Page 23 of Demon Daddy’s Hidden Daughter (Demon Daddies #8)
LENNY
W hen Rhyen sets me down beside the bed, the world seems to shift into something softer, more reverent. The firelight flickers across his face as he reaches for me, but his hands stop just short of touching, hovering near my shoulders like he's asking permission even now.
"We don't have to rush this," he murmurs, those crystalline eyes searching mine for any hint of hesitation. "I know what you said, but I don't want to push you too hard, Lenny."
The careful consideration in his voice makes my throat tight. When was the last time someone asked what I wanted? When was the last time someone cared about my comfort more than their own need?
"I want this," I whisper, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "I want you."
But even as I say it, my fingers tremble against the white fabric. Not from fear—though that's there, threaded through everything like an old scar that never quite heals—but from the overwhelming newness of choosing. Of being asked.
Rhyen's hands cover mine, steadying them. "Together?"
I nod, and we begin the slow ritual of undressing.
He works the buttons of my simple blue dress while I push his shirt from his shoulders, revealing the bronze expanse of his chest marked with old battle scars.
Each piece of clothing that falls away feels like shedding armor, leaving us both vulnerable in the golden firelight.
When I'm down to just my underwear, Rhyen pauses, his gaze traveling over me with something close to worship. The intensity of it should make me want to hide, to cover myself the way I learned to do in those dark years. Instead, I find myself standing straighter, letting him look.
"You're beautiful," he breathes, and the raw honesty in his voice makes me believe it might actually be true.
His own body is a masterpiece of controlled strength—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, powerful thighs that speak of years in the saddle and on the training fields.
The war brands along his upper arms catch the light, intricate patterns that mark him as nobility among his people.
But it's the reverence in his gaze that undoes me completely.
He lifts me onto the bed with infinite care, settling beside me rather than over me. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, and my skin heats beneath his touch.
"There's something I want tonight," he says quietly, his thumb brushing along my jaw. "Just one thing to make this day better."
The admission makes my pulse skip. In my limited experience, when men said they wanted something, it was always for their own pleasure, their own satisfaction. But the way Rhyen's looking at me suggests something different entirely.
"What?" I ask, the word coming out barely above a whisper.
A smile curves his lips—wicked but soft, full of promise and heat that makes my core clench with anticipation.
"I want to taste you," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low rasp that does things to my insides. "I want to put my mouth on you until you fall apart, until you know what it feels like to be worshipped properly."
The words hit me like a physical shock. No one has ever—not once in my entire life has anyone offered to give me pleasure without expecting something in return. The very idea terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"I..." I start, then stop, heat flooding my cheeks. "No one's ever... I mean, he never..."
Understanding flashes in Rhyen's eyes, followed by such fierce tenderness that it makes my chest ache. "Then let me be your first," he says simply. "Let me show you how good it can feel when someone wants to please you."
The vulnerability in his request undoes me completely. This powerful man, this decorated warrior, is asking permission to give me pleasure. Not demanding, not taking—asking.
"Yes," I breathe, and the word feels like a benediction.
When he kisses me again, all my lingering nerves dissolve in the heat of it.
His mouth moves against mine with careful passion, hands framing my face like I'm something precious.
The kiss deepens slowly, and I lose myself in the slide of our tongues, the way he tastes like mint and sin and safety all at once.
His hands roam my body with infinite patience, tracing patterns across my ribs, mapping the curve of my waist. When he finally pulls the last scraps of clothing off of me, I don't feel exposed—I feel cherished.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of my neck. "So fucking perfect."
His hands continue their reverent exploration, calloused palms rough against the soft skin of my breasts. When his thumb brushes across one peaked nipple, I arch into the touch with a gasp that makes him groan low in his throat.
"That's it," he encourages, mouth trailing lower. "Let me hear you. Tell me what feels good."
The concept is so foreign—being asked to voice what I want, what brings me pleasure—that I can barely process it. But when his lips close around my nipple, the spike of sensation pulls a moan from my throat before I can stop it.
"Good girl," he rumbles against my skin, the praise sending heat spiraling straight to my core. "So responsive. So beautiful."
He takes his time with my breasts, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me arch beneath him. By the time he starts kissing his way down my belly, I'm trembling with need and something deeper—trust, maybe, or the shocking realization that I don't have to perform or pretend or endure.
I get to feel.
When he settles between my thighs, the sight of him there—silver hair gleaming in the firelight, those powerful shoulders caging me in—nearly overwhelms me. He presses gentle kisses to my inner thighs, hands stroking soothingly along my legs.
"Still with me?" he asks, and the check-in is so thoughtful, so caring, that emotion clogs my throat.
"Yes," I manage, voice already gone breathless.
The first touch of his mouth against my center nearly has me coming off the bed. The sensation is unlike anything I've ever felt—not the clinical emptiness I learned to cultivate during the worst times, but pure golden heat that radiates outward from where his tongue traces careful patterns.
"Oh," I gasp, hands tangling in his hair without conscious thought. "Oh, that's?—"
He hums against me, the vibration making my hips jerk involuntarily. "Tell me," he encourages between long, slow licks. "Tell me how it feels."
"Good," I breathe, amazed at my own voice. "So good. Please don't stop."
His answering chuckle rumbles through his chest. "Never. I could do this for hours. Could live between your thighs and die happy."
The raw honesty in his voice, the way he speaks like pleasuring me is a gift rather than a chore, breaks something open inside me.
Years of conditioning try to surface—the voice that says I should be quiet, should lie still, should think of anything but what's happening to my body.
But Rhyen's careful attention, the way he watches my face for every reaction, makes those old defenses crumble.
He adds his fingers to the symphony, sliding one long digit inside me while his tongue focuses on the bundle of nerves that makes me see stars. The dual sensation has me arching against his mouth, chasing the building pressure in my core.
"That's it," he murmurs, adding a second finger and curling them in a way that makes me cry out. "Let go for me, sweetheart. Let me watch you fall apart."
The endearment, combined with the perfect pressure of his mouth and fingers, sends me spiraling toward something I've never experienced before. Not the hollow mimicry I learned to fake for survival, but real, honest pleasure that builds from my core outward.
When the climax finally crashes over me, it's with an intensity that leaves me sobbing his name, body convulsing around his fingers as wave after wave of sensation rolls through me.
He doesn't stop, doesn't pull away—just gentles his touch and works me through it until I'm boneless and shaking beneath him.
Afterward, he crawls back up my body, pressing soft kisses to my damp skin. When he reaches my face, I can taste myself on his lips, and something about that intimacy makes me want to weep with gratitude.
"Thank you," I whisper against his mouth, though the words feel inadequate for what he's just given me.
"Thank you," he counters, pulling back to study my face with those intense blue eyes. "For trusting me. For letting me make you feel good." A grin curves his lips. "It did make my day better."
Instead of responding with words, I curl into him, pressing my face against the warm hollow of his throat. His arms come around me immediately, holding me close as exhaustion and satisfaction pull me toward sleep.
For the first time in my life, I understand what safety feels like in another person's body. Not the absence of threat, but the presence of protection. Of care. Of someone who sees pleasure as something to give rather than take.
I drift off with his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, finally knowing what it means to be cherished.