Page 36 of Wings
"So beautiful," he murmured, tracing my features like he was learning braille. "My beautiful baby girl."
The praise hit something deep in my chest, spreading warmth through my whole body. When he kissed me again, I was already floating, that soft space beckoning where I could just feel instead of think.
His hands were so gentle as they found the hem of my sweater. "Is this okay?"
"Yes, Daddy." The title came easier each time, feeling more right.
He undressed me like I was made of spun glass. Each inch of skin revealed got its own attention—kisses, touches, murmured praise that made me squirm. When I tried to cover myself, suddenly aware of how thin I'd gotten, how visible my ribs were, he caught my hands.
"Let Daddy see you, baby girl. So beautiful. So perfect."
"I'm not—"
"You are." He kissed each rib like a benediction. "Every part of you. Inside and out. My brave girl who survived so much. My sweet girl who still draws butterflies in margins. My perfect baby girl who trusts me enough to be vulnerable."
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes, but they weren't sad. This was overwhelm of the best kind, being seen and wanted not despite my broken pieces but including them.
When he pulled his shirt off, I got to see the full extent of his tattoos. The wings I'd glimpsed were part of an elaborate back piece, but his chest held other stories. His unit insignia over his heart. Coordinates I didn't recognize on his ribs. A date on his left shoulder that must have meant something important.
"Syria," he said quietly when I traced the coordinates. "Where we lost three guys in my unit. And this—" he guided my hand to the date "—when I got hit."
I pressed my lips to each mark, understanding without words that he was sharing his own vulnerabilities. His own broken pieces.
When he settled between my thighs, I was already gone, floated fully into that soft space where I was just his baby girl and he would take care of everything. He must have seen it in my eyes because his whole demeanor gentled even further.
"There's my sweet little one," he murmured. "You just relax and let Daddy make you feel good."
What followed was worship disguised as sex. He touched me like I was precious, kissed me like he had forever to learn every response. When his fingers found me wet and ready, he groaned like I'd given him a gift.
"Such a good girl," he praised, working me open with careful fingers. "So perfect for Daddy. That's it, baby, just feel."
I was making sounds I'd never made before—high, needy whimpers that would have embarrassed me if I'd been capable of embarrassment. But in this space, this pink room built for exactly this, I could just exist in sensation and safety.
When he finally pressed inside me, we both gasped. Three years of wanting condensed into this moment of connection. He moved slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort.
"Daddy," I breathed, the word a prayer and a plea.
"I'm here, baby girl. Right here. So good for me. Taking Daddy so well."
Each thrust was measured, controlled, designed to build pleasure without overwhelming. His hands linked with mine above my head, grounding me in multiple points of connection. I wrapped my legs around him, needing him closer, deeper, everywhere.
"Please," I whimpered, not even sure what I was begging for.
"I've got you," he promised. "Let go for me, baby. Daddy's got you."
The permission broke something open. When I came, it was with his name on my lips and tears streaming down my face. Not from sadness but from the intensity of being held, praised, cherished through pleasure. He followed me over, my name a reverent whisper against my neck.
We stayed joined for long moments, neither wanting to break the connection. His weight on me felt safe rather than trapping.When he finally shifted, it was only to pull me against his side, still maintaining as much contact as possible.
"My good girl," he murmured, pressing kisses to my temple. "My perfect baby girl. Did so good for Daddy."
I made a soft sound, still floating in that hazy space where words were hard but everything felt soft and right. He recognized it, pulling the lavender blanket over us both, creating a cocoon of warmth and safety.
For the first time in three years, I felt truly seen. Not just my body but all of me—the scared parts and the needy parts and the little parts that wanted soft things and gentle words. Gabe—Daddy—had seen everything and called it perfect.
Maybe broken wasn't the opposite of whole. Maybe it was just another word for human. And maybe, wrapped in fairy lights and butterfly dreams, humans could help each other heal.
Chapter 8
