Page 68 of Wings
Perfect moments were rare in our life. Between the club and the Serpents, between her job and our careful dynamics, peace was usually stolen in fragments. But here, surrounded by wildflowers and wonder, we had a whole perfect day.
An hour passed in the quiet way afternoon hours do when there's nowhere else to be. Kiara had shifted positions three times—stomach, side, back to stomach—but never stopped her careful work. Her voice provided soft narration I could have listened to forever.
"This wing needs purple but not regular purple. Sunset purple. Like when the sky can't decide if it wants to be pink or purple so it does both." She held up two pencils, debating. "Maybe layer them?"
I made an agreeable sound from where I lay beside her, head propped on one hand. Close enough to see her work, far enough not to crowd. The perfect observation position.
"And this flower—" She switched focus, selecting a golden pencil. "It's growing next to the butterfly because they're friends. The butterfly visits every day to tell the flower about all the places she's seen, and the flower shares its nectar." A pause for shading. "It's a very equal friendship."
My hand found her back, tracing lazy patterns through the thin dress. She hummed approval but didn't break concentration. This was little space at its purest—completely absorbed, narrating without self-consciousness, trusting me to keep watch while she created.
"The background needs to be sky but not boring sky. Sky with stories in it." She reached for the blues. "Maybe with those wispy clouds that look like dragon breath."
"Dragon breath?" I couldn't help but engage.
"Mmhmm. When dragons fly really high where it's cold, their breath makes special clouds. Everyone knows that, Daddy."
"My mistake."
She gifted me with a quick smile before returning to her work. The monarch on the page was taking shape—purple wings edged with midnight blue, gold accents that caught the light. Nothing like real monarch colors, but that wasn't the point. This was Kiara's butterfly, painted in the colors of her joy.
Another thirty minutes passed. I'd moved closer, her using my thigh as a pillow while she worked. My fingers played with her hair, occasionally massaging her scalp in ways that made her pencil pause and eyes flutter.
"Almost done," she murmured, adding final touches. "Just needs . . . there."
She sat up suddenly, picture held at arm's length for inspection. Whatever she saw must have satisfied because she turned to me with shining eyes.
"So you can remember today," she declared solemnly, presenting it like a state document.
I accepted it with the gravity it deserved, studying her work. The butterfly dominated the page, wings spread in glorious defiance of nature's actual color schemes. But it was the details that caught my throat—tiny flowers border she'd added, the careful shading that gave dimension, the way she'd signed it in the corner with a heart.
"It's perfect," I said, meaning it. "This is going right behind my desk where everyone can see it."
The light had shifted to that particular gold that only existed in the hour before sunset, painting everything in warm honey tones. We'd lingered at the picnic spot longer than planned, Kiara insisting she needed "just one more" coloring page, then another. Now shadows stretched long across our blanket, and the temperature had dropped enough to raise goosebumps on her arms.
"Getting cold, baby girl?" I reached for the light jacket I'd packed, but she caught my hand.
"No." Something in her voice made me look closer. The drowsy little girl was gone, replaced by focused intent that sent blood straight to my cock. "Not cold."
She shifted onto her knees, facing me fully. The setting sun backlit her hair, creating a purple-tinged halo that made her look otherworldly. But it was the expression on her face—determination mixed with pure want—that had me frozen in place.
"Kiara?"
"I need to thank you," she said softly, hands reaching for my chest. "Need to show you what today meant. What you mean."
"You don't need to—"
"I want to." Her fingers found the hem of my shirt, tugging upward. "Please, Daddy. Let me take care of you too."
The title in that context, with her eyes dark and hands insistent, shorted out higher brain function. I lifted my arms, let her pull the shirt over my head. The evening air was cool against heated skin, but her hands were warm as they mapped my chest.
"So strong," she murmured, tracing scars with reverent fingers. "My protector. My safe place."
She leaned forward, pressing kisses to each mark like she could heal old wounds with her mouth. Her lips found the bullet scar near my ribs, tongue darting out to trace its edges. I groaned, hands fisting in the blanket to keep from grabbing her.
"Let me," she whispered against my skin. "Let me worship you like you worship me."
Her hands moved to my belt, movements sure despite the tremor in her fingers. I should stop this—we were in public, anyone could walk by. But the trail had been empty for hours, and the way she looked at me...
