"You don't mean that," he says. His voice is rough, edged with that familiar, grounded baritone that used to calm me when I was small and the thunder rolled too loud. I sit on the edge of the bed, knees drawn to my chest, fingers twisting the silk of my robe. The air between us is thick, charged, waiting. I shake my head slowly.
"I do," I whisper. The words feel fragile on my tongue, but they’re true. They’ve been true for years, buried under wedding invitations, polite smiles, and men who tried so hard to be enough. I let the tears fall. I don’t bother wiping them away. They just spill over, hot and unashamed, tracing paths down my cheeks and dripping onto the duvet.
I start talking. Not in a rush, but in a steady stream, like a dam finally breaking. I tell him about Mark, with his careful hands and empty promises, how he’d trace my jawline and ask if I was happy, and I’d lie. I tell him about David, who lasted three months and left me feeling hollow, how he’d kiss me like he was reading a menu instead of tasting me. I tell him about the rest—every boyfriend, every fiancé, every man who sat across from me at dinner or held me in the dark, searching my eyes for something I couldn’t name. None of them felt right. Not really. Because none of them were him. I’ve been comparing every man to him my whole life. I’ve measured their shoulders against his, their voices against the low rumble that used to read to me, their touch against the way he used to hold me when I was little and needed to feel safe. And it was always a losing game. They were all just echoes. He was the source. I’ve been starving for him in beds that weren’t his, in arms that weren’t strong enough, in rooms that weren’t his.
He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, chest rising and falling, hands resting on his thighs. Then he shifts, the mattress dipping, and pulls me into his arms. I go willingly, collapsing against his chest, feeling the thick wool of his sweater, the solid warmth of him. I press my cheek to his sternum and listen. His heart is beating. Strong. Steady. A frantic rhythm that matches my own. I can feel it through the fabric, through my skin, right into my bones. It’s the most real thing I’ve ever known. It grounds me. It anchors me. It tells me I’m home.
"Daddy, I don't want to marry him. I want you." My voice cracks on the last word, raw and desperate. I don’t care about the titles. I don’t care about the blood. I just want him.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His jaw is tight, eyes dark with something I can’t quite place—desire, fear, resignation, all tangled together. He hesitates, thumb brushing my lower lip, wiping away a tear. I don’t wait. I tilt my head and press my mouth to his.
He kisses me back, slow at first, then harder, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His hand slides up my spine, fingers tangling in my hair. I make a small sound in my throat, desperate, needy. He pulls back again, breathless. "Your mother's in the next room."
I don't care. I never did. Not really. Not about the house, the wedding, the perfect little life we’re supposed to play. I grab the front of his shirt and yank him closer, ignoring the way his breath hitches. "Then be quiet," I say, and it’s a command, a plea, a promise all at once.
He doesn’t argue. He just nods, once, and the hesitation melts away. His mouth crashes into mine again, hungry and claiming. I can taste him, the faint mint of his coffee, the salt of my tears, the deep, manly scent of his cologne. I press my body flush against his, feeling the hard ridge of his arousal through his trousers. I whimper, grinding against him, and he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates right through my chest.
His hands are everywhere now, rough and sure. He unbuttons my robe with one hand, the silk sliding off my shoulders, pooling at my waist. The cool air kisses my skin for only a second before his palms are on me, broad and warm, mapping my curves. He traces the dip of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, the thin strap of my lace bra. I arch into his touch, head falling back, eyes closing. Every nerve ending is alive.
"Look at me," he murmurs. I open my eyes. His gaze is dark, possessive, hungry. He pulls down the strap, exposing me, and his mouth follows, hot and wet, closing over one nipple. I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair. He sucks gently, then harder, rolling it between his teeth, and I’m trembling, barely holding myself together.
He pushes my robe off my hips, kicking it away, and I’m bare from the waist down. He doesn’t rush. He never rushed with me, not even when I was a child and he’d carry me to bed. He takes his time, dragging his mouth up my thigh, leaving a trail of heat. I spread my legs wider, giving him what he wants, what I’ve wanted. He presses a kiss to my inner thigh, then another, and I’m shaking, breath coming in short gasps.
"You’ve been waiting for this," he says, voice low, almost to himself. "Aren’t you?"
I nod, unable to speak. "Yes. Always."
He shifts, settling between my legs, and I feel him again, thick and heavy against my stomach. He uses one hand to guide himself, the other stroking my hip. I watch, mesmerized, as he lines up, the tip pressing against my entrance. I’m slick, already ready for him, my body remembering what my mind has been starving for. He pushes in slowly, just the head, and I cry out, a mix of pain and pure ecstasy. It’s so much. It’s everything.
He pauses, letting me adjust, his forehead resting against mine. His breath is hot, his eyes searching mine. "Tell me if it’s too much," he says.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please."
He drives in deeper, fully now, and I take him, stretching around him, feeling every inch. The room fills with the sound of our breathing, the soft rustle of sheets, the occasional gasp. He starts to move, slow at first, then with more purpose. Each thrust is deliberate, claiming, deep. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, feeling him bottom out inside me. I can feel his pulse in his cock, the way his muscles tense with each movement.
I reach up, tracing his jaw, my fingers sliding into his hair. He kisses me again, deep and messy, swallowing my moans. I’m close, so close, the coil in my belly tightening. I can feel him building, the way his hips stutter, the way his breath hitches. I squeeze around him, and he groans, a raw, broken sound.
"I’m coming," he murmurs against my lips. "Baby, I’m coming."
"Yes," I gasp. "Take it."
He does. He pulls out just enough, then drives back in, hitting that spot deep inside me, and I shatter. My orgasm crashes over me, wave after wave, milking him, pulling him down with me. He follows, filling me with hot, thick pulses, his body tensing, his breath hot against my neck. I cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, feeling every drop, every shudder.
We stay like that for a long time, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. The house is quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs. Somewhere down the hall, my mother shifts in her sleep, unaware. I don’t care. None of it matters anymore.
He pulls out slowly, a thin trail of our mingled juices following, and I feel the loss immediately, but it’s worth it. He kisses my forehead, then my lips, soft and lingering. His hand strokes my hair, gentle now, the way he used to when I was little and afraid of the dark.
"You really mean it," he says, voice rough.
"I always have," I whisper. "I just needed you to know."
He nods, pulling my robe back over my shoulders, but he doesn’t let go. His arm stays around my waist, pulling me against his side. I rest my head on his chest, listening to his heart, still beating fast. The wedding is tomorrow. The guests are coming. The world is waiting. But right now, in this room, with him holding me, I’m exactly where I belong. I close my eyes, feeling the weight of him, the warmth, the reality of it all. No more pretending. No more comparing. Just us. Just this. Just the man who’s been inside my head, my body, my soul, finally taking what’s been his all along.