Page 13

I stared at the ledger spread open on my desk, but the numbers blurred together like watercolors in rain.

The problem was that right now, right his very instant, Mia was in my apartment. I felt obsessed. Totally fixated.

My mind kept drifting upstairs to her. To the way she'd started humming while washing dishes. To how she no longer flinched when I entered a room. Small changes that shouldn't have mattered but somehow occupied more space in my head than the pressing business of running the Heavy Kings.

Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of the boys playing pool, glasses clinking at the bar, and the constant hum of motorcycle engines coming and going from King's Tavern. I should have been out there—present, visible, leading. Instead, I was hiding in my office, distracted by a woman who'd crashed into my life like a wrecking ball.

I shuffled the papers again, trying to focus on the numbers. Our arms shipment had arrived safely last weekend, and the profits were healthy. The auto shop was turning a steady profit under Thor's management. Everything was running smoothly. So why couldn't I concentrate?

Because Mia was changing, and I couldn't stop watching it happen.

When she'd first arrived, she'd been like a wounded animal—skittish, defensive, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. She'd clutched that scruffy dog of hers like a lifeline, slept with one eye open, and jumped at every sound. Her gaze constantly swept rooms for exits, threats, escape routes.

But day by day, hour by hour, those behaviors were falling away. This morning, I'd found her singing softly to herself while making coffee, completely unaware of my presence until I'd cleared my throat. Instead of startling, she'd simply turned and offered a small, shy smile—a fragile thing, but real. Yesterday, she'd left Diesel sleeping in the living room while she showered, something she wouldn't have done a week ago when the dog had been her constant sentinel.

Little moments of trust. Small surrenders to safety. Each one hit me in the chest like a physical blow.

The door swung open without a knock, and Thor's massive frame filled the doorway. I straightened immediately, shoving thoughts of Mia aside.

"Reports from the northern border," he said, dropping a folder onto my desk. "Spotted two Serpents riding along highway 18 yesterday. Just watching, not approaching. Again."

I flipped open the folder, forcing my attention to the photographs and handwritten notes from our patrol. "Did they make contact with anyone?"

"Nah. Seemed like reconnaissance." Thor dropped into the chair across from me, leather creaking under his weight. "Tyson thinks they're mapping our patrol routes, trying to find gaps."

I nodded, studying the grainy photos of two leather-clad riders on Harleys, the Iron Serpents' patch visible even from a distance. "We'll change the schedule, throw them off."

"Already done." Thor leaned back, stretching his long legs out in front of him. His blond beard couldn't hide the slight smirk forming on his lips. "You been staring at those same papers for a full hour, brother."

I shut the folder with more force than necessary. "I was reviewing the financials before you interrupted."

"Bullshit." Thor's blue eyes held a knowing look that pissed me off and relieved me at the same time. "Your mind's upstairs with her, isn't it?"

The question hung between us, neither accusation nor judgment—just Thor's typical bluntness. I could have denied it, maintained the fiction that I was simply offering protection to a woman on the run from our enemies. But Thor would see through it. He always did.

"It's complicated," I finally admitted, reaching for my neglected whiskey.

Thor snorted. "When is it not with women?" He picked up a paperweight from my desk, turning it over in his massive hands. "She settling in okay?"

"Better than expected." I took a slow sip, letting the liquor burn down my throat. "Less jumpy. Sleeping better."

"That dog still giving you the evil eye?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Diesel's warming up to me. Let me scratch his ears yesterday without trying to take my hand off."

"Progress." Thor set the paperweight down with surprising gentleness. "The boys are asking questions. Seems like it got out—that she’s staying with you instead of at the safe house."

I had anticipated this. The club rarely questioned my decisions, but having a woman—especially one connected to the Iron Serpents—living in my private space was unusual enough to raise eyebrows. And people talked.

"Tell them it's strategic. Keeping her close means I can monitor her, make sure she doesn't contact anyone who might reveal her location to Jesse or Venom."

Thor's eyes narrowed slightly. "That all it is? Strategic?"

The question felt like a trap, though I knew Thor well enough to recognize genuine concern rather than challenge. Still, I wasn't ready to examine my own motives too closely, let alone share them.

"For now, that's all anyone needs to know," I said firmly, effectively ending that line of questioning.

