The flannel hung open on Jack's shoulders as he lowered himself over her, the worn fabric brushing her skin with every inch of his descent. The lamp's amber light caught the sweat on her collarbone, a thin sheen that made her gleam like something freshly cut from the timber. Her honey-brown hair fanned across the pillow, and her eyes—those wide, patient, predator's eyes—were open, watching him with a stillness that made his chest ache.

"There you are," she whispered, and her hands came up to frame his face, her thumbs tracing the hard line of his jaw. "There you are, Daddy."

He should have said something. Should have found the words to stop this, to pull back, to remind her who he was supposed to be. But her legs were already wrapping around his waist, her heels pressing into the small of his back, and the damp duvet bunched under her hips smelled like them—like the salt of what they'd already done on the couch downstairs, like the proof of every line he'd crossed.

Jack lowered his mouth to her throat instead of answering. Her pulse jumped against his lips, quick and alive, and she arched into him with a sound that started in her chest and broke against his ear.

"That's it," she breathed. "That's it, Daddy."

He tasted her skin as he moved down—the salt of her collarbone, the sweet curve of her shoulder, the soft swell of her breast where the flannel had fallen away. She was naked under the shirt, had been naked under it all evening, and the knowledge of that—that she'd been sitting at the candlelit table with nothing between her skin and his old flannel—made his cock throb against her thigh.

Her fingers tangled in his short hair, gripping, guiding. "I've wanted this," she said, and her voice had dropped to something raw, something that scraped against the inside of his skull. "I've wanted you to carry me in here for two years. Every night I stood on the other side of this door, I imagined you opening it."

He couldn't answer. Couldn't find the words. All he could do was breathe her in—the clean sweat of her skin, the faint sweetness of the lip balm she wore, the musk of her arousal already slick between her thighs.

Her legs tightened around his waist, and she rolled her hips up against him, the wet heat of her cunt sliding along the length of his cock. "Come inside me, Daddy. Please."

The word broke something in him. The last thread of restraint he'd been holding since the kitchen, since the couch, since the truck in the frozen garage—it snapped, and he reached down between them, guiding himself to her entrance.

The first push was slow. Deliberate. Her eyes went wide as the head of his cock pressed into her, and her mouth fell open on a gasp that had no words in it. He watched her face as he sank deeper—watched the way her honey-brown eyes lost focus, the way her full lips parted and trembled, the way her hands fisted in the sheets on either side of her hips.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, Daddy."

He buried himself to the hilt, and the heat of her wrapped around him like nothing he'd ever felt. She was tight, so tight, her cunt clenching around him in waves that made his vision blur at the edges. The damp duvet bunched under her hips, tilting her up into him, and the floorboards groaned as he shifted his weight, settling deeper.

Her legs locked around his waist, her heels pressing into his lower back, and she held him there—held him inside her, held his gaze with that patient, predatory stillness that made his skin prickle with sweat.

"That's it," she whispered, and her voice was honey and gravel, sweet and ruined. "That's it, Daddy. Stay right there."

He couldn't have moved if he'd wanted to. Her cunt gripped him like a fist, hot and wet and perfect, and the flannel hung open on his shoulders, the fabric brushing her skin with every shallow breath he took. He could feel her pulse through his cock, could feel the way her body adjusted to him, opening, softening, pulling him deeper.

She smiled up at him—that deceptively innocent smile that had haunted him for two years—and her hands came up to his chest, her fingers tracing the scars on his arms, the calluses on his palms.

"You feel that?" she asked, and her voice was soft, almost tender. "You feel how good this is? How right?"

He shook his head. Not a denial—a confession. He couldn't feel anything but her. Couldn't think of anything but the way she was wrapped around him, the way she was looking at him, the way she was whispering his name like it belonged to her.

"Daddy," she breathed, and she rolled her hips, slow and deep. "Daddy, move. Please."

