Chapter 13 Ava
Chapter thirteen
Ava
It’s been a few days since the flower incident.
No more notes, no more bouquets—nothing.
Saying Elijah’s been on edge would be putting it mildly.
That day, he practically camped out in the shop, eyeing every man who came near the counter like they were a suspect and making tense phone calls.
I’m almost certain I heard him speaking Italian at one point.
It took some serious persuading to convince him to let us open to the public. Eventually, Asher stepped in and told him he’d handle the studio so Elijah could stay close to me.
He’s settled down a little now—or at least, that’s what he wants me to believe.
I have to admit that there’s something deeply comforting about how seriously he takes my safety. It makes me feel protected—loved in a way that’s hard to put into words. And if I’m honest, part of me is drawn to this more dominant side of him.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m completely smitten with his usual cinnamon-roll-like sweetness.
That warm, soft-hearted charm is part of what drew me in.
But this? This quiet intensity, the way he steps into a protective role without hesitation—it’s stirring something in me I didn’t expect.
Feelings I’d only ever associated with fictional characters, the kind I read about in books…
like the one I’m finishing now. One I shelved behind the counter and kept glancing at like it had teeth.
Like if I opened it, it might bite—or worse, awaken something. But I took it home last night.
And I finished it this afternoon, legs curled on the couch, heart pounding as I read every filthy, delicious, strangely tender page.
It wasn’t just the sex. It was the tone. The devotion. The trust. The raw, instinctive care. The way she called him Daddy, and how he owned it. How it made her feel safe, powerful, and loved.
It did something to me. I’m still holding the book in my lap when Elijah walks in, smelling like cedar and ink and that aftershave that makes my knees weak.
He drops his keys in the bowl and pauses when he sees my face.
“You okay?” he asks, cocking his head.
I nod too quickly. “Mhm. Yep.” I say making the ‘p’ pop
His eyes narrow. “What are you reading?”
I lift the book slowly, the cover giving away everything. The title is bold, suggestive—no way to play it off. “Claimed By Daddy” by JL Quick
He raises an eyebrow, walks closer. “Oh? This kind of mood?”
I roll my eyes, already warm under the skin. “It’s just fiction.”
“Uh huh,” he says, sliding a finger under the spine and tugging it from my hands. “Let me guess. Hot guy with tattoos. Growly. Overprotective. And she calls him… what, exactly?”
I try not to squirm. “You read too much into things.” I try to deflect, no news here.
He skims a page, eyes flicking across the text. Then he stops. His mouth curves.
“Daddy, huh?”
I glare at him, but I’m smiling, caught.
Elijah tosses the book on the coffee table and sinks down onto the couch beside me. “Didn’t know that was your thing.”
“It’s not,” I say. Then I pause. “I don’t know. Maybe it is? I’m curious.” The strings of words just keep coming out of my mouth.
His hand finds my thigh, squeezing gently. “You nervous to say it?” I look at him—his inked forearms, his cocky smirk, the way he always watches me like I’m his whole galaxy, and I'm only capable of nodding.
“Give it a try then” - he encourages me.
“Come on, try it, it's okay. Try it and see how you feel when you say it, when you say it to me.” His voice is calm, without a hint of judgment.
And I try it.
“Daddy,” I say softly, the word like velvet in my throat.
Something snaps behind his eyes. He exhales like he’s just been punched in the gut—in the best way.
“Oh fuck,” he murmurs, voice low and reverent.
I shift toward him, bolder now. “You like that?”
His grip tightens. “Ava. Say that again, and I won’t be responsible for what happens tonight.”
Apparently, I have an inner brat. It’s the only explanation for why the next words out of my mouth are:
“Please, Daddy…” I whisper my gaze slightly lowered in submission
He groans, dragging me into his lap, and suddenly his mouth is on mine—hot, claiming, starving. His hands find my hips, my waist, sliding under the dress I sometimes wear at home, with that rough gentleness that ruins me.
His lips hover just above mine, breath warm, teasing. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint. “All that sweet little sass—and now this?”
I arch into him, fingers gripping his shirt. “You’re the one who told me to say it.”
“Yeah,” he growls, “but I didn’t know it would sound so sinful on your lips.”
He dips his head, mouth brushing along my jaw, down the side of my neck, slow and deliberate. I shiver beneath him, every nerve awake and waiting. His hand slides under my thigh, lifting, guiding, until I’m straddling his lap.
