The heavy tread of his boots against the hardwood was unmistakable. Even through the hum of the house settling, that specific rhythm cut through the silence like a blade. I lay perfectly still, my heart hammering against my ribs, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Weeks of this. Weeks of eyes tracking me across the room, fingers brushing my waist when he handed me a glass, the air thick enough to choke on. But tonight, the air broke.
The sound of the door handle turning triggered a memory, vivid and sudden. I was seven, small and knobby-kneed, buried under a mountain of quilts. His large hand, warm and calloused, would rest against my forehead, checking for fever even when I was perfectly fine. "Sleep tight, baby," he'd rumble, his voice a low vibration that traveled all the way down my spine. He'd smooth the duvet over my shoulders, his knuckles grazing my collarbone, and tuck me in with a precision that felt like worship. "Daddy's right here," he'd whisper, and I'd believe him. I'd always believed him.
The handle clicked. The door swung inward, spilling a slice of hallway light across my duvet. He filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and silent, his silhouette framed by the glow. He didn't say a word. He just stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, sealing us in. He crossed the room with that same predatory grace, the one I'd felt a thousand times but never quite understood until now. He stopped at the edge of my bed and lowered himself onto the mattress. The springs groaned under his weight, the vibration traveling up through the sheets and into my bones.
His hand found my shoulder. It wasn't tentative. It was a claim. His palm was hot, his fingers digging in slightly through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. I held my breath, waiting. "I know you're awake, baby," he murmured. His voice was rougher than in the memory, stripped of the bedtime softness, laced with something dark and hungry.
I blinked, my lashes fluttering open to reveal the world of him. His eyes were dark, fixed on mine, searching for the signal I'd been sending for weeks.
"For weeks," he started, his thumb brushing my jawline, "I've been watching you. Waiting for you to give me permission. But you just kept looking at me. You kept touching me back." He leaned closer, his face inches from mine. "I've been wanting you since you grew into the girl I've always seen inside. I've been wanting to take what's mine." His breath ghosted over my lips. "Tell me to stop, and I will. But I don't think I can."
"I've been waiting for you, too," I whispered, my voice trembling but sure. "I've been driving myself crazy. I wanted you to make the first move. I wanted you to come for me." A flush rose up my neck. "I'm yours. I've always been yours."
A growl rumbled in his chest. "Say it again," he demanded. "Say who you belong to."
"You," I breathed. "Daddy."
The word slipped out, heavy and sweet. That was all the permission he needed. He closed the distance. His mouth crashed onto mine, not tentative, but with a desperate hunger that had been building for weeks. It was a kiss that tasted of authority and promise, his lips devouring mine, his hand tangling in my hair to tilt my head back. I melted into him, my hands finding the broad expanse of his shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left between us.
He broke the kiss only to trail his mouth down my jaw, leaving a path of fire in his wake. "You've been such a good girl," he murmured against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "But it's time to show me." His hands moved to the hem of my shirt, his fingers deft as he hauled the fabric up over my head. The cool air hit my skin, but his gaze was warmer, searing. He pushed the shirt off my arms and tossed it aside, his eyes raking over me, possessive and reverent. "Princess," he whispered, the nickname sending a shiver straight to my core. "My beautiful princess." He leaned back down, his hand sliding over my waist, unbuttoning the top button of my jeans. The line had been crossed hours ago, but this... this was the point of no return. He was taking me. And I was letting him.