Thor nodded, accepting the boundary. "Fair enough. But brother," he added, his voice dropping lower, "just remember—Serpents are getting bolder. Whatever's happening with you and her . . . timing's not great."

"Noted." I stood up, signaling an end to the conversation. "Let's grab a beer and check in with the boys. I've been cooped up in here too long."

Hours later, well after midnight, I climbed the stairs to my apartment above the clubhouse. My body ached from the tensions of the day, from hours spent being present and focused on club business when my mind wanted to wander. I could have stayed downstairs longer—there were always more issues to address, more brothers seeking advice or approval. But the pull toward my apartment had grown stronger as the night wore on.

I unlocked the door as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Mia if she'd already gone to sleep. The apartment was mostly dark, illuminated only by a small lamp in the corner of the living room. Diesel lifted his head from his bed but didn't bother getting up, which I took as a sign of grudging acceptance.

I expected to find Mia in the bedroom—it was late, after all—but as I shrugged off my leather cut, I caught sight of her. She sat cross-legged on the floor, completely absorbed in a coloring book. Colored pencils were arranged in perfect rainbow order beside her, and she didn't notice my entrance—a striking change from her usual hyperawareness.

The sight stopped me in my tracks.

She wore one of my t-shirts, so large it slipped off one shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone and the soft curve where her neck met her shoulder. Her dark hair fell loose around her face, and she had her lower lip caught between her teeth in concentration as she carefully shaded a complex mandala pattern. The focused intensity in her expression, the care with which she selected each colored pencil, the childlike pleasure evident in her small smile—it all clicked into place.

I recognized it instantly. Her Little tendencies weren't just occasional slips when she felt vulnerable; they were a core part of who she was when she felt safe.

A warm, protective instinct unfurled in my chest, mingling with a deeper desire I wasn't ready to name. I wanted to nurture this side of her, to create a space where she could be entirely herself without fear of judgment or harm.

When she finally noticed my presence, her hand froze mid-stroke. A blush bloomed across her cheeks as she quickly moved to close the book, embarrassment evident in the sudden tension of her shoulders.

Instead of keeping my distance as I had been careful to do for days, I approached and knelt beside her.

"That's beautiful," I said sincerely, my voice naturally deepening into the tone I'd used with Littles before—gentle but firm, reassuring but decisive. "May I see?"

The phrasing—a request rather than a command—visibly relaxed her. She hesitated only briefly before opening the book again, turning it slightly toward me.

"Lena brought it for me," she explained softly. "Said coloring helps with anxiety."

"Lena's right." I studied the intricate pattern she'd been filling with shades of blue and purple, admiring the precision of her work. "You have a good eye for color."

Her blush deepened at the praise, but pleasure replaced embarrassment in her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured, fingers tracing the edge of the page. "I used to love coloring as a kid. Had almost forgotten how... peaceful it feels."

I nodded, careful not to move too suddenly or speak too loudly, afraid of shattering this moment of vulnerability. "Sometimes we all need peaceful things."

As she shyly showed me more of her completed pages, each meticulously colored with careful attention to detail, I made a silent decision. I would create a space where her Little self could flourish under my care. Where she could feel protected enough to embrace that part of herself without fear or shame.

And if that meant complicating my already complicated life even further—well, that was a price I was increasingly willing to pay.

***

I've never been a man who believed in half measures. Whether running the club or handling my personal life, I committed fully or not at all.

And I was comitted to Mia.

I watched her carefully, noting what made her eyes light up or her shoulders relax, and began weaving a web of gentle structure around her—not to trap, but to support. Like building a nest one twig at a time, I added elements slowly enough that she barely noticed the construction taking place around her.

First came the meal schedule. Mia had been eating sporadically—sometimes forgetting entirely, sometimes nervously picking at whatever was available. I started bringing home takeout at regular times, casually mentioning, "It's dinner time," as if it were an immutable fact rather than a suggestion. Within days, I noticed her checking the clock around noon and six, her body already adapting to the expectation of regular nourishment.

Next, I established evening routines. A cup of chamomile tea after she'd showered, served in the same blue mug each night. A quiet hour of reading or television before bed, with the unspoken expectation that electronics would be set aside by eleven. Small check-ins throughout the day—text messages that seemed casual but created touchpoints of connection and accountability.

"How's your morning going?"

"Remember to drink water."

"Time for Diesel’s walk."

