The engine hummed beneath my hands, a low, steady vibration that did nothing to settle the tremor in my thighs. I had driven back to the apartment alone, but my mind was still back at the house, tangled in the sheets, tangled in *him*. My fingers drifted to my throat, tracing the faint, darkening bruise he'd left there when he bit down, hard enough to mark, hard enough to keep. A claim. A brand. Lucas thought he was buying a wife, but he was just a placeholder, a temporary vessel until I was ready to return to the only man who truly owned me.
I pulled into the parking spot beneath our building. The streetlights cast long, yellow shadows, but all I could see was the dark hollow of his chest, the way his hands felt on my hips. I killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of leather and his cologne, waiting for the feeling to shift. It didn't. The hollow in my chest was filled with him now. With Daddy.
I climbed out, my heels clicking against the pavement, and rode the elevator up. My heart hammered against my ribs, not with nerves, but with anticipation. I could hear his voice before I even turned the key in the lock.
"You're late."
The door swung open, and there he was. Lucas. Dressed in that crisp button-down he always wore, looking like the perfect groom-to-be. He stepped forward, his arms opening instinctively, and wrapped me up.
"I was so worried," he murmured into my hair, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You didn't answer your phone. I thought something happened."
I stood there, my arms limp at my sides, letting him hold me. But it felt wrong. His touch was soft, careful, the touch of a man who wanted to preserve me. Daddy's touch was heavy, possessive, the touch of a man who wanted to consume me. His lips were gentle; Daddy's teeth were sharp. I could barely stand the weight of him. His scent—soap and starch—was boring compared to the musk of Daddy's skin, the salt and heat that still clung to my pores.
"I'm here," I whispered, my voice sounding distant.
He pulled back slightly, looking into my eyes, searching for the woman he thought he knew. I looked down at my hand. The diamond ring caught the hallway light, flashing brilliant white. It was beautiful. It was expensive. It was a lie.
As I stared at it, the metal seemed to burn my finger. It felt like a shackle. It felt like a collar meant for a dog, not a mistress. I wasn't his. I never really was. I was marked. I could feel the ghost of his mouth on my neck, the weight of his body pinning me down, the way he'd whispered my name like a prayer and a command. That ring meant nothing. It was just gold and stone. The real mark was inside me, deep in my womb, where he'd filled me, where he'd claimed my body as his own.
"You okay?" Lucas asked, reaching out to stroke my cheek.
I flinched. Just a little, but enough. He frowned.
"Fine," I lied. "Just tired."
We went inside. The apartment felt sterile, empty. We ordered food, but I couldn't eat. I watched him cut into his steak, watching the way his eyes lingered on my legs, wondering if he could still taste the meal I'd prepared for him. He didn't know. He had no idea that while he was waiting for me, I was being broken open by my father. The secrecy of it made my skin prickle with heat. I was his daughter. I was his wife. I was both, and neither.
That night, after dinner, we sat on the sofa. Lucas turned on the TV, but I didn't watch. I looked at the ring again. It was time.
"Lucas," I said. My voice was steady now.
He looked over, smiling. "What?"
"The wedding is off."
He blinked, his smile faltering. "What? What do you mean, off?"
"It's off. I'm calling it off." I didn't explain. I didn't tell him that my father had taken my virginity, that my father had stretched me wide, that my father had filled me with his seed and told me to keep it for him. I didn't tell him that I loved the man who raised me more than I loved the man who bought me a ring.
"Why?" he demanded, leaning forward, his eyes wide. "Did I do something? Is it someone else?"
"No," I said. "It's just... done."
"Done? You can't just say 'done'! We've been planning this for six months!" He stood up, pacing, running his hands through his hair. "Are you joking? This is a joke, right?"
I stood up too. I felt light, unburdened. The ring on my finger felt heavier now, a burden I was ready to drop. "No joke. Pack your things. Or I will."
He stared at me, his face flushing red, then pale. Devastation washed over his features, but it was a superficial kind of pain. He had lost a prize. He had lost a pretty girl. He hadn't lost his whole world. I had.
"You're crazy," he muttered, grabbing his jacket. "You're completely crazy."
"Maybe," I said. "But I'm free."
He left. The door clicked shut, and the silence rushed back in, but it wasn't empty anymore. It was waiting.
