Page 22 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

She cried harder, but these were cleansing tears. The kind that washed away old poison, made room for something healthier. I held her through it, rocking slightly, whispering praise and promises into her hair.

When the storm passed, she lay limp against me, wrung out but peaceful. I could feel the change in her—something fundamental shifting, walls coming down that had stood for years.

"Better?" I asked softly.

She nodded against my neck. "Daddy?"

"Yeah, baby girl?"

"Will you . . ." She paused, gathering courage. "Will you show me? How much I matter? I need—I need to feel it."

The request hit me low in my gut. Not just desire but the need to claim, to demonstrate with touch what words couldn't fully convey. I pulled back enough to see her face, checking.

"Please." Her eyes had gone dark, pupils blown wide. "Need you."

I stood in one smooth motion, lifting her with me. She squeaked, arms tightening around my neck, but I had her secure. Would always have her secure.

"Bed," I said, voice dropping to that register that made her shiver. "Now."

I set her on the butterfly comforter, taking a moment just to look. Hair spread across the pillows like spilled copper. Cheeks flushed from crying and arousal. Eyes trusting and needy and fixed on me like I was her whole world.

"Stay still," I commanded softly. "Don't move unless I tell you."

Her breath caught, but she nodded. I saw the shift happen—that melting into submission that meant she was giving me control. Trusting me to take care of her in every way.

I undressed her slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. The yellow panties I'd chosen this morning were damp, evidence of how much our dynamic affected her. How much being held accountable, being cared for, turned her on.

"Look how wet you are," I murmured, tracing the lace edge. "My little girl likes her punishments, doesn't she? Likes when Daddy has to be firm?"

"Yes," she whimpered, hips trying to lift despite my command to stay still.

"Ah ah. What did I say?"

She froze immediately. "Stay still, Daddy."

"Good girl." I rewarded her with a kiss, deep and claiming. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to touch you, taste you, make you feel exactly how precious you are. But you don't come until I say. Understand?"

Her eyes went wide. We hadn't played with orgasm control yet, but I could see the idea light her up from inside.

"Yes, Daddy."

I made it a mission: to ruin her, to see how much she could take before she broke, but in the best possible way.

I started with my hands, slow and greedy, mapping the slopes of her body as if I was drawing a tactical diagram in my head.

My palms found every contour—her delicate ankles, the curve of her calf, the thin, trembling muscle of her thigh, the dip behind her knee that always made her shiver.

I made a point of getting her trembling before I ever touched her where she really wanted it.

Each inch I traveled, I left a trail of heat and intention.

Her eyes fluttered, lashes spiked and wet, and her breath came in little panting gasps. I wanted her desperate. I wanted her needing so badly to move, to squirm, to plead for more, that when she finally broke it would be explosive.

I started with the softest touches, fingertips barely grazing the insides of her thighs, tracing lazy figure eights closer and closer but never quite giving her what she needed.

Then my mouth followed, lips and tongue writing promises onto her skin that I meant to keep.

Every time she whimpered, every time her hands balled in the sheets or into fists at her sides, I let her feel how proud I was with a low, satisfied sound against her skin.

Sometimes I would praise her out loud—"Good girl, that's it, take it for me,"—but mostly I wanted her to hear the message in every calculated kiss, every inhale that tickled her nerves.

I edged her with care. I watched her limbs lock up when she was close, saw her toes curl, her stomach tremble.

When she was right there—right at the brink, hips starting to betray her with those instinctive pulses—I’d draw back, letting the plateau slip away and fade to a dull ache.

She’d let out these wrecked little noises, half pain, half pleasure, and I’d soothe her with gentle rubs to her belly, her arms, her hair.

Not because I wanted to tease her for the sake of it, but because every time she obeyed, every time she clenched her jaw and rode out the denial, I could feel her trust in me solidify.

I dragged the process out with almost military discipline.

I made her count the seconds for me, even when her voice was shaking and raw.

"Count down from ten," I'd whisper against her thigh, and she'd do it—sometimes sobbing the numbers, sometimes screaming them into the pillow.