Each instruction was framed as a gentle reminder rather than an order, allowing her the dignity of choice while still providing the guidance I sensed she craved. I introduced each element carefully, presenting them as practical structure rather than control, so she could accept or reject them without pressure.

The transformation was subtle but unmistakable. Her anxiety visibly diminished when she knew what to expect. The hypervigilance that had exhausted her began to fade, replaced by a tentative ease in her movements, in the way she occupied space. She stopped apologizing for her existence in my apartment, stopped trying to make herself invisible.

I wasn't new to this dance. In the years before Mia, I'd known other Daddies who had relationships with women who identified as Littles. I new about what worked and what didn't, how to balance protection with independence, nurturing with respect.

We weren’t in a relationship of course, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t help.

I tailored my approach to Mia's specific needs. I relied on my "Daddy voice"—deeper, calmer, more deliberate—whenever she needed reassurance. I introduced small rewards for her self-care: praise when she remembered to eat without prompting, a small gift of colored pens when she maintained her journal for a week straight. And when she neglected herself—skipping meals or staying up too late—I established consequences that felt more like gentle guidance than punishment.

"You didn't eat lunch, so I'm sitting with you until you finish this sandwich."

"You were up past midnight, so we're turning in early tonight."

She bloomed under this attention like a plant finally receiving water after a drought—tentatively at first, then with increasing vigor. The woman who had arrived at my door barely holding herself together was slowly being replaced by someone who laughed more freely, whose eyes held mine longer, whose touches lingered.

It was a Wednesday evening when reality crashed back into our carefully constructed routine. It had been a normal day, my routine followed to the letter. I’d tucked Mia into what used to be my bed and said goodnight, then I’d hit the sack myself.

Then, everything changed.

I jerked awake in the darkness, muscles tensed for a fight before my mind was fully conscious. The pull-out couch groaned beneath me as I sat up, my senses straining like a predator catching a scent. Something had dragged me from sleep—some disturbance in the careful quiet of the apartment.

I listened, filtering out the familiar sounds: the hum of the ancient refrigerator, the distant rumble of motorcycles from the street below, the occasional creak of the building settling. Then I heard it—a soft whimpering from behind the bedroom door, the sound of someone caught in the grip of terror.

Mia. Another nightmare.

I swung my legs to the floor, the cold hardwood a shock against my bare feet. This wasn't the first time I'd been awakened by her nightmares, but usually, they subsided on their own. She'd whimper, sometimes cry out, then fall back into deeper sleep without fully waking. But tonight was different—the sounds were more desperate, more prolonged.

I moved across the apartment in darkness, guided by memory and the thin slice of moonlight filtering through the blinds. The floorboards creaked beneath my weight despite my attempt at silence. As I approached her door, the sounds intensified—broken words now, pleading, fragments of terror.

"No . . . please . . . don't . . ."

My hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitation holding me back. But the sounds escaping from behind that door weren't normal nightmares. They carried the raw edge of trauma breaking through, memories clawing their way into the present.

"Stop . . . Jesse, stop . . ."

Her voice rose higher, panic threaded through each syllable. That decided it. I pushed the door open, the hinges protesting softly.

The bedroom was washed in pale blue moonlight, casting everything in ghostly relief. Mia thrashed in the bed, sheets tangled around her legs like restraints, her face contorted in an expression of pure terror. Her hands pushed against an invisible attacker, fighting demons I couldn't see but could easily imagine. At the foot of the bed, Diesel lay alert but uncertain, whining softly at his owner's distress.

"Mia," I called, keeping my voice low and gentle. "You're safe. It's just a dream."

She didn't hear me, still locked in whatever horror her mind had conjured. I moved closer, carefully, not wanting to startle her further. Diesel watched me with wary eyes but made no move to stop my approach—progress, considering his usual protective stance.

"Mia," I tried again, slightly louder. "Wake up now. You're dreaming."

When she remained trapped in the nightmare, I settled carefully on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under my weight, but still she didn't wake. Up close, I could see the sheen of sweat on her forehead, the rapid flutter of her eyelids, the way her breath came in short, panicked gasps.

"Little One," I said more firmly, my hand hovering just above her shoulder. The endearment slipped out naturally, my voice dropping into that deeper register I used when guiding her. "Wake up now."