He moved. There was nothing else he could do. He pulled back until only the head of his cock remained inside her, then pushed forward again, slow and deep, the way she'd asked. Her head fell back against the pillow, her throat arching, and a sound escaped her—a moan that started low in her chest and built until it filled the room.

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes, yes, yes."

The lamp's amber light caught the sweat on her collarbone as he rocked into her, and the damp duvet bunched under her hips with every thrust. Her legs stayed locked around his waist, her heels pressing into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster, harder.

He buried his face in her breasts, tasting the salt on her skin, and she moaned his name—not 'Daddy,' not that honeyed mockery she'd used to torment him for two years, but his name, his real name, broken and desperate against his ear.

"Jack," she breathed. "Jack, please."

He didn't know what she was begging for. Couldn't think past the heat of her, the wet grip of her cunt, the way she was pulling him deeper with every roll of her hips. All he knew was the feel of her—the soft weight of her breasts against his mouth, the scrape of her nails on his back, the flutter of her pulse against his lips.

"That's it," she whispered, and her voice was wrecked, raw. "That's it, Daddy. Give it to me."

He gave her everything. He gave her the weight of his body, the strength of his thrusts, the broken sounds that escaped him with every push of his cock into her heat. The floorboards groaned under them, the lamp flickered, and the cold air of the bedroom wrapped around them, a sharp contrast to the heat where their bodies joined.

Her legs tightened around his waist, and she arched up into him, her cunt clenching around his cock in waves that made his vision blur. "Daddy," she gasped, and the word was honeyed and sweet and full of a triumph that should have terrified him. "Daddy, I'm—"

He felt her come apart around him. Felt the shudder that ran through her body, the way her cunt gripped him, pulled him, milked him. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry, and her hands fisted in the sheets, and for a moment—just a moment—she looked young. Vulnerable. Like the girl he'd met when he first married her mother.

Then her eyes opened, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced by that patient, predatory stillness that made his blood run hot.

"Your turn," she whispered, and she rolled her hips, slow and deliberate, riding him through her climax. "Give it to me, Daddy. Come inside me."

He was already there. Already falling. The heat of her, the tight grip of her cunt, the sound of her voice saying his name—it was too much, more than he could hold, and he buried himself deep inside her and let go.

His body shuddered, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise, and he came with a sound that was almost a sob—a broken, desperate noise that he couldn't have stopped if he'd tried. Her legs tightened around his waist, holding him there, keeping him inside her, and she whispered his name against his ear as he emptied himself into her.

The room held only the sound of their breathing. The lamp's amber light flickered, casting long shadows across the rumpled sheets, and the damp duvet bunched under her hips was soaked with their mingled sweat. The floorboards had gone still, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

Jack collapsed against her, his face buried in the curve of her neck, his body still trembling with the force of his release. Her hands came up to his back, her fingers tracing the lines of his spine, and she held him there—held him inside her, held him close, held him the way she'd been trying to hold him for two years.

"That's it," she whispered, and her voice was soft now, almost tender. "That's it, Daddy. It's always been me."

He couldn't answer. Couldn't find the words. All he could do was lie there, inside her, breathing her in, feeling the slow pulse of her cunt around his softening cock, and wonder how he'd ever thought he could lock this door against her.

The flannel hung open on his shoulders, the worn fabric brushing her skin with every breath he took. The lamp cast its amber glow across her collarbone, where the sweat had begun to cool. Her legs were still wrapped around his waist, her heels pressing into his lower back, holding him there, keeping him close.

And in the quiet of the bedroom—the door he'd locked every night for two years now standing open behind them—Jack Horthon let himself believe, just for a moment, that this was where he was supposed to be.

His cock was still half-hard inside her, the heat of her cunt holding him in a soft, wet grip. She hadn't moved, hadn't asked him to pull out. Her hands traced slow circles on his back, her fingers finding the knobs of his spine, the old scar from a chainsaw kickback just above his hip.

The cold air of the room crept in where their sweat had cooled. It raised gooseblesh on her arms, on the skin of her belly he wasn't covering. He could feel it himself—a chill creeping across his shoulders, down the valley of his back where the flannel had fallen open.

