Page 46 of Daddy's Girl

I lift the hem of my dress. No panties. Open, wet and offered.

He swings the axe harder.

Another look. A snap of his fingers.

I unbutton the dress and let my breasts fall out. The sun kisses them. The breeze makes me shiver. My nipples have darkened already, more sensitive than before. His eyes fixate on the subtle changes in my body that only he would notice.

He grins, wild and wicked. "That's my girl. Put it all on display for me."

His gaze drops to my still-flat belly, and his expression softens into something reverent. Later, when we told his brothers the news, they teased him about how quickly he'd "sealed the deal." But I saw the pride in his eyes, the fierce protectiveness that's only grown stronger since the day by the river.

Later, he'll take me apart for this. But for now, I just stay.

Obedient.

Because this isn't about shame.

It's aboutbelonging.

I belong to him.

He drops the logs. Walks to me. Heavy boots. Rough hands. Hunger in his eyes. But there's tenderness there too—a gentle care that's always present now that I carry his child.

"Daddy's home," he says, low and reverent. “And he’s hungry.”

I reach for him, already open as he falls to his knees, and I close my eyes, letting the sun warm my face as his beard brushes my thighs, his tongue starting.

“D”, I start, my fingers tangling in his hair as his tongue continues, “A-D-D-Y!”

And the mountain sighs around us.

Fourteen

Delaney

Epilogue – 7 Years later

We now own five rocking chairs, and three wild children who think pants are optional and tree bark is a snack.

The baby's crying, the dog is barking, and Jack is shirtless with sawdust in his beard, trying to teach our oldest how to whittle a stick without removing a finger.

That man never wears a shirt if the temperature is over thirty degrees. Not that I’m complaining.

Our son has his father's blue eyes and my stubborn chin—a dangerous combination that ensures he's always in the thick of trouble and charming his way out of consequences.

I watch them from the kitchen window, my hand resting on the gentle swell of my belly—baby number four, another girl according to the ultrasound. Jack insisted on knowing the sex this time, already planning the pink-tinted walnut cradle he'd build.

I sip my coffee, decaf, as Jack insists when I’m pregnant, smirking.

When I was younger, I never imagined this life. Never thought I'd find home in a mountain cabin with a man who looks at me like I hung the moon even after three children and seven years of marriage. Never thought I'd find myself in the rhythm of seasons, in the warmth of family, in the steady beat of a heart bigger than the mountain itself.

There are days when I write for my Rocks are People Too blog, which has done surprisingly well. I teach at the annex as well, my degree displayed proudly above the fireplace.

Jack built me an office in the corner of the house, a small sanctuary where I can pour words onto paper. My first book comes out next month, stories with rocks that have names that go on all sorts of adventures through time, seeing how they were formed and finding their lost families.

Colt stops by occasionally, sheriff's badge gleaming, to drop off toys that are far too loud and treats that stain everything they touch. Cade is being tamed by his own woman, and I’ve discovered a sisterhood that brings a depth to my life I didn’t imagine I could have.

Jack catches my eye through the window.

---