Page 314 of Let Me In

She just receives me.

Wraps around me like I’m safe.

Like I’m worthy.

Like there’s still a man inside all the wreckage who deserves this. Her.

She pulses around me, a soft and helpless squeeze. I shudder, not from pleasure, but from coming home.

“Daddy—” she murmurs, voice thin and reedy.

“I’ve got you,” I rasp, my voice a lifeline. “You’re safe. You’re mine.”

My hips begin to move—slow and deliberate, each thrust deep enough to draw a soft gasp from her lips, but tender enough to feel like presence, not pressure. This isn’t about friction.

It’s about being.

Being inside her. With her. Known by her.

Seen, and not cast away.

She holds me tighter, legs wrapping around my waist, her body guiding mine in a rhythm built on instinct and trust.

Legs wrapping around my waist, ankles hooking behind me, guiding me deeper with instinct and trust.

And I let her.

Let her draw me in.

Let her keep me.

Let her have me.

“God,” I breathe, voice splintering. “I love you.”

Her breath catches, shallow and sudden, like her body can’t quite hold it in.

Her eyes shine—wet, wide, glowing—not just with tears but with light. The kind that makes my chest ache. The kind that says, without a word, that I’m home.

“I love you too,” she breathes.

The words land—not like a jolt, but like a homecoming.

And we move like that for a long time. Unrushed. Without edge. With no goal but us.

Bodies slow and learning. Hearts rebuilding. Everything soft and certain, like breath meeting breath in the quiet between storms.

She sighs beneath me, hands sliding into my hair, tugging gently like she doesn’t want to let go of anything—not the rhythm, not the closeness, not me.

But I feel it building in her.

That tremble in her thighs.

That quiet tension coiling low in her belly.

Her breath falters with every push, every withdrawal.

And her fingers curl harder in my hair, like she needs help crossing the edge.

---