Page 33 of Daddy's Girl

"Look at me." I grip her chin hard, forcing her lips to pucker, her eyes to meet mine. "Whatever this is between us—" I give her a thrust with my fingers, making her gasp, "—isn't up for debate. But I need to be inside your head the same way I'm inside your body. Complete fucking access. All the time."

"Even the scary parts?" she whispers, her small hand clutching at my wrist. “The stupid, insecure, dumb, silly—"

“All of it." I brush my thumb across her lower lip, then replace it with my mouth, kissing her deep and hard before pulling back. "Daddy doesn't do misunderstandings, baby girl. You think something, you say it. Right then. I'll handle the rest. That's what being mine means."

She nods slowly. "I just thought… maybe I was just an obligation to you."

A growl rises in my throat before I can stop it. "Do I look like a man who does anything out of fucking obligation?"

A small smile curves her lips. "No."

"No," I agree, capturing her mouth in a deep kiss. When I pull back, I hold her gaze. "I protect what's mine. And you, Delaney Hart, have been mine since the second I pulled you from that river. Not because I promised your father. Because something in me recognized you—knew exactly where you belonged even before I slid inside you for the first time." I pump my fingers in and out, feeding my cum back up toward her womb. "Mine to breed. Mine to keep. Mine to fucking worship."

She settles her hands on my cheeks, buried in my beard, her forehead on my shoulder. She unfolds, softens.

"Let's go home," I murmur against her hair. “I’m going to take my fingers out of you, but you put yours in, understand? You hold all that good Daddy juice inside you until I say otherwise, clear?”

She nods as I withdraw my fingers, taking her hand and pushing her own inside her before lifting her into my arms, carrying her back down the path to the truck, her hand between her legs…smiling.

Nine

Delaney

The realization hits me like a truck as I sit here on the porch swing. All the fantasy and pushing away reality melts away like chocolate in the sunshine.

Every time Jack’s emptied himself deep inside me there’s been no condom. Just all in.

And I've let him. Begged for it, even.

My fingers drift to my stomach. I could be pregnant right now. His seed could be taking root inside me as I sit here. The thought should terrify me—I'm eighteen, broke, running from my past. But instead, a strange warmth spreads through my chest.

Mother. A word I barely remember connecting to anyone. My own disappeared before I had memories to keep. But now...

The wooden porch swing creaks beneath my bare thighs, the morning sun warming my skin. Jack's flannel barely covers me, the scent of him wrapped around me like his arms. I never thought about having children before. Never had a reason to imagine it. But Jack talks about it like it's inevitable, like he's already seen our future written in stone.

I'm wearing nothing but his flannel, the sleeves rolled up six times and still covering my hands. The buttons strain across my chest. A breeze lifts the hem, cooling the wetness between my thighs. Just thinking about him makes me slick.

He's out back, splitting more logs. Each swing of the axe makes the muscles in his back bunch and release. Sweat rolls down his spine in rivulets I want to trace with my tongue. Forty-two and built like the mountain itself—solid, immovable, mine.

My fingers toy with the stuffed wolf he gave me, tracing its singed edges. It's never far from me now, a physical reminder that I belong somewhere. To someone.

He hasn't let me out of his sight for more than minutes since he pulled me from the river.

"Can't be away from you, baby girl," he growled this morning, pressing me against the kitchen counter, his cock already hard against my ass. The way he needs me—constant, consuming—is still something I'm getting used to. I've never been anyone's obsession before.

"I might be carrying his baby," I whisper to myself, testing how the words feel in my mouth. Strange. Terrifying. Wonderful. Jack would be over the fucking moon. He's been talking about filling me up, breeding me, putting his baby in me since the first night. Words that should have sent me running instead make me press my thighs together.

I should be resting. He told me to stay on the porch, drink the tea he made, keep my legs up. Said I looked tired. Too pale. A command wrapped in concern.

Instead, I'm slipping back into the cabin, bare feet silent on the wooden floor, drawn to his laptop like a magnet. It feels wrong, opening it without permission. But I need... something. A connection to the world outside. A reminder that it still exists.

The password he keeps taped to the bottom is a string of numbers and letters that make no sense to me. Military thing, probably. The screen flickers to life, opening to an order form for wood stains. I minimize it, open the browser.

My finger hovers over the Instagram icon before I type my login with shaking hands.

It loads instantly. Red notifications everywhere. Messages I never answered. Tagged photos I never approved.

His name jumps out first. David. Thirty-seven unread messages, timestamps showing he's been sending them daily. The most recent from just hours ago.

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