Page 45 of Demon Daddy's Baby Girl

I establish a rhythm, slow and deliberate at first, learning the contours of her body from the inside. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, demanding more. Who am I to deny her anything? She's been through so much, yet here she is, trusting me with her body, with her pleasure.

"Is this good?" I ask against her throat, increasing my pace. Her breath hitches, and I can feel her heart racing against my chest.

"Yes," she gasps, her hands mapping the muscles of my back, clinging to me like I'm her lifeline. "So good."

I shift my angle, searching for that spot that will make her see stars. When I find it, a sharp cry escapes her lips, and her nails dig deeper into my skin. Found it.

I target that spot with each thrust, watching in awe as pleasure transforms her face. Gone is the caution, the wariness that normally haunts her eyes. There is only Aurelie, uninhibited and radiant, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted. She's never been more beautiful than she is in this moment, trusting me, wanting me.

"Rolfo," she chants my name like it's sacred. "Rolfo, I'm close."

"Let go," I encourage, fighting my own building release. "I've got you."

Her body tenses beneath mine, back arching off the bed as she breaks apart. A soft, desperate cry escapes her lips, and her nails dig deeper into my skin, anchoring herself to me.

The sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, trembling—pushes me over the edge. My hips stutter against hers, every muscle taut as I follow her into that blissful oblivion. Our bodies and breath united in that perfect moment, the world fades away until there's nothing left but us.

Afterward, I gather her against me, cradling her head on my chest. Her hair spills across my skin like liquid fire in the moonlight. My fingers trace lazy patterns on her shoulder as our breathing gradually slows.

"That was..." she trails off.

"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Her hand rests over my heart, fingers spreading as if to measure its beat. I cover her hand with mine, marveling at how small it is compared to my own.

I watch her eyelids grow heavy, fighting sleep to stay in this moment. Her breathing eventually slows, her body going slack against mine. Only then do I allow myself to say what's been building inside me.

"I'm not letting anyone take you." My whisper fills the quiet room. It's not a threat. It's a promise carved into my soul, as binding as any oath I've ever sworn. "Not you. Not Sephy. Not ever."

20

AURELIE

Istretch my fingers against the wicker basket handle, its rough texture grounding me. The market buzzes with life I've only glimpsed in snatches during the past few months. Today, though—today I'm not hiding. Today I'm just another face in the crowd, and the sensation feels foreign but welcome.

Even if Rolfo was pretty adamant about me staying out of the market—which was unlike him. But he promised to never take away my choices or force me so in the end, he just promised to accompany me.

"Look," I nod toward bright banners crisscrossing overhead, dyed in colors so vibrant they seem almost defiant against the permanent crimson sky of Ikoth. "I've never seen the market like this before."

Rolfo's mercury eyes scan the crowd, always alert, but when he glances down at me, something in them softens. "Harvest festival. Only happens once a year."

Sephy coos against his broad chest, tiny fists grabbing at his shirt. The sight of my daughter nestled so comfortably against him still takes my breath away sometimes. Her pale violet eyes—so unlike my hazel ones—peer out curiously at the world. She's bundled in a soft blanket Rolfo found somewhere, her silvery-blonde curls peeking out beneath.

"She likes it." I reach up to touch her cheek, and she immediately wraps her tiny fingers around mine. "All the colors, the sounds."

"Takes after her mother, then," Rolfo says, his low voice barely audible above the crowd. "Always watching, taking everything in."

Heat rises to my cheeks, and I busy myself with adjusting my basket. There's something in his tone lately that I don't know how to respond to. Something that I feel but can't process yet—despite the way he has me sharing his bed because it's whatIwant.

The musicians strike up a lively tune somewhere ahead, the beat infectious. Smiling faces pass us by—demons of all kinds, celebrating something older than any of them. They pay us no mind. Here, I'm not property. Not someone's escaped possession. Just a woman walking with... with what? My protector? My friend? Something more that neither of us has dared name?

"Want to try this?" Rolfo gestures toward a stall selling steaming cups of something that smells like spiced nimond.

"Yes," I say, perhaps too eagerly.

The vendor, a blue-skinned woman with eyes like liquid gold, hands us two cups. "For the little one, when she's older," she says with a wink, dropping a sweet wrapped in wax paper into my basket.

"Thank you," I murmur, still unused to casual kindness from strangers.

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