The bass still vibrates through the floorboards.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Like a second heartbeat.
I’m perched on the wrought-iron railing of the wraparound balcony. The glass doors behind me leak warm air and muffled laughter. Inside, the after party bleeds on. Empty champagne flutes clink. Someone’s playing pool. A group of girls in sequins spill out onto the patio, giggling, passing a cigarette.
I don’t join them.
I stay where the shadows pool thick against the stucco. Where the city breathes in low, lazy waves. Where I can see everything.
Especially him.
Daddy stands in the kitchen doorway. Backlit by the recessed cabinets. Black tuxedo jacket slung over a chair. White dress shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the hard line of his collarbone. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. Forearms corded with quiet power.
He’s watching me.
He’s always watching me.
Even when he isn’t. Even when I’m talking to someone else. Even when I’m laughing. My skin prickles. My stomach drops. My thighs press together.
I know that gaze.
It’s heavy. It’s possessive. It’s hungry.
He doesn’t blink. He just drinks. Black whiskey. No ice. The liquid catches the light as he swallows. His eyes never leave my mouth. My throat. My chest.
I should look away.
I don’t.
He takes another step. Then another. The floorboards don’t creak. He knows how to move. He knows how to wait. He knows exactly how long it takes for my resolve to crack.
The girls on the patio call out to me.
“Coming? The DJ’s playing that track you love.”
I shake my head.
“I’m good. I need air.”
They shrug. The door slides shut. The music swallows them.
Silence stretches.
Thick. Electric.
He’s in the doorway now. Not coming in. Not leaving. Just waiting.
Like a predator. Like a king. Like a man who owns the ground beneath my bare feet.
I shift my weight. The metal railing bites into my hips. I’m wearing a slip dress. Silk. Black. The kind that clings to every curve. The kind he picked out for me. Said it would make me look like sin.
He’s right.
His jaw tightens. I see it. The muscle jumping. The slow, deliberate swallow.
He speaks.
Voice low. Rough. Carved from smoke and authority.
“Come here.”
Not a request.
A command.
I push off the railing. My bare feet hit the warm tiles. I walk toward him. Slow. Deliberate. Letting him watch. Letting him take it.
He doesn’t move until I’m within arm’s reach.
Then his hand closes around my wrist.
Firm. Unyielding. His thumb presses into the pulse point. He feels it race.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
My knees weaken. My breath hitches. My nipples harden against the thin silk.
He pulls me closer. Just an inch. But it’s enough. His body aligns with mine. Heat radiates through the fabric. I catch his scent. Cedar. Bourbon. Raw masculinity. It floods my senses. I close my eyes. I lean into him.
He doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t kiss me. Not yet.
He just holds me. Possessive. Grounding.
“You’ve been looking at me all night,” he says.
“I can’t help it,” I whisper.
His free hand slides up my spine. Fingers splayed. Pressing me flush against him. The hard ridge of his arousal strains against the wool of his trousers.
“Good,” he says. “Don’t ever help it.”
He turns me. Gently, but with zero room for argument. We face the city. The skyline glows. The air is thick with humidity and promise.
His lips brush my ear.
“You’re mine,” he breathes.
My breath catches. My fingers curl into his shirt.
“Yours,” I agree.
He turns me around again. Cages me against the wall. One arm on either side of my head. His body pins me. His heat seeps into me. His gaze drags over my face. My lips. My throat. My chest.
He takes his time.
Like he’s memorizing me.
Like he’s preparing to break me open.
His hand slides down. Over my ribs. My waist. The dip of my hips. The curve of my ass. He squeezes. Hard. I gasp.
He smiles. Dark. Satisfied.
“Feel that?” he asks.
I nod.
“Feel it?”
I nod again. My thighs tremble. My core aches. I’m already wet. Soaked. Drip wet. I hate how fast I melt for him. Love how fast I melt for him.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I lift my eyes.
His pupils are blown wide. Black swallowing gold. Hunger. Raw. Unfiltered.
“You’re going to carry my child,” he says.
The words hit me like lightning.
My chest tightens. My throat closes. My stomach flips.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t suggest.
He states it like law. Like fate. Like the only possible outcome.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He leans in. His lips graze my jaw. My neck. The shell of my ear.
“Say it.”
“I want it,” I whisper. “I want your baby.”
His hand slides between us. Fingers dip into the damp silk. He finds my center. Presses two fingers through the fabric. I arch. I gasp. My head falls back against the wall.
“Fuck,” he groans.
He doesn’t undress me slowly. He doesn’t tease.
He rips the slip over my head. Tosses it aside. The night air kisses my bare skin. I don’t shiver. I only burn.
His hands are everywhere. Palming my tits. Pinching my nipples. Squeezing my hips. Dragging me down until my knees buckle. I grab his shoulders. I brace. He catches me. Holds me up.
“Not yet,” he says.
He drags me backward. Through the glass door. Into the living room. Past the discarded shoes. Past the empty bottles. Past the dim lighting and the low hum of the city.
He doesn’t turn on the lights.
He doesn’t need to.
He knows every inch of this house.
He knows every inch of me.
He pushes me onto the velvet sofa. I land on my back. Legs spread. He drops to his knees between them.
The sight of him. Kneeling. Head bowed. Hands gripping my thighs. Makes my vision blur.
He looks up. Eyes dark. Devouring.
He doesn’t ask for permission.
He takes it.
His mouth crashes against my core. Tongue flat. Wide. Heavy. He licks through the slickness. Groans at the taste. I cry out. My back arches. My fingers tangle in his hair. He pulls it. Hard. I moan louder.
