Chapter 6
six
. . .
Julia
He carries me like I weigh nothing, my legs wrapped around his waist, his massive hands supporting my thighs.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I worry he can feel it where our chests press together.
Seventy-two hours ago, Butch Hale was just the gruff security installer.
Now he's claiming me as his, carrying me to the back office with possession burning in his eyes, and God help me—I want him to.
The small office feels even smaller with him in it. He kicks the door shut behind us, the sound making me jump. Rain continues to lash against the single window, creating a cocoon of sound around us. Isolated. Cut off from the world.
He lowers me onto the small couch, but doesn't join me. Instead, he stands back, those intense eyes raking over me from head to toe. I should feel exposed, scrutinized. Instead, I feel…cherished.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice rough like gravel. "Fucking perfect."
Heat floods my cheeks. No one has ever looked at me this way—like I'm precious and rare. My whole life I've been ordinary Julia Carter, the quiet girl who loves books more than people. But in Butch's eyes, I'm something else entirely.
"I'm not," I whisper, unable to hold his gaze.
He's beside me in an instant, one large hand tilting my chin up. "Don't do that. Don't contradict me when I tell you how perfect you are."
The command in his voice sends a shiver through me. This is nothing like the fumbling boys I've kissed before, with their uncertain touches and awkward compliments. Butch speaks with absolute conviction.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he continues, his thumb brushing my lower lip. "How hard it's been not to take you, claim you, since the first moment I saw you on that ladder."
My breath catches. "Why didn't you?"
A smile crosses his face—predatory, possessive. "Because I want you willing. Want you begging for it. Want you so desperate for me you forget every other man exists."
His words should offend me. Should sound controlling, domineering. Instead, they ignite something in my core, something hot and needy I've never felt before.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips against my neck. "So sweet. So innocent. Going to ruin you for anyone else."
Good girl. The praise washes over me like warm honey, making me melt against him. His large hand spans my waist, fingers nearly meeting around me.
"So tiny," he growls against my skin. "Going to look so beautiful swollen with my baby."
The words should shock me. Should remind me how fast this is moving, how little I know him. Instead, they send a flood of heat between my legs, a primal response I don't understand.
"Butch," I gasp, not knowing what else to say.
"Say it again." His teeth graze my pulse point. "Say my name."
"Butch," I repeat, my voice breathier this time.
He rewards me with a low groan, his hand sliding up to cup my breast through my cardigan. Even through layers of fabric, his touch burns.
"Perfect," he murmurs. "So responsive. So good for me."
Each praise unravels me further. I've never thought of myself as beautiful or desirable, but the way he looks at me, touches me, makes me feel like the most gorgeous woman alive.
"You're trembling," he observes, pulling back slightly to look at me. “Don’t you know Daddy is going to take care of that little virgin pussy for you?”
I whimper and press my legs together at the sudden heat there.
"I'll make it good for you," he promises, his hand moving to cradle my face. "Make you feel things you never knew existed. But we don't have to rush."
The tenderness in his voice surprises me. This massive, intense man who growled about breeding me minutes ago now touches me like I'm made of glass.
Outside, the storm rages on, rain beating against the window in sheets. The world beyond this room feels distant, unreal. It's just us, suspended in this strange bubble of time.
"What if," I start, then hesitate. "What if when the storm ends, this does too? What if it's just the isolation, the forced proximity?"
He stills, his eyes darkening. “Did you not understand what I told you back there? This isn't about the storm. This is about you and me. About what happened the second I walked into your store and saw you. About what's been building for three days."
Three days. Has it only been three days? It feels like I've known him forever, like he's been imprinted on my soul.
"I'm scared of how fast this is happening," I confess. "How intense it is."
"Some things are meant to be intense." His thumb strokes my cheek. "Some people are meant to crash into each other's lives and change everything."
The certainty in his voice is both terrifying and comforting.
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"I just am.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "I know you're meant to be mine."
Mine. The word echoes in my head, making my pulse race.
"You're so young," he says, a hint of wonder in his voice. "So innocent. Could have anyone you wanted. Why would you want a scarred old bastard like me?"
The vulnerability in his question catches me off guard. For all his dominance, his possessiveness, there's insecurity there too.
"Because you make me feel safe," I answer honestly. "Because when you look at me, I feel beautiful for the first time in my life."
Something shifts in his expression—softens, just for a moment. Then he's kissing me again, but different from before. Not claiming or possessing. Worshipping.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, coaxing them open. I yield to him, letting him deepen the kiss, teach me what he likes. His groan of approval when I tentatively suck on his tongue makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs against my mouth. "Learning so fast. Going to be perfect for daddy, aren't you?"
Daddy. The word should feel wrong, taboo. Instead, it makes me press closer to him, seeking more contact.
His hand slides under my cardigan, fingers skimming bare skin at my waist. Every touch is electric, sending shivers up my spine. When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I gasp into his mouth.
"Sensitive," he observes, eyes darkening with desire. "Every part of you responding to me."
I should be embarrassed by how obvious my reactions are. Should try to maintain some dignity. Instead, I arch into his touch, silently begging for more.
"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," he coaxes, thumb circling closer to my nipple without quite touching. "Need to hear you say it."
I bite my lip, uncertain how to ask for things I've never experienced.
"Don't know how to ask?" His voice drops lower. "That's okay. I'll teach you. Teach you how to beg for what you need."