I didn't pack. I didn't need to. I just grabbed my purse, slipped off the ring and left it on the coffee table, and walked out. The drive to his house felt like a journey back through time, back to the beginning, back to the source. The city blurred past me, streetlights streaking like blood on the asphalt. My hands gripped the wheel, my thighs pressing together, remembering the ache, the fullness, the way his cock had pounded into me until I couldn't think, until I could only feel.
I parked in front of his house. It was dark, but I knew he'd be waiting. He always waited. He liked to watch me come to him.
I walked up the path, my heels clicking, and knocked. Not a timid knock, but a firm rap. I heard the lock turn, the heavy thud of the door opening.
He stood there in his dark suit, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked up at me, his eyes dark, hungry. He didn't ask where I'd been. He didn't ask about the fiance. He just looked at me, and I saw the recognition in his gaze. He knew. He could smell the other man on me, the faint trace of Lucas's cologne, and it only made him more possessive.
He stepped forward, reaching out to cup my face, his thumb brushing over my lower lip.
"Come home," he whispered.
That was all I needed. "I'm home," I breathed.
He pulled me inside, his hand sliding down my back to grip my ass, pulling me flush against his hardening length. The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in our world. He didn't waste time with words. He turned me around, pressing me against the wall, and his mouth crashed onto mine, devouring me. His tongue pushed into my mouth, deep and demanding, tasting of wine and authority.
I melted into him, my hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. I needed him. I needed the weight, the pressure, the ownership. His hand moved to my throat, not choking, but holding, marking me right there. I could feel his other hand sliding up my skirt, his fingers finding my wetness instantly.
"Soaked," he murmured, his voice rough. "For me."
"Always," I gasped.
He lifted me, his arms strong as he carried me to the bedroom, throwing me onto the bed. He followed, crawling over me like a predator, pinning my wrists with one hand while the other explored my body. He kissed my neck, right over the bruise, and I cried out, arching my back.
"Mine," he growled. "You're mine, baby girl."
He pushed my skirt down, kicked off my heels, and didn't bother with the ring. He pulled it off my finger and tossed it aside, replacing it with the feel of his skin. He unbuttoned his trousers, freeing himself, and I watched, mesmerized, as he guided his thick cock to my entrance.
I looked up at him, my eyes wide, submissive. "Daddy."
The word hung in the air, a promise and a plea. He grunted, lowering his hips, and pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite. I had been waiting for this. I had been aching for this. He filled me completely, stretching me wide, claiming every inch. I wrapped my legs around his waist, locking my ankles, pulling him deeper. He groaned, his head falling forward to rest against my shoulder, and began to thrust.
Hard. Deep. Relentless.
Each stroke hit my cervix, sending shocks of pleasure through my core. He didn't rush. He took his time, setting a rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart. His hand moved between us, his thumb rubbing my clit, adding pressure to the fullness. I was drowning in him. The world outside—the fiance, the ring, the life I was supposed to have—ceased to exist. There was only Daddy. Only the heat, the sweat, the sound of our bodies slapping together.
He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in, and I felt it hit that spot deep inside, the spot that made my toes curl. I cried out, my back bowing, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"Look at me," he commanded.
I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze. He was intense, focused entirely on me. He was taking me apart, rebuilding me as his own.
"You're my good girl," he whispered, leaning down to bite my earlobe. "You broke the engagement. You left the ring. You came to me."
"I had to," I sobbed, tears of relief and pleasure streaming down my face. "I had to come home."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming frantic, powerful. I could feel the buildup, the pressure coiling in my belly. He pulled out, just enough, and spat into his mouth, coating his cock before slamming back in. The wetness slicked us, making every slide smooth and deep.
"Cum for me," he ordered.
I didn't need to be told twice. My body clenched around him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me. I screamed into his shoulder, my hips bucking, milking him. He followed quickly, groaning my name as he filled me with his seed, hot and thick, marking me from the inside.
He stayed deep inside me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against my neck. He didn't pull out. He kept me plugged, kept me marked. I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding him close, feeling his heart hammering against my chest.
"Daddy," I whispered again, softer this time.
He kissed my forehead, his eyes closing for a moment. "I'm here. You're home."
And I was. I was exactly where I belonged.