"You're shivering," she said, her voice low and close to his ear.

He wasn't. Not quite. But his body had begun to tremble again, a fine vibration that started deep in his muscles and worked its way out to his skin. The aftershock of coming, maybe. Or the cold. Or the truth settling into his bones.

She shifted under him, a small adjustment of her hips, and he felt himself slip a fraction of an inch deeper. Her cunt clenched around him, a soft, involuntary pulse, and his own body answered with a throb that made his breath catch.

"Still there," she whispered, and there was a smile in her voice. "Still hard for me."

He closed his eyes. Her scent filled his head—vanilla lip balm, clean sweat, the deeper musk of sex. Beneath it all, the faint, ghostly smell of pine resin and sawdust from his own flannel, the shirt he'd worn for years in the timber before he lost it. Before she found it.

Her thumb found a callus on his palm, the thick pad of skin at the base of his thumb. She traced the edge of it, her touch light as a whisper. "You know what I thought?" she said, not waiting for an answer. "That first summer you were here. I'd watch you splitting wood out back. Your shirt would stick to your skin with sweat. And I'd think—that's what a man looks like. That's what I want."

Jack's throat tightened. He remembered that summer. The relentless Alaskan sun, the endless cords of birch and spruce, the way Margaret would bring him lemonade and kiss his temple, her lips cool from the ice. He remembered Gina watching from the porch swing, a book open in her lap, her eyes following every swing of his axe.

"You were sixteen," he said, the words rough in his throat.

"Seventeen," she corrected softly. "And you knew. You'd look up sometimes and catch me staring. You'd look away first."

He had. Every time. He'd wipe his face with his forearm, take a long drink of the lemonade Margaret brought, and pretend he hadn't seen the heat in her eyes. Pretend he didn't feel it echoing in his own gut.

Her hand slid from his back to his hip, her fingers digging into the muscle there. "Say it," she whispered.

He shook his head against her neck.

"Say you knew."

"Gina—"

"Say it, Daddy."

The word landed differently now. Not a mockery, not a weapon. A fact. A title she'd given him that meant something else entirely. He felt it in the way her body held his, in the way her voice wrapped around the syllable.

He swallowed. "I knew."

She let out a breath, a sigh that seemed to come from the very center of her. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer, and he felt himself hardening fully again inside her, the ache returning low in his belly.

"Good," she said. "Now tell me you're glad."

The chill across his shoulders deepened. The lamp flickered once, a dip in voltage that plunged the room into near-darkness for a heartbeat before the amber glow steadied. In that brief darkness, he saw Margaret's face—the tired kindness in her eyes, the way she'd looked at him across the courthouse steps the day they married, her hand warm in his.

"I can't," he said.

Gina's hand stilled on his hip. He could feel her listening, feel the change in her breathing. "Can't what?"

"Say that."

She was quiet for a long moment. The house settled around them, a creak from the roof beams, the faint groan of a floorboard in the hall. Somewhere downstairs, the refrigerator hummed to life.

"Then tell me what you can say," she said finally, her voice stripped of all its honey, all its teasing edge. Just a young woman's voice, asking.

He lifted his head from the curve of her neck. The lamp light caught her face—the sheen of sweat on her temples, the dark fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the full, parted lips. She looked up at him, her honey-brown eyes wide and waiting.

"I can say it feels like coming home," he heard himself say, the words leaving his mouth before he could catch them. "And I can say that terrifies me."

Her eyes searched his. She lifted a hand, her fingers brushing his jaw, tracing the line of stubble there. "Home," she repeated, tasting the word. "This is your home, Jack. This room. This bed. Me."

He knew what she meant. Not the house, not Alaska, not the life he'd built with Margaret. This—the heat between them, the sweat-slick skin, the way her body held his. This was the place he'd been trying to lock out for two years.