“You’re dangerous like this,” he murmurs against my skin. “All flushed and curious and looking at me like I might be your next chapter.”
I grin, breathless. “That depends—do you like happy endings?”
He laughs, low and wicked. “Baby, I'll write us one. We will write one together.”
Then his hands are on my hips, gripping tight, guiding the slow grind of my body against his.
I can feel him—hard, restrained, holding back like he’s determined to savor this.
His mouth crashes into mine again, messier now, hungrier, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise and a dare all at once.
I gasp against him as he pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes again. “You still okay?”
“Yes,” I whisper, breath hitching. “More than okay.”
His eyes darken, and his voice drops an octave—slow, commanding, lethal.
“How do good girls answer their Daddy?”
My brain short-circuits. My god—my panties just disintegrated. Poof. Gone. Vaporized by that voice alone.
I take a steadying breath, pulse racing, and answer him, my voice just above a whisper.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, voice rough, threaded with something darker—possessive, reverent. “I want to hear you say it again. And this time…” His hand slips beneath the hem of my dress, fingers dragging fire up the curve of my spine, slow and claiming. “Say you’re mine.”
My breath catches. “Yours?”
He kisses the corner of my mouth—soft, teasing—then my cheek, then just beneath my ear, where his voice drops to a whisper that makes my skin shiver.
“In every way that counts. You just didn’t know it yet.”
I tilt my head, eyes fluttering closed as my body arches instinctively toward him. There’s a pulse between my legs, deep and insistent, begging for more—for him.
“I want to,” I whisper. “ I want to know it.”
He stills, just for a moment, like he’s waiting for me. Then his hand slides to my waist, grip tightening. “Then say it, baby. Who do you belong to?”
I meet his eyes—dark, hungry, patient in a way that tells me he’d wait forever for me to be ready, but hopes to God I’m not going to make him wait any longer. My lips part, and I say it, a little shaky but true nonetheless.
“I’m yours, Daddy.”
He groans low in his throat, like the sound wrecks him. Then his mouth is on mine—urgent, claiming, and full of promise. His hands roam like he already owns me, and I let him. Because he does.
But even in the middle of all that fire, there’s something else—something quiet and certain beneath it.
This isn’t just playing pretend. This is a discovery. This is us.
“You don’t have to know what you want yet,” he breathes against my mouth. “We can figure it out. Together.”
“I think I want to… I want to… try,” I whisper.
He pulls back just enough to look me in the eyes. “You sure?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The growl he makes sends heat straight through me and I feel it—not just the heat, but the safety. The way he handles me like I’m both breakable and his.
Like maybe this isn’t just a fantasy. Like maybe it’s a part of me that was just waiting for the right man to coax it out.
He kisses me like he’s starving. His hands slide under my dress again, palms warm, rough in all the right ways. When his thumbs brush beneath the curve of my bra, I gasp—and that’s all the invitation he needs.
“Off,” he commands against my lips, tugging at the hem. I raise my arms, breathless, and he peels it off me like unwrapping his favorite toy. His eyes roam over me with a heat that makes my whole body flush.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “You’re perfect.”
I start to roll my eyes—deflect the compliment like I always do—but he catches my intention.
Before I know it, his hand is around my neck, not tight—just enough to make my breath catch, to send a spike of awareness straight through me. My eyes widen, my body going still under his touch, every nerve dialed up to ten.
His gaze pins me, voice low and dangerous.
“Remember what I told you last time you rolled your eyes at me?”
A shiver rips down my spine. I nod slowly, heart hammering.
His grip tightens ever so slightly, just enough to claim more of my focus. “Uh-uh, princess. Use your words.”
“Yes, Daddy, I remember” I breathe, my voice shaky but obedient.
“Good girl.” His thumb strokes along the side of my throat—reassuring, grounding—even as his eyes burn with intent.
“Know that I won’t tolerate bratty without consequences.
And rolling those pretty eyes when I’m about to worship you?
” He tsks, shaking his head. “Not very grateful.
The only time you're allowed to roll your eyes is when you cum for me. Understood?” He demands
Heat coils low in my belly, a delicious mix of guilt and want. I nod and whisper, “I’m sorry Daddy.”
He leans in close, lips brushing mine, teasing. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure you learn.”