Page 52 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

"Seven-year-old, needed a tetanus shot after stepping on a nail." I hoisted myself onto the counter, legs swinging. "Kid pulls out a Twix from his pocket—the fun size ones—and dead serious says, 'This could be yours if you forget about the shot.'"

Gabe's grin transformed his face. "A businessman in the making."

"Right? I told him I respected the hustle but needles don't negotiate." I snagged a piece of garlic bread from the cutting board, dodging his half-hearted swat. "He took it like a champ though. Even let me put a butterfly bandaid on after."

"Your butterflies are conquering the world." He moved between my knees, natural as breathing. "How's Nina?"

"She's good. Excited about the mobile unit." I played with the dish towel on his shoulder, needing to touch. "We finalized the Friday routes today. Starting with the warehouse district."

His hand found my thigh, steady and warm. "That's Serpent territory."

"Was," I corrected. "Thor says they've pulled back since—" Since the warehouse job. Since Alex disappeared. Since the power balance shifted in ways that made certain neighborhoods safer. "He said the Kings have people watching now. Making sure families don't get caught in the crossfire."

"We do." He turned back to the stove, but kept one hand on me. Always touching now, like he needed the reminder I was real. "That's actually what I was working on today. Prospect training, but different from the usual."

I made an encouraging sound, content to watch him work. The way his hands moved with careful confidence, adding a pinch of red pepper, tasting, adjusting. He'd approach my body the same way later—methodical, attentive, devastating.

"Thor's got ideas about community protection.

Not just muscle and territory, but actual investment.

" He plated the pasta with restaurant precision.

"Suicide prevention networks for vets. Narcan distribution that doesn't ask questions.

Making connections with people like you, who can help without judgment. "

"People like me?" I accepted my plate, inhaling garlic and tomato and possibility.

"People who see past the patches to the purpose." He clinked his water glass against mine. "We're making good trouble, Ki."

The nickname still sent warmth through my chest. Not baby girl—that was for different moments. Ki was partnership, equality, two people building something together.

"So are we," I said softly.

We ate standing up, him leaning against the stove, me still perched on the counter. Our kitchen wasn't big enough for a proper table, but we'd made it work. Made everything work through stubbornness and trust and the kind of love that surprised us both with its simplicity.

"How's your pain today?" I asked, noticing the way he shifted weight off his left side.

"Fine."

"Liar." But I said it with affection. "I have that CBD cream if—"

"I'm fine, Ki." He set his empty plate in the sink, then crowded back between my legs. "Got better medicine in mind anyway."

His hands bracketed my hips, thumbs finding skin where my scrub top had ridden up.

Such a small touch, but my body responded like he'd lit a match.

Four months of learning each other, and still my breath caught when he looked at me like that.

Like I was dessert and Christmas and every good thing rolled into one.

"That so?" My voice came out breathier than intended.

"Mm." He leaned in, lips barely brushing my jaw. "Been thinking about it all day. Had to take a cold shower after your text."

"My very innocent text about bread?"

His teeth found my earlobe, just sharp enough to make me gasp. "Nothing innocent about you, baby girl."

There it was. The shift from partners to something else. Something that made me wet and wanting and wonderfully small in all the right ways.

"Dishes," I managed, even as my legs wrapped around him.

"Later." He lifted me off the counter like I weighed nothing, hands firm under my thighs. "Got more important things to do."

I buried my face in his neck, inhaling cologne and sweat and home. "Bossy Daddy."

"Desperate girl," he countered, already carrying me toward the bedroom. "Let's see what we can do about that."

The bedroom door clicked shut behind us, lamplight casting everything in amber warmth. He set me down gentle, but his hands stayed possessive on my waist, thumbs stroking promises through thin fabric.

Our bedroom had become a sanctuary. Not just for sex—though God knew we'd christened every surface—but for the quiet intimacy that followed. Velvet curtains I'd found at an estate sale blocked out the world. My lavender pillow spray mixed with his cologne on the sheets. Safe. Ours.

"Come here," he murmured, pulling me against him.

His kiss started soft, testing, then deepened when I opened for him. Four months and kissing Gabe still felt like drowning in the best way. His tongue slid against mine, patient and thorough, while his hands mapped the curve of my spine through scrubs that suddenly felt like armor I needed to shed.

