Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Julia
His body covers mine like a living shield, all solid muscle and barely contained power.
I should be terrified after what just happened—strangers breaking in, violence erupting in my peaceful bookstore.
Instead, I'm trembling with something else entirely.
The way Butch protected me without hesitation, the primal look in his eyes when he returned…
it awakens something in me I never knew existed.
Something that wants to submit to his strength, to be claimed and kept safe by this mountain of a man who keeps calling me his.
"You're shaking again,” he murmurs, his rough palm cupping my cheek. "You okay, sweetheart?"
The tenderness in his voice contrasts sharply with the violence I know those hands are capable of. Violence he used to protect me. My throat tightens with emotion.
"Yes," I whisper, turning my face to press a kiss into his palm. "Because of you."
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, wonder. Like he can't believe I'm looking at him with gratitude instead of fear. He dips his head, capturing my mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly blazes into something hungry and desperate.
"When I heard that crash," he says against my lips, "all I could think was keeping you safe. Protecting what's mine."
Mine. The word doesn't feel possessive anymore. It feels like belonging.
"Thank you," I breathe, arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer. "I've never felt so protected."
His large hand slides down my side, settling on my hip. "Never gonna let anything happen to you. You know that, right?"
I nod, overwhelmed by the certainty in his voice. Three days ago, I was alone, running my little bookstore, living my quiet life. Now this man—this intense, possessive, overwhelming man—has crashed into my existence and turned everything upside down.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs, pressing kisses along my jaw. "My good girl. So perfect for me."
The praise washes over me like warm honey, making me arch into him instinctively. Every "good girl" from his lips feels like a gift, like validation I never knew I craved.
"I like when you say that," I admit, blushing at my own confession.
His smile is knowing, a little wicked. "What part? That you're mine? That you're good? Or..." his voice drops lower, "that you're daddy's girl?"
My breath catches at the word "daddy," heat flooding my core.
"All of it," I whisper, honesty spilling from me. "I like all of it."
He groans, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're going to be the death of me, Julia. So innocent, yet you respond to me like you were made for me."
Maybe I was. The thought floats through my mind, unbidden but undeniable.
His hand slips beneath my cardigan, warm palm against my bare stomach. "Think about it sometimes," he murmurs. "How you'd look carrying my baby. All round and full. Everyone would know you're mine, claimed in the most primal way."
The words send a shock of pleasure through me so intense I gasp. What's happening to me? I've never thought about pregnancy, motherhood, as something erotic. Yet his breeding talk makes me clench with want, makes me imagine myself swollen with his child.
"Butch..." I don't know what I'm asking for, but he seems to understand.
"I know, baby. I know." His thumb traces circles on my skin, dipping just beneath the waistband of my skirt. "You like when daddy talks about putting his baby in you? About filling you up, making you mine forever?"
I nod, unable to form words, embarrassed by how much his crude talk affects me.
"Don't be shy," he coaxes, eyes locked on mine. "Not with me. Never with me. Tell daddy what you want."
The power imbalance between us should make me uncomfortable—his massive size compared to my petite frame, his rough experience versus my innocence, his commanding presence against my natural shyness.
Instead, it thrills me in ways I never imagined.
Makes me feel small and precious and protected all at once.
"I want you," I admit, the words barely audible. "All of you."
His eyes darken with hunger. "My sweet angel. So brave for daddy."
When his mouth meets mine again, I surrender completely. My body responds to his touch like it's been waiting for him all my life, arching into every caress, trembling beneath his experienced hands.
"You like that I'm old enough to be your father, don’t you?"
The blunt acknowledgment should douse the heat between us. Instead, it makes me squirm beneath him, desire pooling low in my belly.
"Yes," I admit. "I don’t know why, but I do."
His smile is slow, knowing. "Because you like it when I call you 'good girl.' Like it when daddy praises you, protects you, promises to breed you full."
My face flames, but I don't deny it. Can't deny it.
"My sweet, innocent bookworm," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Falling for a beast like me."
