Page 52

EMMY

It’s the low rumble of his truck that hits me first.

I’m still curled on the couch, Cal’s blanket around my shoulders. The dogs stir, ears twitching. But the moment I hear that engine—steady, deliberate—I know.

He went.

He got it.

And when I reach the window, there it is.

My bike.

Coming off his truck ramp like it never belonged anywhere else.

But it’s not just the bike that roots me in place.

It’s the man.

Cal moves like he’s made of purpose. Like whatever line he crossed to get that bike—it wasn’t a stretch.

It was his nature.

His flannel sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with grease and tension, his jaw hard as stone. Not the soft, slow protector I know.

This is something else.

He hauls the bike off with controlled force, kickstand out in one fluid motion. Then he straightens—and looks right at me.

And I feel it.

The shift.

Something wild coiled behind his eyes. Not danger.

Just... need.

Possession.

Like retrieving the bike snapped a tether inside him. And now there’s nothing between him and the thing he wants most.

Me.

The front door creaks as I open it. I step outside barefoot, wrapped in the blanket, drawn like a wire pulled tight.

“You didn’t have to,” I whisper, voice trembling.

His hands are on me before I can say more. Gripping the blanket, tightening it around my shoulders, but it’s not comfort he’s offering—it’s control. A firm, deliberate claim.

“You’re mine,” he says low. “And no one takes from what’s mine.”

I barely have time to breathe.

“I didn’t ask—”

“You didn’t have to.” His echo of my own words only sends more heat surging through me. “I’m not letting anyone take from you again.”

And it hits me so hard I can’t think—I just move. I reach for him, my hands needing to feel him. I unconsciously lean in, up on the tips of my toes.

His eyes flick over my face like he’s memorizing something. Like he’s checking I’m here, whole.

But behind it, his jaw is ticking.

His fists are clenched.

And then his voice drops an octave.

“You like that I handled it, baby?”

My breath hitches.

He takes a step forward. I take one back—automatically—but there’s nowhere to run. The porch rail hits my spine.

“That I went and got it back for you?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

He smiles—slow, dark, dangerous.

“Say it.” His fingers curl tight around my hip. “Say thank you.”

I hesitate for only a split second, scrambling for the answer he’s looking for. When my voice comes, it’s breathy and soft.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

He closes his eyes. His jaw ticks, once, twice, and he swallows before speaking, the sound of his voice pure gravel and want. “Gonna take you now, baby.”

I nod before he even finishes the sentence.

“Gonna take you hard.” It’s not a warning, but a promise. Heat floods between my thighs, soaking my panties. “You ready for that?”

My response is whimpered and needy. Because god, yes, I need that. Need it more than anything.

“Please, Daddy.”

That’s when it snaps, his very last thread of control.

His mouth crushes mine, and all the restraint from before is gone. Teeth. Tongue. Heat. One hand fists the blanket between my shoulder blades while the other grips my jaw like he can’t decide whether to kiss me or devour me.

He pulls back just long enough to speak, after a low, brutal sound escapes his throat.

“Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t wait. He grabs me—lifts me—like I weigh nothing. My legs wrap around him instinctively, the blanket falling as he carries me across the threshold. The front door bangs shut behind us with the force of his foot.

This time, he doesn’t hesitate.

There’s no stopping in the hall. No reverent undressing. He carries me straight to the bedroom, drops me on the bed, and stands over me like a storm ready to break.

His chest heaves. His eyes are black.

He unbuttons his flannel slowly. One snap. Then another. Peeling it off like a warning.

“I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

He pulls the shirt off, revealing that lean muscle and the grease still streaking his arms.

“How you’d look when I brought that bike home. How wet you’d be when you realized what I did for you.”

He kneels on the bed, and his hands go to my leggings.

“You barefoot, wrapped in my blanket, waiting like this?” he says, voice thick. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”

And I don’t. Not really. Not until now. Until I hear that voice, dark and low, almost wrecked, say those things to me.

It hits somewhere deep, low in my belly. A jolt of heat and disbelief that he could sound like that for me. That I made him like this.

It’s filthy. Possessive. And it makes me ache everywhere.

He doesn’t tear my leggings off—he peels them. Slow. Purposeful. Watching my face the whole time, like he’s studying each reaction. Goosebumps rise along my skin as the fabric drags down my thighs. His fingers graze my calves, my knees, and finally hook under the waistband of my panties.

But he pauses.

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes hard through his nose, jaw clenched tight, his eyes locked on the damp cotton between my legs.

