Page 25 of Submitting to Daddy
I close my eyes and drag a hand down my face, wincing when I brush over the bruise beneath it. “Fuck,” I whisper to the ceiling, my voice hoarse and small.
What the hell did I do?
This wasn’t supposed to happen—Iwasn’t supposed to let this happen. No matter how good it felt—or how mind-shatteringly, toe-curlingly, soul-wreckingly good it was—it doesn’t change the fact that what we did brokeallthe rules. This is going to complicate everything. And the worst part? I would eagerly climb back into bed with him. Not caring in the slightest that he’s a walking red flag with a moral compass that spins like a roulette wheel.
As I climb carefully out of his bed, I wince when I become acutely aware of the soreness between my legs—definite evidence of how thoroughly he claimed me. Cillian was dominating and demanding, sex with him is deliciously rough. Yet afterward, he wrapped his arms tightly around me, stroked my hair, and dusted his fingertips along my spine as we talked about everything and nothing. As I grew tired, he kissed the bruise on my cheek and the crack in my lip with such tenderness it almost broke me.
He was still Daddy, but not the commanding, rough version who savagely tore orgasms from me. The man who murmured sweet reassurances, with me curled into his chest, was soft and tender. He watched me like I was precious and wanted.Like Iwas his.Wandering around his room and looking for my clothes, that’s the part of him I remember most from last night. I find my sheer crop top at the foot of the bed and my panties in a wad on the floor. After quickly dressing, I glance down at my body.
Great… World’s classiest outfit for the Just Got Laid Parade goes to Madison Roark.
I crack open the door and freeze when I hear two deep and familiar voices—Nikolai and Enzo.Shit.They’ve seen me dressed like this often, but this is different. I can’t exactly waltz downstairs in see-through black mesh and barely-there panties like I’m auditioning for stage time at the club. My hand curls around the doorknob, and I debate pushing the door shut and hiding out until the house clears.
“Good morning.” Cillian crests the top of the stairs. He’s shirtless, with gray sweatpants slung far too low, and his hair perfectly disheveled. I saw and felt him last night, but in broad daylight, this man looks like a fucking god. His gaze skates over my outfit, and an amused smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. “You plan on hiding up here all day?”
“I… um… don’t have any clothes.”
“I quite like you without them,” he quips, utterly unbothered. Before I can respond, he slips into the walk-in closet, emerging shortly after with a pair of massive gray sweatpants and a black hoodie. He hands me the sweatpants. I yank them up my legs and tie the drawstring twice, hoping I can keep them up. Cillian lifts the hoodie and pulls it over my head. It swallows me whole—the sleeves dangling over my hands. Slipping his finger under my chin, he tips my face up toward his and places a gentle kiss on the tip of my nose. “But I like you like this, too.”
He lifts the floppy sleeve of the hoodie and fishes out my hand, threading his fingers through mine. He tugs me gently toward the door. I hesitate for a second, but his grip doesn’t falter, and he leads me down the stairs without any reluctance. Pulling me close, he wraps his arm around me and walks us toward the scent of coffee and eggs wafting from the kitchen.
“Damn, Cillian,” Nikolai drawls as we approach. “I knew you liked it kinda rough, but that’s a little too far.” I laugh before I can stop myself—a short, surprised sound that erupts from my chest—and I slap my hand over my mouth.
Cillian groans and shakes his head. “Jesus, Nik. She’s right here.”
“And?” Nikolai grins, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s a compliment. She’s still walking. Sorta.”
“Barely,” I mumble.
“Ugh… Gross.” The dry, feminine—and unmistakably judgmental—voice draws my attention to the other end of the counter. “I do not need to hear about my brother’s kinks before I’ve had caffeine.”
Nikolai chuckles, unbothered. “Please, Eavan. You’ve got no room to talk, sweetheart. I’ve lived throughwaytoo many nights of you and Enzo going at it like you were trying to break a headboard in surround sound.”
Coffee in hand and one leg crossed over the other, she lifts a perfectly groomed brow. Enzo chimes in from beside her, “Behave, princess.” With a shit-eating grin, Nikolai takes a ridiculously large bite of the pastry in his hand as Eavan rolls her eyes at him.
Her gaze rakes over my face with concern—actually, they alldo. “Seriously,” her tone is soft, and the concern in her eyes is genuine, “are you okay?”
“Okay?” Nikolai scoffs, slinging his arm over my shoulder like I’m suddenly one of them. He gives a gentle squeeze before turning me in his hold. His other hand dusts along my jaw as he carefully inspects the bruises marring one side of my face. His touch is unexpectedly gentle, calloused fingers brushing just enough to check for swelling and broken bones, not enough to cause more pain. Content upon finding nothing serious beneath my marbled skin, he smirks. “That first punch barely fazed her.”
“That second one, on the other hand…” I playfully exhale. I can’t help it, but I smile, a real, genuine smile. It’s absurd, all of this—sore cheeks, sore thighs, and what should be an awkward-as-hell morning-after breakfast—but this feels warm and welcoming.
Cillian slides a hand over the small of my back as he helps me take a seat at the island. He hovers for a second, placing a soft kiss on the top of my head before grabbing me a plate of eggs. What he sets down in front of me is questionable at best—somewhere between overcooked and “maybe I should ask Nikolai for the rest of his croissant”—but I murmur a thank-you and pick up my fork. He pulls out the stool beside me, his thigh brushing against mine as he takes his seat.
The others fall into easy conversation as we eat, and continue long after we finish. I should feel like an outsider in this tight circle, but I feel like I belong.Like family.The absurdity of the realization catches me off guard.They definitely aren’t the people I thought they were.Cillian's hand finds my knee beneath the counter and gives it a tender squeeze, as if he knows what I’m thinking. Maybe he does.
At my insistence—even though he made it very clear I could stay and subsequently refusing to allow me to use public transportation—Cillian throws on a shirt and grabs his car keys to take me home. As we walking to the foyer, Enzo calls, “I grabbed your purse before we left the club. It’s in the foyer.”
“Thank you,” I shout toward the kitchen.
Eavan joins us in the foyer and opens her arms without hesitation, and I step into her embrace. She smells like espresso and leather mixed with jasmine. Her hug is firm but warm, the kind that makes your chest loosen in places you didn’t realize were tight.
“Call me if you need anything. Seriously,” she insists softly. I nod, something thick catching in my throat. She steps back, green eyes sparkling as she teases, “And if you ever want a support group for people who’ve slept with my brother… It’s just you so far… but I’ll make T-shirts.”
I can’t help but snicker, immediately feeling Cillian’s unamused stare. “The two of you are going to be fucking trouble.” He shakes his head.
With Madison’s tiny hand in mine, the dull thud of our footsteps against smooth concrete echoes in the near-empty parking garage. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh pools of pale light that bounce off the slightly damp floor. The sharp scent of rain from this morning’s brief storm still clings to the air, mingling with the faint tang of gasoline and car exhausts.
She leans slightly into me as we approach my car, her steps uneven, betraying the soreness I know is running through her body. I don’t say anything, but my hand finds the small of her back to steady her. Even now, after everything, she feels fragile. I want to be the rock she doesn’t have to worry will falter.
