Page 26

“Mhm.” My cheeks heated up but I didn’t care.

“Good.” His voice went rougher. “Want you to remember how this feels.”

He lowered his mouth to suck where his thumb had been. The wet heat sent shockwaves through me; I dug nails into his shoulders for an anchor. That only made him groan louder and move on to the other side.

By the time Dex kissed lower—over ribs and stomach—I was shaking with need so sharp it almost hurt.

He mouthed over every scar I had, every mark from a life gone sideways: the faded cigarette burn above my navel, the faint pink line down my left thigh from where glass had once scarred me.

Each one he touched like it was precious instead of ugly.

When he reached the edge of my jeans, Dex hesitated again. “Okay?”

“Yes,” I said too fast, already pushing at the waistband myself.

He grinned—genuine this time—and finished peeling them off with steady hands. Then he knelt on the floor at bedside level so our eyes were equal. He rested his cheek against my thigh for a moment first, breathing slow and deep like maybe he needed to ground himself before continuing.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said without looking up.

“I’m not scared.”

He looked at me then—all pupil-dilated intensity—and nodded once before kissing up along the inside of my thigh. The first touch of his tongue was cautious and light as breath; I jerked like an electric current shot through me.

“Fuck,” Dex muttered against skin, “you’re so sensitive.”

I wanted to hide my face but didn’t dare look away from him; every second felt important, sacred somehow. Like we were teaching each other a language no one else spoke.

He started slow the way he did everything, teasing up the inside of my thigh until I was trembling, then kissing softer and closer, letting his breath ghost over skin until I couldn’t take it anymore.

Each pass of his tongue was calculated torture—sometimes just a flick, sometimes a broad lick flat and slow, never the same rhythm so my nerves stayed jumpy and raw.

He kept looking up at me every few seconds, checking for fear or doubt but all he’d see was me coming apart at the seams.

When Dex finally touched my clit—barely—a shock ran through me so hard I actually whimpered.

He grinned but didn’t say anything, just did it again, licking and circling until my hips bucked off the bed.

I tried to stifle it—tried to be quiet like always—but he held me steady with both hands and said, “Let go. Nobody’s gonna hear you but me. ”

I couldn’t if I’d wanted to. He licked again—slow and deliberate—and held eye contact until my body stuttered under him with little pre-orgasmic shudders. Only then did he let go of restraint: sucking hard around clit while two fingers slipped inside me, gentle but hungry at once.

“Goddamn,” Dex said as I clenched around him. “You’re perfect.”

I covered my mouth with both hands so neighbors wouldn’t hear how loud I got when I came on his mouth for the first time—but Dex just laughed softly and kept going until there was nothing left in me but aftershocks and whimpers.

He didn’t let up right away. Dex kept kissing between my thighs, slower now, letting his tongue soothe the places he’d just wrecked. Every so often he’d look up with this dark satisfied look that made my insides clench all over again. Like he liked seeing me wrecked more than anything in the world.

When it got too much and I pushed at his shoulder, Dex finally relented. He crawled up beside me and used his thumb to wipe away tears I hadn’t even noticed spilling down my face.

“Hey,” he said, voice gone gentle again. “Alright?”

I nodded, but what came out was more a sob than a word. “Yeah,” I managed, then dragged him in for a kiss because I needed to taste myself on him, needed proof it had really happened.

He kissed back like he’d give me air if I asked. After a minute he pulled away just enough to look at me straight on.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to talk. The world felt new-washed—brighter and rawer than before. My bones practically buzzed from being seen so completely.

Dex tucked hair behind my ear before speaking again: “Do we stop here? Or do you want more?” His hands stayed at my waist where I could move them away if I wanted.

But stopping felt impossible now that the wall was down between us. “More,” I whispered, not sure if it was greedy or brave or something else entirely.

His answering smile was pure relief—or maybe pride—and this time when he kissed down my neck it was slower, more possessive than before.

He nipped at the hollow above my collarbone. “Tell me when you want to slow down,” he said against skin.

I nodded again because words were useless.

“You’re shaking.” He sounded almost awed by it.

“I—I want to see you too,” I managed.

Something unspooled in his face at that; Dex stood up long enough to strip his jeans and boxers off in one smooth motion before sinking back onto the mattress next to me.

The sight hit harder than expected: all lean muscle cut through with deep lines of scar tissue and inked-over tattoos—one on his hip that read ‘Scout’ in block letters under a compass rose done in old navy blue.

My eyes lingered on his cock, the length and power of it making my mouth water.

He caught me staring and smirked: “Like what you see?”

A nervous laugh bubbled up but didn’t turn into real embarrassment this time. “Yeah.”

He climbed over me then—one knee trapping mine—and braced himself above so our bodies lined up perfect from thigh to chest. His cock was flushed dark and already slick; when it pressed against my hip I gasped at how hot it felt compared to everything else.

“Last chance,” he gritted out, as he seated the tip of his length at my entrance.

I hooked ankles behind his back in answer.

He groaned low as he pushed in inch by inch—never giving all of it at once but letting muscle stretch slow until there was no getting away from how completely full I felt.

He stopped halfway in so we could breathe together for a second.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” I choked out.

His eyes went glassy-dark with relief before bottoming out all the way—one careful thrust that made us both shout into each other’s mouths.

It hurt but also didn’t; mostly it felt like pressure everywhere and heat pooling in places no one had ever touched before.

Dex kissed along my jaw as he started moving—not fast or hard but steady enough to make every inch count.

He murmured praise under breath as we moved together: good girl, beautiful girl, taking Daddy so well—

And every fucking word made my body respond faster than reasonable.

When his rhythm faltered near the end it wasn’t from lack of control—it was because he needed one last reminder that this wasn’t just sex for either of us.

He twisted our fingers together above my head and locked eyes as we shattered apart at almost the same second.

The sound that came out of him when he finished would’ve scared anybody else—but for some reason it only made me feel safe.

“Daddy!” I gasped as my own climax followed his.

That word wrecked Dex completely; rhythm faltered while teeth scraped along neck in barely controlled frenzy.

“So perfect,” he breathed. "My good girl. Mine."

"Yours," I agreed.

After, he held me like something precious. I curled into his chest, feeling smaller and safer than I ever had in my life. His fingers combed through my hair, gentle and soothing.

"You okay?" he asked, pressing a kiss to my temple.

"Mmm." Everything felt soft and floaty, like I was wrapped in cotton. "Perfect."

"Need anything? Water? Food?"

I shook my head, then reconsidered. There was something . . .

"Daddy?" The word came easier now, natural as breathing. "Would you . . . would you read to me?"

I felt him smile against my hair. "Yeah, baby. I can do that."

He reached for the book on his nightstand—something about motorcycle maintenance that should have been boring but wasn't, not in his voice. I curled tighter against him, head on his chest where I could hear his heartbeat under the words.

"Chapter four," he began, voice low and soothing. "The importance of proper maintenance cannot be overstated . . ."

The words washed over me like warm water. It didn't matter what he was reading. What mattered was his voice, steady and sure. What mattered was his free hand stroking my hair, the way he pressed a kiss to the top of my head between paragraphs.

What mattered was that I was here, in his bed, in his arms, being cared for exactly the way I needed.