn . . . alive. Watching her like that, I could almost forget the weight we used to carry. How close I’d come to losing her. To losing myself.
Then, she caught my eyes. She pulled the ring out of her pocket, looked down at it, then back up at at me. Then, clearly, she smiled, and nodded.
It was time.
"Eyes off your girl for two seconds?" Brett's voice ripped through my thoughts. "You’re starting to look creepy standing there like a statue."
"Shut up," I muttered, but a grin tugged at my lips anyway. Because yeah, maybe I was staring. So what?
"Alright, everyone!" I raised my glass, cutting through the noise. Conversations quieted, heads turned. Lucy glanced over, curious. God, she was beautiful like this—relaxed, happy, hers.
"First off," I started, clearing my throat when my voice came out rougher than I expected. "Thanks for being here tonight. It means a lot to us. To me."
My grip tightened around the glass, knuckles whitening.
"Marcus?" Lucy’s voice was soft, barely audible over the murmurs, but it cut through the fog. She slipped up beside me, her small hand sliding into mine. A squeeze—firm, grounding. Just like her.
"Sorry," I said, exhaling slowly. "What I’m trying to say is…this house, this night, all of you—it’s more than I ever thought I’d have again. And Lucy…" I turned toward her, the words catching in my throat. For a second, I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
Her fingers tightened around mine, her eyes searching mine, steady. And somehow, that was enough.
"She's my fiancée." The words came out rough, but sure. I gripped Lucy's hand tighter, raising it so everyone could see the ring dangling from her chain.
The crowd froze for a beat, then chaos erupted. Cheers, claps, and whistles broke out like a dam bursting. Brett let out an ear-piercing whistle, slapping me on the back hard enough to rattle my ribs. Marie shrieked louder than anyone, barreling into Lucy with a hug that nearly knocked her over.
"Finally!" Marie shouted, laughing as she squeezed Lucy like she’d never let go. "I was starting to think you two would keep us all in suspense forever!"
"Marie," Lucy gasped, trying to catch her breath, but smiling wide enough to light up the entire backyard. She glanced at me, her cheeks flushed pink. "Help?"
"You're on your own, sweetheart," I said, smirking.
"Alright, alright, lovebirds!" Brett called, his grin stretching ear to ear. "Save some of that sappy stuff for later. Right now, we need drinks and speeches!"
"Speeches?" Lucy shot him a look that was half panic, half amusement.
"Tradition," Mrs. Henderson chimed in, already dabbing at her eyes with a crumpled tissue. "My goodness, you two. What a beautiful announcement."
"To Lucy and Marcus!" Brett raised his beer high, his voice booming.
"To Lucy and Marcus!" echoed the crowd, glasses clinking together under the twinkling lights.
***
The door clicked shut behind Mrs. Henderson, her casserole dish tucked under one arm. Her goodbye lingered in the air, but Lucy didn’t respond. She stood near the archway, fingers toying with the hem of her dress, shoulders curving inward like she was trying to make herself smaller.
"Lucy," I said softly.
Her head tilted toward me, but her eyes stayed fixed on the rug beneath her feet. The spark she’d carried all night had dimmed. That soft look—half-dreamy, half-vulnerable—settled across her face. I knew it well.
"Baby girl," I tried again, stepping closer. My voice dropped lower, steadier. "You ready to call it a night?"
She nodded, barely. Her lips twitched into something like a smile before fading fast.
"Alright," I said, keeping my tone calm. Gentle. "Let’s get you upstairs."
I reached for her hand, and her fingers slipped into mine without hesitation. They were warm, pliant, trusting. The guests’ laughter still echoed faintly from outside as we made our way up the stairs, but the house felt quieter now. Quieter, except for the sound of her uneven breathing.
In the hallway, I paused outside the nursery door, turning toward her. Her eyes flickered to mine, wide and waiting. "Do you need help tonight, Lucy?" I asked, careful. Always careful.
"Uh-huh," she murmured, her voice small. Almost shy.
"Okay," I said, pushing the door open.
The familiar scent of lavender and chamomile greeted us, calming and sweet. I let her hand go just long enough to walk over to the dresser, pulling out her favorite pajamas: soft cotton, pale yellow, with little daisies scattered across them. When I turned back, she was standing in the middle of the room, her hands clasped in front of her, swaying slightly on her bare feet.
"Come here," I said, my voice quiet but firm.
She hesitated for only a moment before crossing the space between us. Her movements were smaller now, slower, like she was shedding the last traces of the evening’s excitement with every step.
"Arms up," I instructed, holding the pajama top in my hands.
She obeyed without a word, lifting her arms above her head. I tugged the fabric of her dress upward, careful not to rush her. The material pooled at my feet, leaving her in her slip.
"Good girl," I murmured, and the tension in her shoulders melted away.
I slid the pajama top over her head, smoothing it down as her arms found their way through the sleeves. She looked up at me then, her green eyes glassy, searching.
"Better?" I asked, brushing a strand of auburn hair from her cheek.
"Better," she whispered, her voice soft and full of trust.
