5. GEORGIE
GEORGIE
Warmth surrounds me when consciousness creeps in, but it's the aroma that fully pulls me from sleep—rich coffee, butter melting on something carb-heavy, the unmistakable scent of bacon crisping. My stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead.
The other side of the bed sits empty, sheets cool to the touch. Gavin's already up.
Every muscle protests as I sit, a delicious ache settled deep between my thighs and radiating through my core. Evidence of last night—this morning, really—painted across my body in tender spots and pleasant soreness. The kind that makes me bite my lip, remembering exactly how I earned each twinge.
His robe hangs on a hook near the door, expensive silk that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe. The fabric slides cool against my skin as I slip it on, drowning in material that smells like him—cedar and smoke and something darkly masculine that makes my pulse kick up.
Barefoot, I pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. The house sprawls larger in daylight filtering through massive windows, all clean lines and modern edges softened by unexpected touches of comfort. Nothing like the cold, sterile mansion I expected a crime boss to inhabit.
Male voices drift from the kitchen, low and professional.
"—tomorrow's delivery confirmed. I'll have Marcus handle the?—"
"That's fine. Thank you." Gavin's gravelly rumble cuts through, dismissive but not unkind.
I pause at the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of my disheveled appearance—sex hair, borrowed robe, probably wearing my activities from the past few hours like a neon sign.
But then Gavin glances up from his coffee mug and pins me with those dark gray eyes, and everything else dissolves. The man across from him—older, wearing chef's whites—follows his gaze and has the good sense to look away quickly.
"Leave us." Gavin doesn't raise his voice or shift his attention from me.
The cook nods once, professional and efficient, gathering his things and disappearing through a side door without a word. Smart man.
"Come here, baby girl."
My feet move before conscious thought kicks in, carrying me across gleaming hardwood to where he stands leaning against the marble counter. He sets his mug down and reaches for me, large hands spanning my waist through the silk.
"How are you feeling?" His thumb traces small circles against my ribs, surprisingly gentle for someone who literally had me kidnapped and brought to a warehouse yesterday.
Was it only yesterday?
"Sore." The admission slips out softer than intended. "But good. A good kind of sore."
Something flickers through his expression, satisfaction and possessiveness mingling in the slight upturn of his mouth. "Good."
He pulls out a chair at the breakfast bar, settling me onto it before moving to the stove where covered dishes wait.
The spread he uncovers makes my jaw drop—fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon, golden hash browns, fresh fruit cut into precise pieces, toast with butter melting into every pore.
"You didn't make this." The statement emerges without filter.
He raises an eyebrow, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. "What gave it away?"
"You don't strike me as the domestic type."
"Smart girl." He plates food with practiced efficiency, piling more than I could possibly eat onto my dish before fixing his own. "But I can cook when necessary. Survival skill."
The casual admission settles heavy between us. Right. Crime boss. Probably grew up in situations where cooking meant staying alive.
We eat in comfortable silence for several minutes, and I try not to moan at flavors exploding across my tongue. Real food. Not instant ramen or dining hall mystery meat or the protein bars I'd been living on between classes and pumping sessions.
"Tell me about your studies." Gavin's question comes between bites, conversational but genuinely interested.
"Business management. Sophomore year." I spear a piece of melon. "Nothing exciting. Lots of theory, some practical application courses. Marketing, finance, organizational behavior."
"Why business?"
The question catches me off-guard. No one asks why. They assume or judge or dismiss.
"Versatile. Opens doors." I shrug, chasing a piece of egg around my plate. "And I'm good with numbers, patterns. Understanding how systems work and finding the gaps."
His eyes sharpen with something I can't quite name. "The gaps?"
"Where things break down. Where money gets lost or processes fail." Warmth creeps up my neck. "I wrote this paper last semester about supply chain inefficiencies in mid-sized companies and my professor said it was the most practical analysis he'd read in years."
Pride blooms in my chest even as embarrassment follows close behind. God, I sound like such a nerd.
"Smartass." But the word carries weight, approval threading through the rough timbre.
"Wouldn't have gotten my scholarship otherwise."