He eats me like he’s starving. Like he’s claiming. Like he’s marking me from the inside out.
His tongue spirals. Presses. Drills. I’m unraveling. Threads of pleasure snapping. My thighs shake. My hips buck. He holds me down. One hand gripping my hip. Fingers digging in.
“You’re so fucking ready,” he growls against my skin.
I nod. Frantically. Desperately.
“Say it,” he demands.
“I’m yours,” I sob. “I’m yours, Daddy.”
He smiles against my flesh. Then he drives his tongue deeper. Faster. Harder. I break.
Climax rips through me. Violent. Sweeping. I scream into my own hands. My back bows. My toes curl. My womb clenches. I feel it. Deep. Heavy. Aching.
He doesn’t stop.
He rides the aftershocks. Licks me clean. Swallows every drop. His eyes lock onto mine. Dark. Possessive. Satisfied.
He stands. Unbuttons his trousers. Shoves them down. Steps out of them. Unbuckles his belt. Lets it fall.
His cock springs free.
Thick. Veined. Heavy. The head is flushed dark. Pre-cum beads at the slit. It drips. Plops onto the velvet.
I stare. Mouth dry. Heart hammering.
He grabs my hips. Drags me to the edge of the sofa. Lifts my legs. Wraps them over his shoulders. Exposes me completely.
He positions himself.
Head of his cock presses against my entrance. Already stretched. Already weeping.
He looks down. At my thighs. At my stomach. At the soft curve where his seed will take root.
His voice drops. Rough. Reverent. Feral.
“You’re going to hold it,” he says. “Every drop. You’re going to keep it inside you. You’re going to let it sink. You’re going to feel it fill you. You’re going to carry it.”
I nod. Tears prick my eyes. Overwhelmed. Devoted. Dripping.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t stall.
He thrusts forward.
All of him. Bottoms out. Stretches me wide. Fills me to the core.
I scream.
It echoes off the walls. Off the glass. Off the city.
He groans. Loud. Deep. His forehead drops to mine. His breath hitches. His hips lock.
“Feel that?” he grunts.
“Yes,” I choke out. “Yes, Daddy.”
He pulls back. Just an inch. Slams forward again. Hard. Fast. Rhythmic. The sofa groans beneath us. The city blurs. My fingers claw at his back. He doesn’t flinch. He only drives deeper. Harder.
Every thrust hits my cervix. Spoons my womb. Presses against the exact spot that makes me see stars.
He’s breeding me.
Right now.
Right here.
His hands grip my hips. Fingers digging in. Leaving marks. Leaving proof. He leans in. Bites my collarbone. Hard. I cry out. He swallows the sound with his mouth.
“Mine,” he growls. “All mine.”
“I’m yours,” I sob. “I’m yours, Daddy.”
He picks up the pace. Hips a blur. Cock slamming through slick. The sound is filthy. Wet. Rhythmic. I match him. I always do. My walls clamp. Squeeze. Milk his length. He groans. Eyes roll back.
“Look at me,” he commands.
I force my eyes open.
His gaze is feral. Possessive. Devouring.
“You’re going to swell,” he says. “You’re going to feel it. You’re going to carry it. You’re going to be so fucking full of me.”
I nod. Frantically. Desperately.
“I want it,” I gasp. “I want it, Daddy. Please.”
He doesn’t slow.
He drives deeper. Harder. Relentless. My climax builds. Fast. Inevitable. Coiling tight in my gut. I feel it. Feel him. Feel the weight of him. The promise of him.
He leans down. Lips to my ear.
“Come for me,” he orders. “Let go. Let it happen. Let my seed take you.”
I shatter.
Screaming. Shaking. Dripping. My walls clamp down on him. I feel him pulse. I feel him thicken. I feel him flood me.
Hot. Thick. Relentless.
He groans. Feral. Primal. His hips stutter. Drive once. Twice. Buries himself to the hilt. Holds me down. Holds me still.
I feel it.
Every drop.
Every pulse.
Every heavy, claiming stroke of his release.
He empties himself into me. Deep. Thorough. Possessive. I feel it coat my walls. Fill my cavity. Sink toward my cervix. I clench around him. Suck him deeper. I’m trying. I’m trying to keep it. To hold it. To let it work.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays buried. Chest heaving. Forehead pressed to mine. Sweat drips. Breaths mix. The city hums. The bass still vibrates.
His hand slides down. Over my stomach. Rests heavy. Warm. Possessive.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. Voice rough. Satisfied. Final.
I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can only feel.
The weight inside me. The heat. The fullness.
It’s already changing me.
Already claiming me.
Already promising.
He shifts. Carefully. Slowly. Pulls out. The sound is wet. Heavy. I whimper at the loss. At the emptiness.
He doesn’t let me go.
He gathers me. Cradles me against his chest. Carries me to the bedroom. Doesn’t turn on the light. Drops me onto the sheets. Crawls in behind me. Pulls me back against him. His arm bands around my waist. Heavy. Possessive.
His hand rests on my stomach. Right where I can feel him. Where I can feel the promise.
“Sleep,” he commands. Soft. Firm. Absolute.
I nod. Eyes heavy. Body spent. Heart full.
His lips brush my shoulder. His breath warms my neck.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs. “We start.”
I don’t ask what he means.
I already know.
I feel it.
Already sinking.
Already taking root.
Already mine.
Already his.
Already breeding.
Already claimed.