Page 53 of Wings (Heavy Kings MC #5)

Each thrust shifted the plug, created pressure and pleasure that built on itself like feedback. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me steady while he took me apart. I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only feel.

"Touch yourself," he commanded.

My hand flew to my clit, circling desperate. The combined sensation—him inside me, the plug, my own touch—spiraled me higher than I'd known was possible. My thighs shook. My breath came in sobs. Everything wound tighter and tighter until—

"Come for me, baby girl. Show Daddy how good it feels."

I shattered. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, each one bigger than the last. I might have screamed—probably did—but Gabe just held me through it, fucking me steady while I clenched and pulsed around him.

"Good girl, such a good girl, taking it all so perfect—" His rhythm faltered. "Gonna come, baby. Gonna fill you up."

"Please," I begged, wanting his pleasure as much as my own.

He buried himself deep with a groan that sounded pulled from his soul. I felt him pulse inside me, marking me his in the most primal way. We stayed locked together, both breathing hard, both wrecked.

Slowly, careful, he pulled out. The empty feeling made me whimper until he gathered me close, arranging us on our sides with me tucked against his chest.

"You did so good," he murmured, pressing kisses to my hair. "So proud of you. How do you feel?"

"Floaty." True but not complete. "Full. Yours."

"Mine," he agreed, hand splaying possessive over my stomach. "Gonna take such good care of you."

He did, bringing warm washcloths, water, the soft blanket I loved. The plug stayed for now—we'd talked about this too, how I might want to keep it for a while. How it might make me feel owned in the best way.

"Thank you," I whispered when we'd resettled, his body curved protective around mine.

"For what?"

"Thank you for—God, how do I even say it? For making me feel like wanting things isn't shameful."

His thumb brushed my cheekbone, catching tears I hadn't realized were falling. Not sad tears. Overwhelmed tears. The kind that came when your body couldn't hold all the feelings trying to escape.

"You never have to be ashamed with me," he said, voice serious as a vow. "Not of what you want, what you need, what makes you feel good. Never."

"I know that here." I touched my temple. "But knowing it here—" my hand moved to my heart, "—that's harder. Twenty-two years of being told nice girls don't want certain things. That pleasure is selfish. That my body is something to be managed, not enjoyed."

"Fuck that." The vehemence in his voice made me smile. "Your body is yours. Your pleasure is yours. And you sharing both with me? That's a gift, baby girl. One I'll never take lightly."

I kissed him soft, tasting promise on his lips. When I pulled back, words I'd been holding for weeks spilled out. "I started seeing someone. A therapist, I mean. Mandy put me in touch with her. She specializes in trauma and . . . alternative lifestyles."

His eyebrows rose. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I traced patterns on his chest, easier than meeting his eyes. "I want to be better. Not just at the sex stuff—though that too—but at existing. At taking up space. At being myself without apologizing."

"Ki." He tilted my chin up, forcing eye contact. "You don't need to be better. You're already—"

"I know you think I'm perfect." I pressed fingers to his lips, silencing protest. "And I love you for it.

But I have work to do. Healing work. The kind that lets me color in public without feeling six years old and judged.

The kind that means wearing my collar outside the apartment without panicking that someone will know what it means. "

He kissed my fingers, then pulled my hand to his chest. His heart beat steady under my palm. "Tell me about it. The therapy."

"We've had three sessions so far. Mostly just building trust, establishing that she's safe. But last week . . ." I took a breath, gathering courage. "Last week I told her about us. About our dynamic. About how being little makes me feel safe but also terrified."

"What did she say?"

"That it's normal. The fear, I mean. That women especially are taught to be caretakers, to be mature, to never need nurturing. So when we find spaces where we can be small, be cared for, it feels transgressive. Like we're breaking rules that were beaten into us before we could even name them."

His arm tightened around me. "But you're not breaking rules. You're breaking free."

"I want to believe that." The words came out small but certain.

"I want to be the kind of woman who carries coloring books in her purse because they make her happy.

Who calls her boyfriend Daddy in the grocery store without worrying about stares.

Who can exist in all her pieces without hiding the ones that don't fit other people's comfort. "

"You're already her," he said fierce. "Maybe you can't see it yet, but I do.

Every time you text me princess emojis in the middle of serious conversations.

Every time you reorganize your stuffies because Tuesday's bear needs to be next to Thursday's elephant.

Every time you let yourself want something just because it feels good. "

I buried my face in his neck, overwhelmed again.

"Sometimes I think about it," I admitted. "Going out fully little. Wearing one of my princess dresses to the park. Coloring at a restaurant while you order for me. Just . . . existing without shame."

"We can do that." No hesitation in his voice. "Whenever you're ready. Whatever you need."

"Not yet." I pulled back to meet his eyes. "But someday. When the therapy has sunk in more. When I trust myself not to spiral after. When being happy doesn't feel like rebellion."

"There's no timeline," he reminded me. "No deadline for healing."

"I know. Dr. Martinez says the same thing. She also says . . ." I grinned, mood shifting lighter. "She says exploration of pleasure is part of healing. That reclaiming my body means trying new things. Testing boundaries."

"Is that so?" His hand drifted lower, teasing. "What kind of boundaries?"

"All kinds." I arched into his touch. "Like maybe keeping this plug in while you fuck me again. For therapeutic purposes."

"Therapeutic." His laugh rumbled through both of us. "Baby girl, you're gonna be the death of me."

"But what a way to go."

He rolled me onto my back, looming over me with intent that made my breath catch. "You sure you can take more?"

"Only one way to find out." I pulled him down for a kiss that tasted like challenge. "For therapy."

"For therapy," he agreed, already moving lower. "Let's see how much healing we can accomplish."

This time was slower, sweeter. He mapped every inch of me with lips and tongue, whispering praise between kisses. How beautiful I was. How perfect. How his. I floated on the words, let them sink into places that had been hungry for so long.

When he finally slid inside me again, the fullness made me gasp. Different angle, new sensations, the plug making everything more intense. But I took it, took him, took all the pleasure he offered like communion.

"My good girl," he breathed against my ear. "Taking everything so well. So proud of you."

The second orgasm built slower but hit harder. Rolled through me like tide, washing away old shame and leaving something clean in its wake. He followed me over, my name a prayer on his lips.

After, he removed the plug gentle as he'd inserted it. Cleaned me with warm cloths and reverent hands. Tucked me against his chest like I was precious, breakable, worth protecting.

"Thank you for telling me," he murmured into the darkness. "About therapy. About what you want. All of it."

"Thank you for listening." I yawned, exhaustion hitting sudden and complete. "For making space for all of me."

"Always, baby girl. Always."

I drifted toward sleep surrounded by his warmth, his scent, his steady breathing. Safe. Whole. His.

And for the first time in my life, unashamed of wanting to be.