Page 7 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Son
"Besides," she continues, pushing the fabric off my shoulders, "you're not letting me do anything. I'm choosing to help you because that's what we do. We solve problems together."
The shirt falls to the floor and her hands spread across my chest, palms warm against my skin. I close my eyes and focus on the sensation, on the way she touches me like I'm something worth treasuring. When I open them again, she's studying my face with that particular intensity that means she's reading thoughts I haven't spoken aloud.
"You're thinking too much," she murmurs, reaching for the clasps in my hair.
The metal pieces fall away under her fingers, and my hair tumbles loose around my shoulders. She combs through the strands with gentle fingers, working out the tangles left by wind and worry. The simple intimacy of it makes my chest tight.
"Come on." I take her hand, threading our fingers together. "Let's get clean."
I lead her toward the bathing chamber, a space I designed with the same careful attention I give to all my architectural work. The shower area is carved from a single piece of moonstone, its pale surface shot through with veins of silver that catch and amplify light. Brass fixtures gleam against the stone, and the floor is inlaid with tiny chips of crystal that warm under bare feet.
She turns in my arms as we reach the shower, hands working at the ties of her dress while I watch. The fabric slides away from her shoulders like water, pooling at her feet in soft folds. The sight of her never loses its power to stop my thoughts completely—the gentle curves of her body, the way late sunlight gilds her brown skin, the faint scar near her collarbone that speaks of survival and strength.
My hands settle at her waist, thumbs tracing the familiar territory of her ribs. "Beautiful," I murmur, the word rough with want and something deeper than desire.
She reaches for my belt, fingers steady despite the way her breathing has changed. "Your turn."
The leather falls away under her hands, followed by the rest of my clothes until we're both bare in the golden light. I pull magical energy from the crystal matrices embedded in the walls, feeling the familiar tingle as power flows through the carved channels. The water begins to warm, steam curling upward as heated droplets cascade from the specially designed nozzles.
I lift her again, this time skin against skin, and she wraps her legs around my waist with trusting ease. Her arms loop around my neck as I carry her under the warm spray, water streaming over both of us in heated rivers. She tips her head back, letting the water run through her dark hair, and the trust in the gesture—the way she gives herself over to my strength completely—makes something fierce and protective surge in my chest.
"I don't want you to go," I admit against the curve of her neck, voice barely audible over the sound of falling water.
"I know." Her fingers trace the scar at my temple, touch gentle as thalivern wings. "But I am going. And I'm coming back. Those are the only two facts that matter."
The water runs between us, washing away the ink stains and dust of the day, but nothing can rinse away the need burning under my skin. The need to mark this moment, to claim something that will last beyond tomorrow morning when she rides away from me.
The water cascades around us as I press her against the smooth moonstone wall, her legs still wrapped around my waist. Her wet hair clings to her shoulders, droplets catching the crystal light embedded in the stone. The way she looks at me—amber eyes dark with want, lips parted as steam curls between us—makes my control fracture.
"Dom," she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips undoes me completely.
My mouth finds hers, hungry and demanding. She responds with equal fervor, her hands tangling in my wet hair as she pulls me closer. The kiss deepens until we're consuming each other, years of quiet intimacy giving way to something raw and desperate. I can taste the fear on her tongue—not of me, never of me, but of tomorrow, of separation, of the unknown that waits beyond our sanctuary.
"I need you," I growl against her lips, voice rough with desire and something deeper. "Need to feel you, all of you."
Her response is a soft whimper that makes heat pool low in my belly. I trail my mouth down the column of her throat, tasting water and skin and the essence that's purely her. She arches into me, nails scoring light marks across my shoulders.
"Please," she gasps, the word barely audible over the sound of falling water. "Don't make me wait."
The desperation in her voice mirrors my own. I shift my grip, one hand braced against the wall while the other supports her weight. She's slick and ready for me, and the knowledge that she wants this as much as I do sends fire racing through my veins.
"Look at me," I command softly, waiting until her amber eyes meet mine. "I want to see every expression when I take you."
She nods, breath coming in short pants as I position myself. The first touch makes us both gasp, and I have to close my eyes for a moment to maintain control. When I open them again, she's watching me with an intensity that steals my breath.
Slowly, deliberately, I slide into her welcoming heat. Her head falls back against the stone, a broken moan escaping her lips as I fill her completely. The sensation is overwhelming—the tight clasp of her body, the way she trembles in my arms, the absolute trust in her face as she gives herself to me.
"Gods, you feel perfect," I breathe, forehead pressed against hers as we both adjust to the connection. "So perfect for me. Always so perfect."
"Move," she whispers, hips shifting restlessly. "Please, I need?—"
I silence her with another kiss as I begin to move, slow and deep at first. Each thrust pulls soft sounds from her throat that drive me closer to the edge. The water streams around us, creating a curtain that cuts us off from the world beyond this moment.
"That's it," I murmur against her ear, pace gradually increasing. "Take all of me. You're so beautiful like this, falling apart in my arms."
Her responses become more desperate, more needy. She clings to me like I'm her anchor in a storm, and maybe I am. Maybe we both are, holding each other together against the fear of what tomorrow might bring.
"Harder," she gasps, and the plea breaks what's left of my restraint.