My voice finally penetrated the fog of her nightmare. Mia's eyes flew open with a gasping jolt, wild and unfocused in the dim light. For a moment, she didn't recognize me—her body went rigid with fresh terror, preparing for flight or fight. I kept perfectly still, giving her time to place me.

"It's Duke," I reassured her calmly. "You're in my apartment. You're safe."

Recognition gradually dawned in her eyes, reality replacing whatever horrors had populated her dreams. With it came a shuddering sob that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside her, breaking something within me as well. Her face crumpled, tears spilling down her cheeks, and instinct overrode caution.

Before I could think twice, I drew her into my arms. She came willingly, almost desperately, her slight frame fitting against me as if designed to be there. Her fingers clutched at the fabric of my t-shirt, digging into my back with surprising strength, her face pressing into my chest as she fought to steady her breathing.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled against my skin, her words muffled and broken. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Little One," I murmured, one hand stroking gently through her hair. The strands were damp with sweat but still soft as silk beneath my calloused fingers. "Everyone has nightmares."

I held her like that, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steady against her spine, until the violent trembling began to subside. Her breathing slowly evened out, the desperate grip on my shirt gradually relaxing. I felt the moment when she should have pulled away—when propriety dictated I should release her and return to the couch—but neither of us moved.

Instead, she seemed to melt further into me, her body going soft and pliant, seeking comfort I was happy to provide. At the foot of the bed, Diesel had relaxed as well, apparently satisfied that I wasn't a threat, his large head now resting on his paws as he watched us with solemn eyes.

"He was hurting me," she whispered after a long silence. "In the dream. Jesse was hurting me again, and I couldn't get away."

My arms tightened around her reflexively, a surge of protective rage flooding through me at the mention of Jesse's name. I wanted to promise that I'd kill him if he ever touched her again, that I'd tear him apart with my bare hands—but that wasn't what she needed to hear.

"He can't reach you here," I said instead, keeping my voice steady despite the violence of my thoughts. "You're protected."

She nodded against my chest, her breath warm even through the thin cotton of my shirt. "I know. That's why I . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Why you what?" I prompted gently when she didn't continue.

"Why I feel safe enough to actually process it. The nightmares . . . they're worse here, but only because I'm not constantly on alert when I'm awake." She pulled back just enough to look up at me, her face shadowed but her eyes catching the moonlight. "Does that make sense?"

"Your brain knows it can let down its guard here," I confirmed. "It's actually a good sign, even if it doesn't feel that way."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips, there and gone like a candle flame in wind. "Doesn't make it any easier to go back to sleep."

I began to disentangle myself from her, assuming she needed space now that the worst had passed. "I'll get you some water. Maybe some of that tea you like."

But as I attempted to stand, her fingers tightened on the fabric of my t-shirt, holding me in place. "Stay," she pleaded, her voice small and vulnerable in a way that tugged at something primal inside me. "Please."

I knew what the right answer should be—what the cautious, responsible answer was. I should return to the couch. Maintain the boundaries I'd established. Keep a safe distance that respected both her vulnerability and my own growing feelings.

But the naked need in her voice made those logical considerations seem irrelevant.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep," I promised, already knowing I was crossing a line we might not be able to retreat behind again.

Relief softened her features as she shifted to make room for me on the bed. I stretched out on top of the covers while she remained beneath them. Almost immediately, she curled into me, her head finding the hollow of my shoulder as naturally as if she'd done it a thousand times before. Her body sought warmth and protection, one arm draping tentatively across my chest, a leg tucking slightly between mine.

I wrapped my arm around her, drawing her closer, feeling the rapid beat of her heart gradually slow as she relaxed against me. The scent of her shampoo—something floral and delicate—filled my senses, mingling with the warmer, more intimate smell of her skin. I focused on keeping my breathing steady, on being a solid, reassuring presence as she drifted back toward sleep.

"Thank you, Duke," she murmured, her voice already heavy with returning slumber.

I pressed my lips gently to the crown of her head, a ghost of a kiss that could be denied if necessary. "Sleep, Little One. I'm right here."

As her breathing deepened and her body grew heavier against mine, I stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of every point of contact between us. The warmth of her breath against my neck. The weight of her arm across my chest. The soft press of her breast against my side. This moment of innocent intimacy felt more significant than any sexual encounter I'd had in years—a trust more profound than physical desire, a connection more meaningful than mere attraction.