“Soaked,” he mutters. “Just from that? Just from me showing up?”

He slides them down. Doesn’t fold them. Doesn’t toss them aside.

He lifts them to his face and inhales.

My breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he says, tight and choked. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Then he grabs my thighs, spreading them wide. His gaze flicks up, and this time, it is a warning.

“Hold still.”

His shoulders settle between my thighs, broad and steady, and the mattress dips under his weight. He doesn’t touch me yet. Just breathes.

Like he’s bracing himself.

Like he’s about to indulge in something sacred.

His hands slide up the backs of my thighs—rough palms dragging slow and deliberate until they curl around my hips, anchoring me in place.

“Keep those legs open for me, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let Daddy see everything.”

I gasp, thighs twitching, but I obey.

He looks down at me—wet, open, already aching—and groans low in his chest.

“Fuck. That’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Then his mouth is on me.

Hot. Hungry. Deep.

His tongue parts me like he owns the right, like this is his reward and he’s going to take it with no hesitation. He licks long and slow at first, groaning like he’s tasting something rare, something earned.

“You taste like you need me,” he rasps into me. “Like your little body’s been waiting for this all damn day.”

I cry out—half sob, half moan—as his lips seal over my clit and suck. Not gentle. Not testing. Just sure. Rhythmic. Relentless.

He devours like a man starved.

His grip tightens, fingers bruising against my thighs, pulling me closer as his tongue circles again, again—never losing pace. Never hesitating. Like he’s mapped me out in his mind already and now he’s just filling in the details.

“You give me this,” he pants, breaking just long enough to press a kiss to the crease of my thigh. “You open for me like this—God, baby, I’ll never stop taking care of you.”

Then he dives back in. Deeper. Tongue sliding down to tease my entrance before pushing inside, slow and deliberate. My hips jump, but he holds me down.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs. “Let me have it. Let me feel how soft you are for me.”

My hands fist the sheets, whole body trembling.

He groans as he fucks me with his tongue, slow and deep, then shifts up—mouth latching back onto my clit with purpose. A finger—then two—press inside me, curling just right. His rhythm is devastating.

“I can feel it,” he says between strokes. “How close you are. How tight. How ready.”

“Please,” I whisper.

“Let it go, baby.”

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You will. Right now. You come on my mouth, little one. That’s mine, too.”

And I break.

The orgasm crashes through me like a wave I couldn’t outrun. My thighs clamp, my hips buck—but he doesn’t let up. He groans against me, holding me down, licking me through every pulse until I’m crying out, shaking, broken open on his tongue.

When I finally collapse back against the mattress, he lifts his head.

His mouth is wet with me. His eyes are fire.

And his voice—low, reverent, breathless—wrecks me.

“That’s it, sweet girl. That’s my good girl. Just like that.”

But he doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t give me space. Doesn’t let me breathe.

Instead, he kisses my thigh. Then again. A little higher.

And then his hands slip under my ass, dragging me closer.

“Thought I was done?” he murmurs, voice gone dark with need. “No, baby. Not even close.”

I shiver.

“I told you I’d take care of you,” he says, dragging his tongue back through my folds—slower now. Almost lazy. Almost cruel. “You think Daddy only wants one?”

I whimper. Try to close my legs, but his grip locks me open.

“Don’t you dare,” he warns. “You keep those legs wide. You take this. That’s your job right now. To come again. To give it to me. All of it.”

“Cal—”

He cuts me off with his mouth—hot, relentless—latching onto my clit like he means to drink me dry.

“No thinking.” His order is low, hot, and wicked. “No talking. Just feel it.”

And I do.

God, I do.

His fingers find me again. Slick, slow circles. Then deeper. Curling, pressing, pushing me straight toward the edge even as I sob.

“Too much—”

“It’s not,” he grinds out. “You’re not done until I say you’re done.”

He locks his mouth over me again, and the heat spirals—faster this time. Hotter. Sharper.

I writhe.

He holds me down.

“Give it to me,” he demands, voice thick against my skin. “Right now. Come again. Right now, baby.”

And I do.

This one hits like a punch—sudden and shattering, body spasming, vision flashing white. I scream—raw and high—and he groans, like my release feeds something primal inside him.

He licks through it. Draws it out. Only slowing when I’m twitching, spent, completely broken open for him.

He lifts his head slowly.

His chin is wet. His breath ragged.

“You feel that?” he pants, rubbing slow circles into my thigh. “That’s what it means to be mine.”

And I do.

Every inch of me feels like his now.