"Not a beast," I correct him, reaching up to trace the scar near his eyebrow. "Just a man. My man."
The possessive pronoun makes his eyes flare with heat. "Say it again."
"My man," I repeat, bolder now. "Mine."
He growls, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine. "And you're mine. My girl. My angel. Mine to protect, mine to pleasure, mine to keep."
His possessive growl sends electric currents racing through my body. I gasp as his mouth crashes down on mine again, hungrier this time, his large hands gripping my waist. Then he's moving, sliding down my body, his eyes never leaving mine as he sinks to his knees before me.
"Need to taste you," he rumbles, his rough hands pushing my skirt up around my waist. "Been thinking about this since I first saw you."
"Butch," I whisper, suddenly shy despite everything we've already done.
"Spread your legs for daddy," he commands. His command sends another wave of heat through me. I hesitate only a moment before obeying, parting my knees as I sit on the edge of the couch.
"Good girl," he praises, his large hands sliding up my inner thighs. "So obedient for daddy."
I should be embarrassed—exposed like this, his intense gaze focused between my legs—but the hunger in his eyes makes me feel powerful instead. Desired. Treasured.
"So pretty," he murmurs, thumbs gently parting me.
"Pink and perfect and all mine."When his mouth touches me, I jolt like I've been shocked, a gasp tearing from my throat.
Nothing—not the romance novels I've devoured, not my limited experiences, not my wildest imaginings—has prepared me for the sensation of Butch's tongue against my most intimate place.
"Oh!" I cry out, hands flying to grip his shoulders.
He looks up at me, his eyes dark with desire, mouth hovering just above where I'm aching for him. "Too much?"
"N-no," I stammer, face burning. "Just…intense."
His smile is pure masculine satisfaction. "Just wait, baby. Gonna get so much better."
Then his mouth is on me again, his tongue exploring with devastating precision.
I've never felt anything like this—the wet heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my inner thighs, the low growls he makes that vibrate through my core.
My head falls back, eyes closing as sensations overwhelm me.
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let daddy make you feel good."
His large hands grip my thighs, keeping them spread wide for his assault. I should feel vulnerable, exposed, but instead I feel cherished, worshipped. Each stroke of his tongue draws sounds from me I didn't know I could make—little whimpers and gasps that seem to fuel his enthusiasm.
When he focuses on that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it with deliberate pressure, my hips buck involuntarily. One of his hands moves to my lower belly, pressing down gently but firmly, holding me in place.
"Stay still for daddy," he commands, the vibration of his words sending new shocks of pleasure through me. "Take what I'm giving you."
I try to obey, but it's impossible. The pressure is building inside me, a coiling tension that makes my thighs tremble. When he slides a thick finger inside me while still working me with his tongue, I cry out his name, my hands moving to tangle in his hair.
"That's it," he encourages, adding a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way. "Show me how good it feels. Show daddy how much you love his mouth on your pretty little pussy."
The crude words, spoken in his gravelly voice, push me closer to the edge. I've never been spoken to like this—raw and filthy and completely unfiltered—and the effect is intoxicating.
"Please," I whimper, not even sure what I'm begging for.
"Please what, baby? Tell daddy what you need."
"I need…I need to..." I can't form the words, too overwhelmed by sensation.
He seems to understand anyway. His fingers curl inside me, finding a spot that makes stars burst behind my eyelids, while his tongue increases its pressure and speed.
"Come for me," he commands. "Come on daddy's tongue like a good girl."
The orgasm crashes over me, more intense than anything I've ever felt. My thighs clamp around his head as waves of pleasure pulse through me, my vision going white at the edges. I'm crying out his name, over and over, as he works me through it, not letting up until I'm trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls away, his beard is glistening with evidence of my pleasure.
He looks utterly primitive, utterly male, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smiles up at me with predatory satisfaction.
He gathers my limp body to him and strokes my head like I’m nothing more than a little kitten.
“Sleep now, baby. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”