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"You hungry?"

It’s not food he’s offering. I know it. My body knows it.

I nod.

He gets out, walks around, and opens my door.

I slide down, legs shaky as he guides me to the floor, and I’m already out of his arms heading for the door. The second my sandals hit the porch, he’s behind me. Big Daddy. Hot Daddy.

Dangerous Cowboy Daddy.

Inside, the kitchen smells like old wood smoke, like it’s soaked into the walls from decades of the cast iron stove heating the house. He sets my backpack down, opens the fridge, and pulls out a bottle of water.

Then he turns, holding it to my lips.

“Drink. You need to super hydrate if you’re gonna produce enough for me. I’m not a fucking baby, you need enough to fill me up, so we’re going to get you on a full new regime. You’re my little milker now.”

He tips the bottle upward as the cool liquid spreads over my tongue. I swallow greedily, unaware of how thirsty I was until the water washes down.

He pulls it away, letting me breathe, the hardness around his eyes softening as he holds my throat in his other hand.

“I want to feel you take in what I’m giving you. I’m going to be the one responsible for all your needs from now on. And you will eat what I make for you. No more cereal, especially when I make you a happy plate of a healthy breakfast.”

I finish the next swallow as he lowers the bottle again.

“You remember that?” Embarrassment heats my cheeks.

“Yeah, I fucking remember that. You stabbed me in the heart that day. And many of the days after, but it’s okay. I’ll take all your demons, baby. I’m gonna slay them one at a time. No fucking reason anymore for me to pretend otherwise.”

I take a minute to let that settle in. Realizing my teasing and bratty behavior didn’t go unnoticed has me regretting some of the ways I tested him. Seeing if he would react the way most of the other men that moved through the revolving door of our lives had.

He never did though.

“Now, strip.”

The words hit me like lightning. My breath stalls. My heart jumps, then settles to a steady flutter. My belly clenches, but there’s no protest in me.

I comply, tugging off my cami, pulling down my shorts and sliding them over my feet after kicking off my sandals. My bra is soaked through as I reach behind to unclasp it, letting my breasts fall free. They’re full again. Red, heavy, desperate.

He watches every motion. His jaw ticks. His knuckles go white on the bottle.

“Panties too.”

I slide them down and step out of them, cheeks flaming at the dark wet spot, the stickiness evident on the light gray fabric. I’m blushing, but I’m not embarrassed. I’m desperate.

He takes the last drink from the water bottle and tosses it onto the counter.

“Kitchen counter,” he growls. “Hands flat. Ass up.”

My feet move before my brain can catch up.

The worn wooden counter is smooth under my palms, a sharp contrast to the rough way my heart is beating against my ribs. I bend and present, not even questioning the orders.

He grunts behind me.

“Look at you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Dripping. Leaking. Sweet little body begging for Daddy’s cock.”

I whimper.