Page 40 of Bossh*le Daddy
"Rosie," I decided after a long moment, fingers playing with the silk bow. "Like the roses you sent my office after you proposed. Remember?"
His arms tightened around me, and I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head. "I remember."
He studied me with those gray eyes that saw everything, then reached into his pocket with the hand not holding me steady. The new pacifier emerged like magic—prettier than my others, with a pearl-colored shield decorated with tiny gold stars.
"Want this, little one?"
"Please, Daddy." The words came out small, needy in a way that would have embarrassed me anywhere else. But here, need was allowed. Here, wanting things was safe.
He brought the pacifier to my lips, and I accepted it eagerly, the familiar weight settling on my tongue. The world immediately felt softer, edges blurring into watercolor gentleness. I made a contented sound around the shield, snuggling deeper into his embrace.
We rocked together in the chair he'd chosen specifically for this—wide enough for both of us, smooth motion that soothed something primal. Rosie the bunny got squished between us, but she didn't seem to mind. Good bunnies never minded cuddles.
His hand stroked my hair in long, hypnotic passes, fingers occasionally catching on the gold ribbon I still wore from this morning. "My perfect little one," he murmured, voice rumbling through his chest where I pressed against him. "So brave outthere in the big world. So strong when you need to be. But here, you can just be small. Just be mine."
I nodded against his shoulder, pacifier bobbing with the movement. This was the gift he'd given me—not just the nursery or the stuffies or the life of luxury, but permission to be all of myself. The competent professional and the little girl who needed her Daddy. The woman who could face down CFOs and the one who sucked on a pacifier while clutching a pink bunny named after roses and counted days.
Time went soft in the nursery. Maybe we rocked for minutes, maybe hours. He told me about finding Rosie, how he'd visited three specialty stores before locating one that met his standards. I made small sounds of interest around my paci, content to let his voice wash over me like warm bathwater.
"Are you happy?" he asked eventually, the question carrying more weight than its simplicity suggested.
I pulled out the pacifier to answer properly, though my words still came out little-voiced. "The happiest. Got Daddy and Rosie and my old Bunny and the whole world doesn't feel too big anymore."
"Good," he said, kissing my forehead with infinite tenderness. "Because Daddy's going to take care of you forever. Even when you're running foundation meetings and changing the world. Especially then. You'll always have this place to come back to."
I believed him. Believed in the nursery and the safety and the love that transformed corporate contracts into fairy tale endings. The scared girl who'd walked into Stone Enterprises clutching a folder like a shield had found more than a job. She'd found home.
"Love you, Daddy," I whispered, already reaching for the pacifier again.
"Love you too, little one. More than all the roses in Manhattan."
We stayed there rocking while the LED window painted us in perpetual golden hour, a CEO and his little one and a pink bunny named for the beginning of everything. Perfect in our strange configuration. Safe in our secret space. Eternal in this moment between who we were in the world and who we were to each other.
*
Back upstairs, the dynamic shifted like light through a prism—same source, different angles, equally beautiful. I stood before him in our bedroom, pacifier replaced by hungry kisses that tasted of promises and possession. The little clothes were gone, left folded in the nursery for next time, replaced by black lace he'd laid out on our bed while I'd been in the shower.
"You were so good today," he praised between kisses, hands skimming my curves with proprietary touch. "Standing up to Henderson. Leading that foundation meeting. My perfect girl, so strong and capable."
The words made me melt differently than his little one praise did—this was woman to man, equal to equal, even as I surrendered to his touch. His fingers traced the edge of the lace, a barely-there whisper that raised goosebumps across my skin.
"I love watching you work," he continued, voice dropping to that register that rewired my nervous system. "The way you command that boardroom now. The way Margaret defers to your expertise. The way you've grown into your power without losing your softness."
When he called me capable now, I believed it with my whole being. When he said I was perfect, I didn't argue or deflect or make self-deprecating jokes. I'd learned to accept his praise along with his dominance, to see myself through his eyes—flawed and human but wholly loved.
He undressed me with the same careful reverence he'd shown that first night in his office, but now his hands knew every sensitive spot, every place that made me gasp. The lace fell away in whispers, leaving me bare under his appreciative gaze. Three months of his care showed in my body—skin that glowed from proper nutrition, curves that had softened from regular meals, muscles that had learned to relax instead of constantly bracing for impact.
"Mine," he murmured, pressing kisses to my throat, my shoulder, the swell of my breast. "My wife-to-be. My little one. My equal."
The last word was newer to our vocabulary, acknowledging how I'd evolved from desperate assistant to true partner. I was still his to protect, to guide, to dominate when we both needed it—but I was also his match now in ways that mattered. I could challenge him intellectually over dinner, make him laugh with unexpected observations, offer perspectives that his yes-men would never dare voice.
"I need you," I gasped as his mouth found my nipple, sensation shooting straight to my core. "Please, Damian. Daddy. I need—"
"I know what you need," he growled against my skin, walking me backward toward our bed. "Always know what my girl needs."
The sheets were cool against my overheated skin as he laid me out with careful hands. He stood over me for a moment, still fully dressed while I lay bare, the power dynamic making my thighs press together with need. But when he started unbuttoning his shirt, I sat up, batting his hands away.
"Let me," I said, and he stilled, letting me take control of this small thing. My fingers worked the buttons with steady precision now, no longer trembling like they had those first weeks. I pushed the shirt from his shoulders, revealing the body that stillmade my mouth water—all controlled power and barely leashed strength.