I had promised to stay only until she fell asleep, but as the minutes stretched into an hour, I made no move to leave. Instead, I found myself mapping the rhythm of her breathing, the small movements of her dreaming mind, committing to memory the perfect weight of her against me.

Eventually, my own eyes grew heavy, lulled by her warmth and the quiet of the night. My last conscious thought was that this simple connection—her body trusting mine completely in sleep—was something I could easily become addicted to.

I don't know exactly when I fell asleep, but I woke to find Mia still nestled against me, her body a warm curve perfectly fitted to mine. Dawn light filtered through the curtains, casting everything in a soft gray glow that smoothed the edges of reality. There she was, her breathing deep and even, one leg casually draped over mine, her hand resting directly over my heart like a silent claim. The warmth of her against me felt dangerously right, as if we'd been sleeping this way for years rather than hours.

In sleep, Mia looked impossibly young and untroubled. The worry lines that usually creased her forehead had smoothed away, her lips slightly parted, dark lashes casting faint shadows on her cheeks. Her hair spilled across my shoulder and arm, a tangled cascade of darkness against my skin. The oversized t-shirt she wore—one of mine—had ridden up slightly during the night, exposing a slice of pale stomach and the gentle curve of her hip.

I knew I should extricate myself and return to the solitude of the couch before she fully awoke. That had been the plan—to stay only until she fell asleep, to maintain the careful boundaries I'd established between us. But I chose instead to linger, to savor this closeness I'd long denied myself.

I'd spent the past decade keeping people at arm's length, protecting myself from the vulnerability that came with deep connection. Women had come and gone—some casual, some less so—but I'd never allowed myself to need anyone, to wake up beside someone and feel this profound rightness. The realization was both exhilarating and terrifying.

A quick glance around the room confirmed that Diesel had abandoned his usual post at the foot of the bed. Sometime during the night, he'd retreated to the living room, leaving us enveloped in an exclusive silence. Another sign of the gradual trust building between all of us.

Mia stirred against me, her body shifting in a way that sent an unexpected surge of heat through my veins. Her leg slid higher between mine, her hip pressing against my thigh. I felt my body responding despite my best intentions, morning arousal intensified by her proximity.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly, confusion clouding them momentarily before recognition set in. She didn't jerk away as I half-expected. Instead, she blinked up at me, her gaze clearing into something darker and warmer as our eyes locked.

"Morning," I greeted, my voice rough with sleep and an undeniable longing.

Mia didn't respond with words. Her hand moved on my chest instead, fingers splaying gently against my shirt as if exploring the contours of muscle beneath. Her touch was tentative at first, almost questioning, but grew more confident when she recognized the quickening of my breath as encouragement.

I knew very well that I should stop this before it ventured beyond what we were prepared for. She was vulnerable, still healing from trauma. I was responsible for her safety, obligated to put her well-being above my own desires. Yet when Mia pressed herself more firmly against me—her thigh deliberately brushing between my legs where I had already begun to harden—rational thought slipped away like smoke.

"Mia," I warned, my voice strained with the effort to maintain control, "we should slow down."

Her only response was to press her lips against my neck, just below my jaw. The contact was feather-light, almost innocent, yet it sent an irresistible shiver down my spine. She followed that first kiss with another, and another, each slightly bolder than the last, trailing a path of warmth along my throat.

"I don't want to slow down," she whispered against my skin, her breath hot and damp. "I've wanted this—wanted you—since that night we almost kissed."

Her honesty disarmed me completely, stripping away the defenses I'd maintained around my desire fo her.

My hand moved to her hip, intending to create distance, but instead I found myself holding her more securely against me. She shifted deliberately, rocking against the hardness she'd inspired, and I heard a low sound rumble from deep within my chest—part groan, part growl.

"If we start this," I managed to say while fighting for the last scraps of my control, "I don't know if I can stop."

Mia lifted her face to mine, our mouths mere inches apart, and whispered, "Then don't stop."

Everything changed in that moment. Some final barrier shattered between us, and I captured her mouth with my own. The kiss began with hungry intensity, deep and demanding from the very first contact. She responded instantly—opening to me, arching her body into mine—her hands clutching my shoulders, nails digging in slightly as she pressed closer.

I rolled us so that I could pin her gently beneath me, supporting my weight on my forearms while the kiss deepened, fueled by weeks of denied need. Her mouth was warm and sweet, her lips soft but insistent against mine. I nipped lightly at her bottom lip, drawing a surprised gasp from her that quickly turned to a moan when I soothed the spot with my tongue.

