32. Jamison
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
JAMISON
Iwoke slowly, which was unusual enough to be suspicious. No phone vibrating against the bedside table with some fresh Harlan disaster waiting to be handled by blood.
She was naked in front of me, tucked into the curve of my body as if she had been made for that exact place.
My chest pressed to her back. My arm lay over her waist. Her hair spilled across the pillow, messy from my hands, and every hour I had spent learning that I had severely underestimated how much a man could want the same woman after already having her.
Morning light had made its way around the curtains in soft strips. I had closed every window after she fell asleep, then checked the locks myself because apparently loving a woman turned a man into a lunatic about hinges.
I dragged Sienna closer and buried my face against her shoulder.
Fuck.
I felt relaxed.
Her body fit against mine too well. Soft ass against my hips. Spine beneath my chest. Hair tickling my jaw. My thigh slotted behind hers, my arm holding her still as if morning had tried to steal her from me and lost.
I kissed her shoulder.
She made a tiny sleepy sound and shifted deeper into me. My cock responded with the disrespectful enthusiasm of a man who had gone three years without sex and then spent one night inside the woman he should have been worshipping from the beginning.
I kissed up her shoulder to the curve of her neck. Her skin was marked faintly in places I had tried to keep hidden from morning scrutiny and failed because self-control had died sometime after she whispered Daddy and asked me to stay inside her.
She stirred.
I kissed beneath her ear.
“Morning, baby.”
Her breathing changed. A slow little inhale. A sleepy hum. She shifted, and I tightened my arm automatically, keeping her from rolling away too fast.
“Jamison?”
Her voice sounded ruined from sleep and last night.
Mine.
I smiled against her neck. “Yes.”
“What time is it?”
“Too early for anyone who came as hard as you did.”
She went still for half a second, then pushed her face into the pillow. The little movement pleased me more than it should have.
I kissed her temple. “How are you?”
She made a muffled sound into the pillow.
“Words.”
“Sore.”
My hand stilled on her waist. “Bad sore?”
“No.” She turned her face enough to breathe, cheeks already pink. “Just… sore.”
I kissed her shoulder again, slower this time. “How’s my girl’s pussy? Sore from taking Daddy?”
Her whole body warmed against mine. Even half-asleep, she reacted.
Beautiful.
She rolled toward me then, hiding under my jaw as if my neck could save her from the sentence I had already said. Her body curled into my chest, one leg sliding between mine, her face pressed beneath my chin. I gathered her close and held her there, palm spread over the small of her back.
“Baby.”
She made a soft sound.
“That embarrassed?”
“Yes.”
“Still responsive to my voice.”
“Unfortunately.”
I laughed quietly, and the sound seemed to settle over both of us. My hand moved over her back because I could touch her now.
She kissed my neck.
Once.
Then lower, against my chest.
My entire body went quiet.
She felt it. Her lips paused against my skin. “Was that okay?”
She should never have had to ask that.
“Yes.”
Her hand slid slowly up my ribs, then settled over my heart. “I like cuddling you.”
I opened my eyes.
“Who, baby?”
She hid another smile against my chest.
“Sienna.”
“Daddy.”
Good.
The word moved through me lower and softer than it had last night. Less filthy in the morning. More dangerous, maybe, because it arrived with her cheek on my chest and her body curled into mine as if I was something she could rest against.
“Good girl,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head.
She relaxed instantly.
That reaction was going to become a problem.
No, it had already become a problem. I had created a system inside her body in a single night and then discovered my own body answered it just as badly.
Praise softened her. My voice warmed her.
Daddy made her melt. And every time she responded, something in me became more terrified of how badly I had mishandled her affection before.
She had always been affectionate. I had punished that over and over. And now she was careful about kissing my chest in bed. I slid my hand into her hair and held her closer.
She breathed me in.
“Don’t get sad,” she whispered.
“I’m angry.”
“At me?”
“No.”
“At yourself?”
I kissed her hair instead of answering. She understood anyway.
Her fingers moved over my chest, gentle, tracing the edge of a tattoo. “I don’t want to talk about old things this morning.”
“What do you want?”
“To stay here.”
That one I could give her.
I shifted my hand down her back and over the curve of her hip. She was warm everywhere. Mine in a way that still made a rough sound gather in my chest if I thought about it too long.
“Is Daddy dripping out of you?” I asked.
Her body tightened against mine.
There.
Immediate.
I tipped her chin up so I could see her face. Pink cheeks.
