Page 6 of Daddy's Girl

“I keep my promises,” I manage. “But on my land, it’s my way.”

She blinks, but she doesn't argue. Doesn't pull away. Her lips part slightly, a little gasp escaping that goes straight to my dick.

“Seems I don’t have a lot of options at the moment. You’re my only choice, so...” She shrugs, “I guess I’ll try to do things your way. No promises though.”

And the way her pupils dilate, the way her breath catches, her little river-drunk body knows the score, even if her brain hasn’t caught up yet.

This isn't just about keeping a promise anymore. This is about keeping her. Forever.

Three

Jack

I wasn't ready for the mountain to try to kill me. Wasn't ready for him either.

The roar fades behind us as Jack Boone carries me away from certain death, his massive arms like steel bands beneath my thighs. I should be calculating my next move, planning my escape from this stranger with storm-cloud eyes.

Instead, I'm cataloging sensations: the rough rasp of his beard scraping against my temple, the intoxicating scent of pine and smoke embedded in his skin, the impossible heat pouring off his body despite the freezing cold.

"I can walk," I manage as he holds me tight against his chest, my voice too thin to be convincing.

His only response is a tightening of his grip, fingers digging into my soft flesh. A single word growled against my hair: "No."

He sets me on his four-wheeler, eyeing me up and down, then settling his gaze on my backpack.

“You’re either the density of lead or you have rocks in that fucking pack.”

I blink. “Uh, I actually do have rocks. I collect them. I name them too, the special ones. So, yeah, there are a few rocks in my backpack, if you must know.”

His nostrils flare. “You name your rocks?” The indents in his forehead deepen.

“Only the special ones. What, you don’t name your—” I glance around, coming up with nothing, then blurt out, “Your favorite trees? Or, this thing?” I point toward the front of the little machine I’m sitting on.

He hesitates for a fraction of a second. “No, actually, I’ve never named anything.”

Thick fingers wiggle under the straps of my pack, relieving my shoulders from the weight and dropping it into a milk crate that’s bungee’d to the back of the machine, then climbs on behind me.

His tree-trunk thighs bracket mine completely, his chest a solid wall of muscle at my back.

"I don't usually get rescued by men who look like they could snap me in half," I say, aiming for light, landing somewhere near breathless.

"You've been rescued before?" His voice is deep enough to vibrate through my entire body, and instead of joking, the tone is very clearly angry.

I rethink my statement, answering with a quick shake of my head.

"Fucking good." His huge hand spans my waist, squeezing possessively. "Means I'm the first. I like being your first."

That makes me bite back a little gaspy-moan as he kicks at the side of the machine, turns the handle, then with a jerk and puff of exhaust, cold air rushes over my cheeks.

We ride through forest that seems endless, ancient pines stretching toward a sky threatening more rain. My sodden clothes chill me to the bone, but wherever his body touches mine, I burn like I'm being branded. His heat is overwhelming, suffocating, necessary.

I catch sight of something dangling from his keychain as he guides the four-wheeler—a tiny, worn Rubik's cube, incongruously colorful against his rugged exterior.

"You solve puzzles?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the engine.

His body stiffens against mine, the prod of his cock suddenly noticeable against my lower back. "Sometimes."

"I never could figure those out," I admit. "Too impatient."

---