"Friends?" He shifts topics smoothly, cutting into his bacon with surgical precision. "Anyone I should know about?"
I think about my dorm mate who's probably wondering where I disappeared to, the study group that meets Tuesday nights, the girl from Statistics who sometimes shares her lunch.
"Acquaintances mostly. I don't..." The words stick. "I work a lot. Worked. Between classes and my campus job and trying to keep my grades up for scholarship renewal, there wasn't much time for socializing."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "You won't need to work anymore."
"I can't just quit. I need?—"
"Me." The single word drops like a hammer. "You need me. And I've got you now."
The certainty in his voice should terrify me. This man I met yesterday who kidnapped me and then proceeded to fuck me senseless is now declaring himself my sole provider, my protector, my everything.
My Daddy.
Instead, something warm and desperate unfurls in my chest. The constant anxiety of juggling bills and schedules and wondering if I'd have enough for both groceries and textbooks—it all just... stops.
I take a breath. "What about your life?"
"What about it?"
"I shared. Your turn."
His expression shutters, walls slamming into place faster than I can track. "Information like that could put you in danger."
"I'm already in danger. Living in your house, in your bed, wearing your robe. Pretty sure that ship sailed, crashed, and sank."
Silence stretches between us, taut and loaded. Then his mouth curves, not quite a smile but close.
"Definitely a smartass."
"You already established that." I pop a strawberry in my mouth, emboldened by the almost-smile. "So?"
"I run businesses. Some legitimate, most not. I have enemies who would love nothing more than to use you against me." He drains his coffee in one long swallow. "The less you know about specifics, the safer you are."
"But—"
"No." Finality rings through the single syllable. "Not up for negotiation, baby girl."
The endearment softens the refusal slightly, but frustration still simmers under my skin. He wants to know everything about me while remaining a mystery himself.
Before I can argue further, he shifts topics again. "What time is your first class?"
Dread crashes through the pleasant bubble we've been floating in. "Nine."
He glances at the sleek watch on his wrist—probably worth more than my entire year's tuition. "I'll drive you. Pick you up after."
"You don't need to?—"
"I'll have people watching you at all times." He continues as if I haven't spoken. "They'll stay back, give you space, but they'll be there."
The thought of invisible bodyguards trailing me across campus should feel suffocating. Instead, it's almost comforting. No more walking to my car alone in the dark parking lot, no more constantly checking over my shoulder.
"Okay." The agreement slips out easily.
His eyes narrow slightly, as if he expected more resistance. "That's it? No argument?"
"Would it change anything?"
"No."
"Then why waste the energy?" I finish the last bite of hash browns, savoring the crispy edges. "Besides, you're scary when you're determined."
"Only when I need to be." Something dark flickers through his expression. "Never with you."
The promise settles warm in my chest, dangerous and thrilling and completely insane.
"What about..." I gesture vaguely at my chest, where my breasts have started feeling heavy again. "Pumping?"
"How often do you need it?"
"Every three to four hours usually. Sometimes sooner if I'm stressed or it's been a while."
He considers this, calculating something I can't quite follow. "I'll be there at one. We'll have lunch together, take care of you then."
The casual way he claims that responsibility—like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to show up on campus and breastfeed from me between classes—sends electricity zipping down my spine.
"People will see you. With me."
"Good." The single word carries enough possession to make my thighs clench. "Let them."
My Marketing professor drones on about consumer behavior patterns, but the words slide past without sticking. Everything feels surreal, like I'm floating three inches above my body watching someone else's life unfold.
The ache between my legs pulses with each shift in my seat, a constant reminder of Gavin's cock stretching me open, filling me so completely I could barely breathe. My breasts tingle with the phantom sensation of his mouth working me over, tongue and teeth and devastating suction.
No one has ever taken care of me like that. Like I matter more than logistics and convenience.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. A text from an unknown number.
Eating lunch by the east gate. Be there at 1. —G
Warmth floods through me. He programmed my number into his phone at some point, probably while I was still floating in post-orgasmic bliss this morning.
The rest of class drags endlessly. Then Business Law, where I usually take meticulous notes, passes in a blur of half-absorbed information about contracts and liability.