“That turned you on.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
She bit back a smile and looked away.
I caught her mouth with mine before she could hide. The kiss was lazy at first. Morning-soft. Then her lips parted, and mine did too, and for several slow seconds I remembered exactly how she had looked beneath me when I filled her. The way her body had clenched.
When I drew back, her eyes were dark.
“Yes, Daddy,” she whispered, voice sweet and filthy enough to make my cock twitch against her thigh. “You are. I can feel you.”
My mind blanked.
Then every wicked part of me woke up delighted.
I stared down at her. “What did you just say?”
She tried to keep her face innocent.
Failed.
A smile curved her mouth, pleased and already too aware of the damage she could do.
“I said yes.”
“You said more than yes.”
“You ask very personal morning questions.”
“You answered very well.”
Her smile grew.
I had created a little brat.”
No, worse. I had uncovered one. She had been waiting underneath all that politeness. Last night I had given her permission to want, and this morning she was sleepy on my chest telling me she could feel me dripping out of her.
I was finished.
Ruined.
I rolled onto my back and pulled her over me, letting her settle across my chest. She came easily, leg sliding over mine, cheek resting over my heart. Her hair spilled across my skin in a dark mess, and I threaded my fingers through it slowly.
She sighed.
That sound did something shameful to me. A contented woman in my arms should not have felt more powerful than a room full of men on their knees, but it did.
Her hand softened on my chest. “You’re warm.”
“I run hot.”
“You do.”
She sounded half asleep already.
I looked down at her, at the curve of her cheek against me. The sheet sat low over her hips, doing a poor job of covering anything. My fingers moved through her hair, detangling gently, because apparently that was another humiliating skill I would now develop.
Hair management.
If Harrison could see me, he would call a priest. Marcel would understand, which was worse.
Sienna’s breathing began to slow.
She was drifting.
On me.
I stayed still because moving felt criminal.
The alarm on her phone went off twenty minutes later. She jolted, then made a wounded sound into my chest. I reached blindly toward the bedside table, found the phone, and silenced it before the second chime could commit further violence.
Sienna lifted her head. “Breakfast.”
“No.”
She blinked. “We have family breakfast at the estate.”
“No.”
“Jamison.”
“They can have lunch and dinner. I’m taking the morning.”
“I shouldn’t miss it. My mother will notice.” Sienna winced and shifted on top of me.
I stilled at once. “Pain?”
“A little. Moving reminded me.”
My hand moved to her hip, holding her steady. “Then you are definitely staying in bed.”
She lowered her face back to my chest. “I don’t want to let go of you yet.”
The sentence landed in me without warning. I stared at the ceiling for a second. Then my arm tightened around her.
“You don’t have to.”
She kissed my chest again, softer than before. “You’ll have to be the mean Crow and keep them away so I can keep laying here.”
“I have been training my whole life for this moment.”
She laughed into my skin. “Poor Reeves.”
“Reeves loves his profession.”
“He did not choose the Bellemere retreat.”
“No sane man would.”
I reached for my phone.
Reeves answered quickly, as always. “Sir.”
“We are skipping breakfast.”
A pause.
Not confusion. Suffering.
“Understood.”
“Relay it to the main house.”
“Which version would you prefer?”
“The accurate one.”
Another pause. “Mr. Crow and Miss Bellemere will be taking breakfast privately at House Alder.”
“Add that we are unavailable until lunch.”
“Unavailable for conversation, obligation, organized activity, surprise family traditions, or all known forms of Bellemere enthusiasm?”
Sienna’s shoulders shook against my chest.
I glanced down at her. “All known forms of Bellemere enthusiasm.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And send breakfast here. Enough for her.”
“For you?”
“Coffee. Whiskey if this family attempts contact before eleven.”
“Sadly, the household staff may resist whiskey before noon.”
“Then educate them.”
Reeves exhaled, faintly. A man suffering beneath his skill level. “I will see what can be done.”
“You sound strained.”
“I am currently standing beside a table containing seven varieties of breakfast preserves and a handwritten chart identifying which aunt made each one.”
Sienna lifted her head, whispering, “That’s the jam chart.”
I covered the phone slightly. “They chart jam?”
Well they could keep their jam charts away from me.
“They’re very serious about it.” She said tracing my chest. This family needed to be studied. That was coming from someone with a bloodline that was regularly studied.
“Reeves can you add to your already busy day. That no one comes to House Alder.”
His tone shifted. “Understood.”
“Good.” I ended the call and set the phone aside.