The thought of begging—of being so desperate I lose all pride—should horrify me. Instead, it makes me press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache building there.
"For now, just tell me if you want me to stop," he says, his eyes serious despite the desire burning in them. "Say the word and I'll back off."
The consideration behind his words—the respect for my boundaries despite his obvious need—makes my decision for me.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please."
His smile is pure male satisfaction. "Good girl. So polite. So perfect."
He kisses me again, his cock pushing urgently against my stomach.
He takes my mouth like he owns it, tongue commanding mine, setting the pace.
My body ignites everywhere he touches—shoulder, waist, hip, thigh.
His hands are everywhere, greedy but careful, kneading and stroking, mapping me like he means to memorize my every line.
I reach for the buttons on his shirt, fingers clumsy, desperate, and he lets me, a low growl of approval vibrating through both of us. Each button I undo reveals more of his chest—the hard muscle, the scars and ink. When my palm lands on warm skin, he shudders.
"That's right," he rumbles. "Touch me, sweetheart. Take what you want."
I want everything. I want to know what it’s like to crave another person so much you forget your own name.
His hands slide beneath my skirt, up the backs of my thighs. He finds the edge of my underwear and tears it away in one easy movement. I gasp at the sound, then at the feeling: his fingers tracing the slick heat between my legs, sliding gently over sensitive flesh.
"So wet for me," he says, almost in awe. "You need to be touched, don't you? Need daddy's fingers before you can take daddy's cock."
The words make me moan, and he rewards me by slipping a thick finger inside, then another. My body clenches around him, greedy for more.
My hands splay across his chest, nails digging into muscle when he curls his fingers just right.
"Good girl," he praises, pumping slow, relentless. "You gonna come on my hand?"
I nod, helpless.
"Say it," he orders, thumb circling my clit with rough intent. "Tell daddy what you need."
"I want—" I choke on a gasp, my hips bucking. "Please, I want to come. Please, daddy."
He groans, his lips crashing to mine as he works me faster. My body bows under him, stars exploding behind my eyes. I come apart on his hand, pulsing hard, my cries muffled by his mouth. He doesn't stop, prolonging the sensation until I'm shaking, wrecked and pliant.
Only then does he pull his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth. He licks them clean, watching me the entire time.
"Sweetest thing I've ever tasted," he says, voice thick.
I whimper, boneless on the couch.
He stands abruptly, undoing his belt and pushing his jeans low. His cock springs free—thick, flushed, massive. My mouth goes dry. How is that supposed to fit?
He must sense my panic, because he kneels in front of me, crowding between my knees, hands gentle as he strokes my cheek.
"You can take me, Julia. You're built for it. Made for me."
He lines himself up, the broad head nudging at my entrance. His eyes lock on mine, searching for permission, for fear. When I nod, he grins, animal and triumphant.
He pushes in—slow, careful, the stretch both pain and pleasure. I grab his biceps, nails digging in, and he pauses, letting me adjust.
"That's my good girl," he whispers, kissing—into my neck, my ear, my temple. "Taking me so well. Stretching around me just right."
I gasp as he pushes deeper, filling me inch by excruciating inch. The pain is sharp but fading quickly, replaced by a fullness I've never imagined. My body yields to him, accepting what he gives me even as my mind struggles to comprehend the intensity.
"B-Butch," I stammer, overwhelmed by sensation.
"Right here, baby." His voice is strained, muscles in his neck corded with the effort of restraint. "Daddy's right here."
When he's fully seated inside me, he stills, his forehead pressed against mine, breath coming in harsh pants. I can feel his heartbeat through where we're joined, a primal rhythm that seems to sync with my own racing pulse.
"Mine," he growls, one hand gripping my hip while the other cups my face. "Mine now. Forever."
The possessiveness in his voice should frighten me. Instead, it makes me clench around him, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
"That's it," he encourages, beginning to move in shallow thrusts. “I’m yours, baby. Take what's yours too."
Mine. The thought that this powerful, intense man belongs to me is dizzying. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper.
"Good girl," he praises, his pace increasing. "Such a perfect little pussy. Made for me. Made to take my cum."
His dirty words send another rush of heat through me. I've never been spoken to like this—raw and filthy and completely unfiltered. It makes me feel desired in a way I never knew was possible.
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm asking for.
He seems to understand anyway. One hand slides between us, thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves above where we're joined. "Gonna come for me again? Squeeze this cock while I fill you up?"
The pressure builds quickly, spiraling tighter with each thrust. His movements become more urgent, less controlled. The couch creaks beneath us, a counterpoint to the storm still raging outside.
"That's it," he urges when I cry out, my body beginning to tremble. "Let go. Come for daddy."
The orgasm crashes over me with unexpected force, making me arch against him, nails digging into his shoulders. He growls in response, hips snapping harder, faster.
"Fuck," he snarls, his rhythm faltering. "Take my cum, sweetheart. All of it. Every fucking drop."
I feel him pulse inside me, the hot rush of his release triggering aftershocks that make me gasp. He collapses over me, careful to brace his weight on his forearms, his face buried in my neck.
For long moments, there's only the sound of our ragged breathing and the rain against the window. I've never felt so completely possessed, so utterly claimed. His weight on me feels right—like he's anchoring me to earth when I might otherwise float away.
And for the first time, I feel completely safe.