Page 15 of Daddy's Girl

"I’m touching you now, I can’t bear to watch all that magic wasted on a fucking Kleenex,” he snarls. “I was supposed to protect you," he murmurs, leaning forward, his dick still thick and standing tall as he brings my fingers to his lips. "Not corrupt you."

I press my forehead to the hard muscle of his shoulder, breathing him in as smooth, wet warmth engulfs my fingers. “You can protect and corrupt me. They aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

His chest rumbles with a sound that might be a laugh. Or might be a groan. He sucks and licks, his tongue moving up and down my middle finger, sending a delicious new wave of pleasure through me.

Desperate moans catch in my throat as he finishes cleaning my digits, then flattens my hand on his chest where the solid, lowthump thumpof his heart brings me back down to earth.

"Next time," he says, voice dark with promise, "I'll touch you everywhere. There’s not an inch of you that will be off limits."

Next time.

I should be frightened. Instead, I melt against him, wrapping my arms around his waist.

"I'm safe with you," I whisper, trying to convince myself it’s true. “Daddy will protect me.”

His thumb runs over the bumps in my spine, comes to rest on the small of my back.

"From everything," he vows. "Everything except me."

Five

Jack

I don't fucking deserve this.

That's all I can think as I ladle out venison stew, her eyes heavy with the afterglow of what we did in the workshop. Images flash through my mind—her body thrashing in the river current, her lips blue when I dragged her to shore, the way she trembled against me when I carried her up the mountain. She’s already carved herself into my bones. Even how I stand feels different now. My spine is straighter. The little bones in my ears work better because I want to fucking listen to every sound she makes.

I sat her at the table while I went to work on the food. She looked a little curled up for a minute, not unjustified because she just had a mutual masturbation session with a guy she met barely a day ago, and from what I can tell, little Delaney Hart has saved all the best parts of herself for me.

Unconfirmed, but assumed and soon to be confirmed.

She unfurls a bit as I set the steaming bowl in front of her, spoon up the first bite and hold it to her lips. Feeding her is almost as good as beating off with her.

Almost.

But as she relaxes, I fill my own bowl and sit across from her, matching her bite for bite, like her very nourishment is my new mission in life.

"You’re a good cook," she says, surprise coloring her voice.

"Pizza guys don't climb mountains, baby girl," I reply, something primal in me settling when she smiles.

That fucking smile. I'd do anything to keep it on her face.

I want to fucking devour her all over again. Take her on the kitchen table. Make her scream Daddy until her voice gives out.

Instead, I feed her. Watch her strength return with each bite. Watch for any hint of that smile that makes my chest ache.

"You should sleep," I tell her after, taking her empty bowl. "You've had a big day for a little girl."

"I'm not little," she counters, narrowing her eyes at me. "You keep saying that, but I'm full-grown here."

She spreads her arms wide, pointing her index fingers down at herself.

"But youaretired. And it’s my job to take care of you."

She nods, shadows under her eyes betraying her exhaustion. The river. The near-drowning. Whatever drove her to my mountain in the first place. What we did in the workshop. Too much for one delicate system to process.

But then she looks up as I drop the bowls on the counter. "I should probably figure out a plan tomorrow." A casual comment that hits like a sledgehammer. "You know, for... after here."

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