"Missed you today," he said against my mouth.

"Missed you too." I tugged at his jeans, needing skin. "Thought about you during lunch break."

"Yeah?" His hands found the hem of my top. "What about?"

Heat flooded my cheeks, but I held his gaze. "About what we talked about. What I want to try."

His whole body stilled. Not frozen, just intensely focused. "You sure?"

On the dresser, my day collar caught the light. Beside it sat the plug he'd bought after our conversation two weeks ago. Sleek purple silicone, smaller than I'd expected, less intimidating than my imagination had made it.

"I'm sure." My voice stayed steady even as my pulse raced. "I trust you."

Something shifted in his expression—pride mixing with possession mixing with raw need. "My brave girl."

He undressed me like unwrapping a gift. Scrub top pulled over my head, sports bra following. His mouth found my neck as he worked my pants down, kissing and nipping while I melted against him. By the time I stood naked, I was already aching, already wet.

"Bed," he commanded softly. "On all fours."

I climbed onto our bed, hyperaware of how exposed the position left me. But this was Gabe. My Daddy, my protector, the man who'd held me through nightmares and panic attacks and every ugly moment of healing. Safe.

The mattress dipped as he joined me, now naked too. His hand smoothed down my spine, grounding me. "Tell me if anything's too much. Any time, for any reason."

“I will, Daddy.”

He started with his mouth. Kissing down my spine, hands massaging muscles that didn't know they were tense. Taking his time like we had forever, like making me feel good was his only job in the world. When his tongue found my clit, I nearly collapsed.

"Steady, baby girl." His hands gripped my hips, holding me up while he destroyed me with his mouth. "Let me take care of you."

I pressed my face into the pillow, muffling sounds that wanted to escape. He worked me methodical, learning which flicks made me shake, which pressure made me beg. One finger slipped inside, then two, stretching and preparing while his tongue continued its sweet torture.

"Please," I gasped, not sure what I was begging for.

"Not yet." He pulled back, leaving me empty and wanting. "Need to get you ready."

The click of the lube bottle made my stomach flutter. Cool gel touched my skin, making me jump then relax as he warmed it with careful fingers. He talked me through every movement, every sensation.

"Just gonna circle here," he murmured, suiting action to words. "Let you get used to being touched."

It felt strange. Vulnerable. But his other hand stayed on my lower back, thumb stroking soothing circles. Grounding me. Reminding me I was his, was safe, was allowed to want this.

"Breathing, baby girl."

Right. I forced air into my lungs, let my body soften. His finger pressed gentle, just the tip, barely anything but somehow everything.

"All good?"

"So good." My voice sounded wrecked already.

He worked me open patient as a surgeon, adding more lube, more pressure, backing off when I tensed. His free hand never stopped touching—my back, my hip, reaching under to stroke my clit when sensation got overwhelming.

"You're doing so good," he praised. "Taking it so well. My perfect girl."

By the time he reached for the plug, I was a mess of need and nerves. He showed it to me first, let me see how much smaller it was than his fingers had felt. The purple silicone gleamed with lube, innocent looking for something that felt so momentous.

"Ready?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The first press of it made me tense automatically. He waited, rubbing my back, murmuring praise and filth in equal measure. "That's it, let it in. You were made for this, baby girl. Made to take what Daddy gives you."

The stretch burned but didn't hurt. Strange pressure that made me hyperaware of every nerve ending, every breath. Then it slipped past the widest point and my body accepted it, pulled it in like it belonged there.

"Fuck." The word punched out of him. "Look at you. So pretty with your princess plug."

Princess plug. Of course he'd call it that. I should have rolled my eyes but could only moan as he traced where silicone met skin.

"Think you can take more?"

More? I was already overwhelmed, already floating in that space where shame couldn't touch me. But then I felt him behind me, cock hard against my thigh, and understood.

"Please," I whispered. "Need you."

He pushed into my pussy slow, and Jesus Christ. Full didn't begin to describe it. The plug made everything tighter, made me feel him in new ways. Made me feel everything. He had to work for it, rocking gentle until my body accepted this too.

"You like it?"

“So so so much,” I barely go the words out.

He laughed, breathless. "Thank fuck."

Then he moved, and I lost all words.