Page 10 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

It shouldn't feel this good, this right, to surrender to such a simple touch.

But as his fingers work through my curls, occasionally grazing my neck or the sensitive spot behind my ear, I find myself sinking into a state of relaxation that borders on euphoric.

If I relax anymore, I am going to fall asleep.

"You carry so much," he says, his voice a low rumble above me. "Always taking care of everyone else. Always in control."

I make a soft sound of agreement, too relaxed to form words.

"But not now," he continues. "Now you're letting me take care of you. Being a good girl for me."

The praise washes over me like warm honey, sweet and enveloping. Is this what it feels like? This dynamic I've read about, fantasized about? This sense of safety, of rightness, of belonging?

"How does this feel?" he asks.

"Good," I murmur. "So good."

"What color are you, Sunshine?"

"Green," I say without hesitation. "Very green."

I feel rather than see his smile. "I'm going to tell you what's going to happen next," he says, his voice taking on a firmer edge that makes my pulse quicken.

"I'm going to keep touching you like this for a few more minutes.

Then I'm going to help you get ready for bed.

You're going to take a shower, put on something comfortable, and get under the covers.

I'll join you, and we'll hold each other.

Just hold each other. Until you fall asleep in my arms. How does that sound? "

Like heaven. Like exactly what I need after days of stress and pretense and professional smiles.

"Perfect," I whisper.

True to his word, he continues the gentle scalp massage until I'm practically purring with contentment. Then he helps me sit up, brushes a kiss against my forehead, and guides me toward the bathroom.

"Take your time," he says. "I'll be here when you're done."

The hot shower is exactly what I need, washing away the tension of the day and leaving me loose-limbed and drowsy.

I towel dry my hair, apply my usual nighttime moisturizer, and slip into the silk pajama set I'd packed, thankful they are modest enough to be comfortable, but still pretty enough to feel feminine.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Matt is sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoes off, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I appear, his eyes warming as they take in my appearance.

"Beautiful," he says simply.

I approach the bed, suddenly shy despite the intimacy we've already shared. "Your turn," I say, nodding toward the bathroom.

He stands, dropping a kiss on my cheek as he passes. "Get comfortable. I won't be long. I ran down to my car and grabbed the go bag I always have in the trunk.”

I slip under the covers, listening to the sound of water running in the bathroom. This is surreal. Matt Dayton, showering in my hotel room, about to spend the night in my bed. Not for sex, but for something that feels even more intimate. Connection. Care. The dynamic we're both craving.

When he returns, dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, hair damp and face freshly washed, something settles in my chest. A recognition. A certainty. This is right.

He slides into bed beside me, opening his arms in invitation. "Come here, Sunshine."

The pet name sends a little jolt through me. It’s different from "good girl" but just as potent. I move into his embrace, resting my head on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my ear.

"Comfortable?" he asks, one hand coming up to stroke my hair.

"Very." I sigh contentedly, my body melting against his.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he says softly.

I consider the request, feeling safe enough in this moment to share a truth I usually keep hidden. "I'm afraid of ending up alone. Of being so good at fitting into other people's lives that I never build one of my own."

His arms tighten around me. "Thank you for telling me that."

"Your turn," I prompt, tracing patterns on his chest through his t-shirt.

He's quiet for a moment. "I have nightmares," he finally admits. "About Afghanistan. About storms that went bad. About not being able to save people."

I lift my head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability beneath his strength. "Is that why you push yourself so hard? Chase the most dangerous storms?"

"Probably." His smile is self-deprecating. "My therapist certainly thinks so."

"You see a therapist?"

"Yes. The VA hooked me up with one I connected with. PTSD doesn't go away on its own."

I lay my head back on his chest, absorbing this. The man who projects such confidence, such control, is fighting his own battles. It makes me trust him more, somehow. That he understands struggle. That he's doing the work to heal.

"Thank you for telling me," I echo his words back to him.

We talk for hours, sharing stories and secrets in the intimate darkness.

He tells me about growing up with Greg, about joining the Marines to find purpose, about the storm that nearly killed him last year in Oklahoma.

I tell him about my childhood with a single mother who chased men and dreams in equal measure, about building my business from nothing, about the satisfaction I find in making other people's special days perfect.

Gradually, our words slow, our voices grow softer, and I find myself drifting toward sleep, wrapped securely in Matt's strong arms.

"Rest now, Sunshine," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "I've got you."

As I slip into dreams, one last coherent thought floats through my mind: I could get used to this.

And that's the most terrifying thing of all.