Page 19 of Wild Daddy

"Taking care of me?"

"That's what this is, Marley." He releases a sigh as he leans back against the wooden wall, doing that wide man spread that is so simple, but so sexy I get that shuddering feeling that tracks up from my belly all the way to my chest. "You’re valuable, baby, and I take care of what’s mine."

He reaches forward, pressing his hand on the side of my head, fingers lightly scratching through the hair and God, why does that feel so good?

The possessive statement should set off alarm bells. Instead, it makes me lean into his touch like a cat seeking warmth.

"I don't understand what's happening to me," I whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know what's wrong with me. My parents controlled everything - my food, my classes, my whole life path. I should hate being told what to do. But with you..." I search hisface, confused by my own reactions. "I keep wanting you to just...handle things. Tell me what to do. It makes no sense."

"There’s a difference between being controlled and being nurtured. Giving me the power is brave, baby. It’s the ultimate choice."

“I guess it is. I never gave them the power, they just always had it or took it. It feels like I’m giving it to you. It’s different.” The honesty feels dangerous, but somehow necessary. "Maybe because you make me feel safe? Like my achievements aren’t some testament to your value?"

"That's part of it." His thumb continues its gentle stroking across my cheek. "What else?"

I think about it, trying to put into words something I barely understand myself. "You see me. Not just the smart girl or the good student or the weird girl who hates itchy tags on her clothes.” I reach behind my neck on a grimace and scratch. That one kid in school who never quite fits in. You see...me."

He pulls my hand away from the back of my neck, tugging my shirt collar out and I hear a soft ripping sound. He pats it back in place, reaching over and tossing the tag into the fire.

"I do see you." His voice has gone softer, gentler. "I see how hard you've been working to be perfect for everyone else. I see how tired you are from carrying all that pressure. And I see how much you need someone to tell you it's okay to let go."

The words press against my heart, accurate enough to steal my breath. "Is it? Okay to let go?"

He leans closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. "I'll always be there to catch you, little girl. I promise."

Before I can second-guess myself, I follow my gut.

I grab the sides of his face, close the bit of distance between us and kiss him so hard, his teeth bite into my lower lip. It'sclumsy and inexperienced, but he takes control immediately, one hand fisting in my hair while the other pulls me closer.

When we break apart, I'm breathing hard and probably looking at him like he's just solved every problem I've ever had.

"Can I..." I start, then stop, my cheeks burning. The fire in my belly burns for more of whatever this is.

"Can you what?"

"Can I touch you?" The words come out in a rush. "I've never... I mean, I don't know what I'm doing, but I want to learn. I want to see you."

Something dark and hungry flashes across his face. The shimmer of those silver hairs at his temples reminds me of the many differences between us but something in me wants this nurturing, older man to teach me all the things I’ve missed. "You want to see me?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

"Then see me." He sits back and starts unbuttoning his flannel shirt with deliberate slowness. "But you follow my instructions. You do exactly what I tell you to do. Daddy’s in charge always."

"Okay, Daddy," I say, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. Unfamiliar but perfect. It sends a shiver through me, just like it did when he used it before, except now it’s my choice.

“That’s my girl.” He nods and pride fills my chest.

He shrugs out of the shirt, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound. I've seen him shirtless this morning, but somehow in the intimate glow of the firelight, he looks even more impressive. Broad shoulders, defined chest, abs that belong in magazines I'm not supposed to read.

"Take your boots off and follow me," he says, rising and crossing to the bed, sliding upward against the pillows, legs wide, muscles flexing under tan skin. He nods, then pats the space directly in front of him.

I fumble with my laces, slipping the clunky boots off my feet and stand, legs feeling like a newborn foal shuffling over the wood floor, tentatively perching on the bed next to him.

“I said, comehere,” he growls, pointing between his legs.

---