Page 26 of Bosshole Daddy

The words made me melt differently than his little one praise did—this was woman to man, equal to equal, even as I surrendered to his touch. His fingers traced the edge of the lace, a barely-there whisper that raised goosebumps across my skin.

"I love watching you work," he continued, voice dropping to that register that rewired my nervous system. "The way you command that boardroom now. The way Margaret defers to your expertise. The way you've grown into your power without losing your softness."

When he called me capable now, I believed it with my whole being. When he said I was perfect, I didn't argue or deflect or make self-deprecating jokes. I'd learned to accept his praise along with his dominance, to see myself through his eyes—flawed and human but wholly loved.

He undressed me with the same careful reverence he'd shown that first night in his office, but now his hands knew every sensitive spot, every place that made me gasp.

The lace fell away in whispers, leaving me bare under his appreciative gaze.

Three months of his care showed in my body—skin that glowed from proper nutrition, curves that had softened from regular meals, muscles that had learned to relax instead of constantly bracing for impact.

"Mine," he murmured, pressing kisses to my throat, my shoulder, the swell of my breast. "My wife-to-be. My little one. My equal."

The last word was newer to our vocabulary, acknowledging how I'd evolved from desperate assistant to true partner.

I was still his to protect, to guide, to dominate when we both needed it—but I was also his match now in ways that mattered.

I could challenge him intellectually over dinner, make him laugh with unexpected observations, offer perspectives that his yes-men would never dare voice.

"I need you," I gasped as his mouth found my nipple, sensation shooting straight to my core. "Please, Damian. Daddy. I need—"

"I know what you need," he growled against my skin, walking me backward toward our bed. "Always know what my girl needs."

The sheets were cool against my overheated skin as he laid me out with careful hands. He stood over me for a moment, still fully dressed while I lay bare, the power dynamic making my thighs press together with need. But when he started unbuttoning his shirt, I sat up, batting his hands away.

"Let me," I said, and he stilled, letting me take control of this small thing.

My fingers worked the buttons with steady precision now, no longer trembling like they had those first weeks.

I pushed the shirt from his shoulders, revealing the body that still made my mouth water—all controlled power and barely leashed strength.

His belt whispered free of its loops, and I took my time with his zipper, teasing us both.

When he was finally as bare as me, I lay back, pulling him down with me into a kiss that spoke years of promise.

Our bodies knew each other now, fitted together with practiced ease that somehow never diminished the intensity.

"I love you," I breathed against his mouth as he settled between my thighs. "Love you, Daddy. Love our life. Love everything we've built."

His control fractured at my words, always did when I combined love and his title.

He entered me with one smooth thrust that had us both groaning, the connection feeling like coming home and flying apart simultaneously.

Three months of practice had taught us each other's rhythms, but familiarity bred intensity rather than complacency.

He moved within me with devastating precision, angle perfect to hit that spot that made me see stars, pace calculated to build me higher without letting me tumble over. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing more of everything he offered.

"Look at me," he commanded when my eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed by sensation.

I forced my eyes open, meeting his gaze as he drove into me with increasing force. The intensity there—possession and adoration and raw need—made my inner muscles clench around him. He groaned, pace faltering for a moment before he regained control.

"Close already?" he taunted gently, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. "My sensitive girl. So responsive. Do you know what you do to me? How fucking perfect you feel?"

I could only moan in response, words lost to the building pleasure.

He played my body with the same skill he brought to everything, reading every response, adjusting pressure and pace until I was balanced on the finest edge.

My nails dug into his shoulders, leaving marks he'd wear tomorrow under his suit with secret satisfaction.

"Please," I gasped when the tension became unbearable. "Please, I need to come. Need you to come. Need us to—"

"Together," he finished, understanding as always. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, that final abandonment of control that meant he was as close as I was. "Come for me, Isla. Come for Daddy. Show me you're mine."

The permission shattered me. My orgasm ripped through me with violent beauty, back arching off the bed as I cried out his name, his title, incoherent pleas and promises.

I felt him follow me over, his groan of completion mixing with mine as he pulsed inside me, marking me internally as thoroughly as he'd marked my life.

We clung to each other through the aftershocks, both trembling with the intensity of what never seemed to diminish between us. When he finally shifted, it was only to pull me against his chest, our bodies still intimately connected, neither willing to separate just yet.

"Mine," he murmured against my hair, the word carrying different weight now. Not just possession but partnership. Not just claiming but choosing, again and again, to build this life together.

"Yours," I agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest where his heart still raced. "Always."