"Sit," I told her, nodding toward the cushioned chair by the window.
She moved to sit without question, and I crouched in front of her, taking her feet in my hands one at a time. The socks came off first, then the tights, leaving her legs bare and delicate in the dim light. I reached for the pajama bottoms, guiding her feet through the openings and sliding them up her legs.
"Stand up for me," I said.
She rose slowly, letting me pull the waistband into place. When I was done, she sank back into the chair, curling her legs beneath her.
"Is that what you needed?" I asked, kneeling in front of her again.
"Yes," she said, her voice barely audible. Her gaze drifted past me for a moment, unfocused, before returning. "Thank you, Daddy."
"Always," I said, cupping her cheek in my hand. Her skin was warm beneath my palm, soft and familiar.
Her breathing evened out as I stayed there, grounded and steady for her. These moments—when the world fell away and it was just Lucy and me—always left me breathless. The intimacy of it, the trust, the weight of being the one she leaned on—it was everything. And I’d never take it for granted.
There was something in the way she looked at me. Something impossible tender. Something raw.
I leaned in, brushing my lips against hers—a gentle kiss that slowly deepened as she parted for me. Her hands came up to grip my shoulders, pulling me closer until I was half in the chair with her, our bodies pressed together.
“Do you need something more, Baby Girl?”
"I need you," she whispered against my mouth. "Please . . ."
I knew that tone, the aching vulnerability beneath the surface. Scooping her into my arms, I carried her to the bed, laying her down with reverence. She looked up at me, eyes dark with want, as I undressed us both.
"You're so perfect," I murmured, trailing kisses along her neck, her collarbone. "I love every single part of you, baby girl."
A soft moan escaped her lips as I caressed her breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks. I took my time worshipping her body, savoring each sigh and shiver my touch elicited. When I finally settled between her thighs, she was quivering with need.
"Please, Daddy . . ." Her hips canted toward me. "I want you inside."
Slowly, I pushed into her warmth, groaning at the exquisite feel of her. We moved together, tender and passionate, lost in the intimacy. I nipped at her lower lip, losing myself in her taste.
"That's it, baby," I praised as she tilted her hips to take me deeper. "You feel so good."
Her nails raked down my back as the pleasure built, our bodies finding a primal rhythm. I angled my hips just right and she cried out, clenching around me as her orgasm crashed through her.
"Daddy, please . . ." she panted. "I want . . . I need you in my ass. Please fuck me there."
I stilled, searching her lust-clouded gaze. "You're sure?"
"Yes, god yes. I want to feel you everywhere. Please. . . ."
Grabbing the lube from the nightstand, I slicked my fingers and circled her puckered entrance. She shivered, pushing back against my touch. I worked her open slowly, carefully, until she was writhing beneath me.
"I'm ready," she whimpered. "I need your cock. I can't wait anymore. . . ."
I positioned myself at her entrance, my tip nudging against her. "Breathe, baby. Nice and slow."
With that, I pushed in gradually, giving her time to adjust to the stretch. She moaned low in her throat, her body yielding to the intrusion. Once I was fully seated, I paused, letting her acclimate.
"God, you're so tight," I groaned, fighting the urge to just take her hard and fast. "You feel incredible."
"More," she demanded, pushing back to take me deeper. "I want to feel all of you."
I obliged her, setting a faster pace, my hands gripping her hips, her nails digging into the headboard above her. Her every moan spurred me on, my balls tightening with the urgency to come.
Lucy turned her head, her eyes locking with mine. "Wanna know a secret?" she panted.
"What's that?" I managed between thrusts.
"I've always fantasized about this. About you taking me like this. Filling me up and making me yours."
I moved fastr, drawing out each thrust, savoring the feeling of her tight heat enveloping me. She was so responsive, her moans spurring me on. With each plunge, she met my thrusts, her ass clenching around my cock. I could feel her relaxing around me, her resistance giving way to mind-numbing pleasure.
"Marcus, I never . . . touch me," she gasped.
Picking up the pace, I slid my hand between her legs, finding her clit. Lucy's back arched and she screamed out in ecstasy, her walls gripping me tighter than before.
"You like that, don't you, baby?" I growled in her ear. "You like it when Daddy touches your pussy."
"Yes, yes! Fuck me, Daddy! Make me yours!"
Giving into her pleas, I pounded into her harder, the sound of our bodies colliding echoing through the room. Sweat coated our skin as we pushed each other higher and higher. Her cries of pleasure spurred me on, driving me to new heights of lust and desire.
"I'm . . . going . . . to come!" she panted, her body tensing beneath me.
That was all I needed to hear. With a final, hard thrust, I came, filling her ass with my cum, the most incredible release I'd ever experienced. The sensation was unlike anything I'd ever felt before, and I collapsed on top of her, both of us panting and spent.
“I love you,” she whispered. “I love how caring you are. How dirty. I love how you fuck me. I love how you play with me. I love it all. You make me feel . . . like this is home.”
As I kissed her, saw her engagement ring glint in the low light, I knew that I was the luckiest man in the world.