My hand slid beneath her t-shirt, tracing the warmth of her waist, the soft curves of her ribs, the underside of her breast. She gasped softly against my mouth, her hips rising instinctively to meet my touch. Every inch of her skin felt like silk beneath my calloused fingers, impossibly smooth and warm.

"Is this okay?" I asked, hesitating as my hand hovered just beneath her breast, needing explicit permission despite the obvious signs of her arousal.

"Yes," she breathed, her voice husky with desire. "Please touch me, Daddy."

The word struck me with electrifying force, igniting something primal and possessive deep inside me. It wasn't unexpected—I'd recognized her Little tendencies, had been deliberately cultivating a dynamic that acknowledged them—but hearing it in this context, breathy with desire, sent a surge of heat straight to my core.

I cupped her breast, feeling its perfect weight in my palm, my thumb brushing lightly over her nipple. It hardened instantly beneath my touch, drawing another soft moan from her that I swallowed with a deeper kiss. Her body arched into my hand, seeking more pressure, more contact.

"Sensitive here, aren't you, Little One?" I murmured against her lips, deliberately using the name that had become both endearment and acknowledgment of what was building between us.

"Yes," she whimpered as I continued my gentle exploration, my thumb circling her nipple with just enough pressure to tease. "Please . . ."

Her hand ventured lower, hesitantly reaching toward the waistband of my boxers. I felt her fingers brush tentatively against my stomach, tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the elastic. The contact, even this innocent, nearly undid me. I groaned as my hips bucked involuntarily in response.

"Like this?" she asked, her voice a mix of uncertainty and desire as her hand moved lower, brushing against my cock through the thin cotton.

"Yes, Little One," I guided, covering her hand with mine to show her just the right pressure. "Just like that."

Her fingers wrapped around me through the fabric, exploring my length with gentle squeezes that made coherent thought increasingly difficult. I returned to kissing her, deep and thorough, while my hand continued its own exploration beneath her shirt. Finding both her breasts bare beneath the cotton, I took my time learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her press herself more urgently against me.

We continued exploring each other even through the barrier of our clothing, each touch fanning the flames of desire that I fought to keep controlled. When her hand finally slipped beneath the waistband of my boxers, her fingers wrapping directly around me, hot skin against hot skin, I nearly lost what remained of my restraint.

The sensation was exquisite—her slightly uncertain touch somehow more arousing than the practiced skill of more experienced partners. But even as pleasure coursed through me, a voice of reason fought to be heard. We were moving too fast. There were conversations we needed to have, boundaries to establish, a dynamic to define before we crossed a threshold we couldn't return from.

With monumental effort, I brought her hand to my lips and kissed her palm. "Wait," I whispered, my voice rough with desire and need.

Mia's eyes fluttered open, confusion and vulnerability warring within them. "Did I do something wrong?" she asked softly, the question piercing my heart.

Shaking my head emphatically, I pressed my forehead against hers and murmured, "God, no. You're perfect. But there's something we need to do first."

I brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, my touch as reverent as a prayer. Her skin was flushed with desire, her lips swollen from our kisses, her eyes wide and dark with need. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"If we're going to do this—really do this—we need to be clear about what we both want." I kept my gaze locked with hers, needing her to understand the importance of what I was saying despite the heat still pulsing between us.

Understanding gradually lit her eyes, and a smile broke across her face, taking my breath away. "You mean the DDlg stuff," she said softly, with neither shame nor hesitation.

I nodded, amazed by her courage and her willingness to acknowledge exactly what we both felt—what had been building between us since she first sought shelter in my world.

"I want to be your Daddy. For real,” I admitted honestly, the words carrying more weight than any declaration of love could have. "But we need to talk about what that means first."

Mia reached up to touch my face, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw with unexpected tenderness. "I'd like that," she whispered, then added with a hint of mischief, "But maybe after a cold shower?"

I laughed, breaking some of the tension even as desire still thrummed beneath my skin. "Separate showers," I clarified, pressing a final, gentle kiss to her lips before forcing myself to roll away from her. "Or we'll never have that conversation."

“Okay,” she said, giving me the widest, most genuine grin I’d seen from her. Seeing her smile was paradise.