Page 69 of Enforcer Daddy
We lay there panting, still connected. Eva's arms came around me, holding me against her with surprising strength for someone who'd just been fucked into oblivion. Her lips found my neck, pressing soft kisses against my pulse point, and the tenderness of it after such intensity made my chest tight.
I lifted my head to look at her, and the expression on her face stopped my heart. Soft, open, completely unguarded. The walls she'd built over years of survival were gone, leaving just Eva—my Eva, my little girl, mine.
I kissed her deeply, trying to pour everything I couldn't say into the contact. Not the desperate, claiming kisses from before, but something slower, deeper. A promise. A vow. A declaration that words would only cheapen.
She kissed me back with the same intensity, her tongue sliding against mine, tasting herself on my lips from when I'd kissedher after the spanking. The kiss went on and on, neither of us needing air more than we needed this connection.
When we finally broke apart, she was smiling—a real smile, not her usual smirk or defensive grin.
"Hi," she whispered, like we were just meeting.
"Hi," I whispered back, brushing her hair from her face.
We stayed like that, wrapped in each other on my living room rug, her pussy still holding my cock like it belonged there. Bear had wandered over at some point, curling up near us with a contented sigh, completing the picture of domestic bliss I'd never thought I'd have.
"Thank you," Eva said suddenly, voice serious.
"For what?"
"For being exactly what you promised. For the structure and the discipline and the care. For making me feel safe enough to let go." She paused, then added with a small smile, "For fucking me until I can't walk."
I laughed, the sound rumbling through both our bodies. "Can you not walk?"
She shifted experimentally, then winced. "Definitely not walking anywhere for a while. You broke me, Daddy."
"I'll fix you," I promised, kissing her forehead. "Bath, food, cuddles, the whole aftercare protocol."
"In a minute," she said, snuggling closer. "Just want to stay like this for a minute."
So we did, lying on my rug in peaceful happiness, complete in a way I'd never imagined possible. My Little was thoroughly claimed, thoroughly fucked, thoroughly mine. And I was thoroughly hers.
Chapter 13
Eva
Myfingerswouldn'tstopfinding his. Walking down Bleecker Street toward The Strand, I kept reaching for Dmitry's hand like I was afraid he might disappear—lacing our fingers together, playing with the silver rings on his right hand, tracing the raised scars across his knuckles from years of violence I was only beginning to understand. Every few steps, I'd let go just to grab him again, needing the confirmation of his solid warmth against my palm.
The dress swished around my knees as we walked, soft blue cotton that Dmitry had picked out himself from a boutique that morning. It had tiny buttons down the front and cap sleeves that showed my arms, and I'd never owned anything so deliberately pretty. Not sexy or functional or stolen—just pretty. But what made me feel beautiful wasn't the dress itself. It was the way Dmitry's eyes had gone dark when I'd stepped out of his bedroom wearing it, the way his hand had found my waist andpulled me against him, the way he'd whispered "perfect" into my hair before we left.
I was a little nervous—Dmitry himself had said he’d be watching for tails and people spying us—but I also felt confident, amazing to be out.
Bear trotted between us on his new leather leash, tail wagging at everything—every pigeon that dared hop too close, every interesting smell wafting from restaurant vents, every person who smiled at his ridiculous puppy enthusiasm. He'd figured out the leash in about thirty seconds, and now he pranced like he'd been going on walks his whole life instead of just the past two weeks.
"Stop," Dmitry said suddenly, pulling me to a halt in front of a bodega.
"What?"
Instead of answering, he bought a bottle of water and a small paper cup, pouring water for Bear right there on the sidewalk. Bear lapped it up messily, getting water all over the concrete, and an older woman passing by made approving sounds at what a good dog parent Dmitry was. The casual care of it—thinking of Bear's needs without being asked, carrying water for our dog—made my chest tight with emotion I couldn't name.
The Strand's red awning appeared like a beacon at Broadway and 12th, and my steps quickened despite myself. Eighteen miles of books, the sign promised. Eighteen miles of stories, beautiful editions, windows to new worlds.
"Slow down, little one," Dmitry said, amused. "The books aren't going anywhere."
But my body was already responding to proximity—to that particular smell that hit me the moment we pushed through the doors. Old paper and binding glue, dust and vanilla from decomposing lignin, the sharp tang of fresh ink from new releases. It smelled like every library I'd ever hidden in, everybookstore I'd ever haunted, every moment I'd ever felt safe between pages instead of walls.
"Mr. Volkov?" A staff member appeared immediately, young and eager with thick-rimmed glasses and a Strand apron. "We got your call. Bear is absolutely welcome. We even have treats."
She produced a glass jar labeled "Literary Pups" in neat handwriting, offering Bear a biscuit that he took with surprising gentleness. His whole back end wagged with joy, and I realized Dmitry had called ahead, had made sure our dog could come in, had thought through every detail to make this perfect.