By the third time, she was glassy-eyed, drooling around the edge of the pillowcase, but she never once moved her hands, never once broke the rules I'd set.

That kind of obedience, that devotion, did something to me. It made me want to give her everything.

When she was teetering on the edge for what felt like the fifth or sixth time, I slid two fingers inside her, slow and ruthless, curling them just so.

My thumb found her clit, barely circling, and she arched so hard I thought she’d snap in half.

I let her have it, not holding back, not softening the rhythm.

Her whole body turned to iron, then to water, then back to iron again as she fought to obey.

I pressed my mouth to her ear. "You’re so close, aren’t you, baby?"

She couldn’t speak. She just sobbed once, a raw sound, and nodded over and over.

I kept her there, a trembling live wire, until she was pleading.

Not with words—she knew better than to beg me for release without permission—but with every inch of her body.

Her thighs shook, her hands white-knuckled on the sheets.

Tears slid down her cheeks, and her whole body shook with the effort of holding back.

"Look at me," I said, voice rough with pride and want.

She forced her eyes open, vision blurred, pupils blown wide.

"So good for me. So perfect. My brave little girl taking what Daddy gives her. Now you’re going to take it all."

When I finally pushed inside her, it felt like breaching the tight seal on a life raft—pressure, then sudden, overwhelming relief.

She was completely lost to the world, eyes glassy and wild, lips parted in a way that made her look both innocent and fucking obscene.

I slipped in slow, inch by inch, determined she would feel every part of me, every intention.

I wanted her branded with the memory. I wanted her to know, for the rest of her life, what it meant to be claimed.

Her gaze never left mine. It took effort to hold it—her lashes fluttered, her pupils so wide the green had nearly vanished—but she did, and the trust there went deeper than bone.

I rode it, used it, craved it. Her whole body tensed, then melted, then tensed again in a cycle that matched the slow, relentless rhythm I set.

Every time I bottomed out, she made this breathy sound somewhere between a sob and a moan, and I felt it everywhere.

My hands—one tangled in her hair, the other holding her hip down—tightened with every noise she made.

I needed her helpless, needed her suspended in a place where nothing existed but what I gave her.

I didn't rush. I wanted her mindless, wanted her desperate, and the only way to get there was patience.

I let her writhe, let her beg with her body, but not with words.

Every time her hips tried to buck, I pressed her back to the mattress, pinning her, letting her know who owned her pleasure tonight.

Sweat slicked both of us, made the friction almost unbearable.

The room felt too small for both our heat.

The air was thick with the smell of her, the sound of skin slapping, the rasp of her gasps and the rumble of my own voice.

Her hands clawed at the sheets, then at my shoulders, like she couldn't decide whether she needed an anchor or wanted to be untethered. I bit her shoulder, left a mark. She whimpered but didn’t flinch.

I whispered filth in her ear, reminding her who she belonged to, how good she was for me, how beautiful she was when she let go of everything but this.

Her thighs started to shake, and I knew she was close.

Knew I'd pushed her right to the edge and she was just waiting for me to give her permission.

I didn't. Not yet. I slowed down, then stopped altogether, buried as deep as I could go.

She made a wounded animal noise, desperate and pleading, but I just stroked her hair and kissed the tear tracks on her cheek.

I wanted her to remember this, remember the line between pleasure and pain and how I held her right at the center.

Then I started up again, faster, harder, fucking her into the mattress like I could shift her atoms into alignment with mine. Her eyes rolled back, but I called her name—her real name, her little name, all the names I used when she was mine—and she refocused, blinking at me through the haze.

"Daddy, please," she gasped. "Need to—can I—"

"Not yet." I caught her wrists, pinning them gently above her head. "Want you to understand something first. This feeling? This need? This is how I feel about taking care of you. Desperate for it. Aching with how much I need to keep you safe and fed and happy."

"I understand," she sobbed, arching against me. "Please, I understand."

"Then come for me, baby girl. Show Daddy how good you can be."

She shattered with a cry that might have been my name or might have been God's. I followed her over, the intensity of it stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything but the feeling of her clenching around me.