His cock throbbed inside her, a hard, insistent pulse. She felt it too—her eyes darkened, her lips curving into that small, knowing smile.

"See?" she whispered. "Your body knows. It's always known."

She rolled her hips beneath him, a slow, grinding circle that made his breath hitch. The friction was exquisite, a deep, dragging heat that started at the root of his cock and spread through his whole body. Her cunt clenched around him, milking him, and he dropped his forehead to hers, his eyes squeezing shut.

"Gina—"

"Shhh," she breathed. "Just feel it."

He felt everything. The cool air on his back. The damp duvet under her hips. The worn flannel brushing her skin with every ragged breath he took. The hot, tight clasp of her around him. The truth of what they'd done, what they were doing, what they would do when Margaret walked through the front door in three days.

Her hands came up to cradle his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "Look at me," she said.

He opened his eyes. Her gaze was steady, unwavering. No triumph now. No predator's stillness. Just a raw, open hunger that mirrored the ache in his own gut.

"I'm not letting you go," she said, the words simple, final. "Not ever. You understand?"

He understood. He'd understood from the moment she followed him into the garage barefoot in February, from the moment she sank to her knees in his truck, from the moment she whispered his name against his ear as he came inside her. There was no going back. No locking doors. No pretending.

He nodded, a short, sharp movement of his head.

Her smile returned, but it was different now. Softer. Almost sad. "Good," she whispered. "Now kiss me."

He did. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her like a man drowning, like a man who'd finally stopped fighting the current. Her lips parted under his, and she tasted like salt and sweetness and something darker, something that belonged only to this room, to this night, to her.

Her legs tightened around his waist, her heels pressing into his back, and she began to move under him again, a slow, rocking rhythm that matched the beat of his own heart. His hands found her hips, his callused fingers digging into the soft flesh there, holding her steady as he started to thrust.

It was slower this time. Deeper. There was no desperation in it, no frantic race toward release. Just the steady, grinding push and pull of two bodies finding a rhythm that felt older than either of them. The floorboards groaned under their weight, a low, protesting sound that seemed to come from the very bones of the house.

She broke the kiss, her head falling back against the pillow, her throat arching. "Daddy," she gasped, the word torn from her chest. "Right there. Oh, God, right there."

He knew where she meant. The angle had changed, his cock hitting a place inside her that made her eyes roll back, that made her nails score his shoulders through the flannel. He focused on that spot, on the way her body clenched around him every time he pushed deep, on the broken, pleading sounds she made into the quiet room.

The lamp light caught the sweat beading on her upper lip. He watched it, mesmerized, as he moved in her. Watched the way her breasts shifted with each thrust, the way her nipples hardened in the cool air. Watched the flannel fall open wider, revealing the pale skin of her belly, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs where his body joined hers.

She felt it too—the way his rhythm faltered, the hitch in his breath. Her eyes opened, and that knowing smile curved her lips. "You like watching yourself inside me," she said, not a question.

He couldn't deny it. The sight of his cock sliding into her, the dark thatch of her hair slick with their combined wetness, her pale belly rising to meet him—it was a thing he'd never imagined, never allowed himself to imagine, and now he couldn't look away.

"Roll over," she said softly.

He froze. The words didn't compute at first, tangled as they were in the heat of her, the rhythm of his thrusts.

"On your back, Daddy." Her voice was patient, honeyed, the voice she'd used on him for two years—but there was steel beneath it now. "I want to ride you."

His body moved before his mind caught up. He pulled out of her with a wet sound that made his ears burn, and the cold air rushed in where his cock had been, a sudden, sharp absence. She rolled to the side, and he lay back against the rumpled sheets, the damp duvet bunched under his shoulders, the flannel hanging open on his chest.

She rose above him, astride his hips, and the lamp's amber light painted her in gold and shadow. Her honey-brown hair fell around her shoulders, the ends brushing her nipples. The flannel had fallen from one shoulder, exposing the pale curve of her breast, the dark peak tightened by the cold air.

He was exposed beneath her. Fully. His cock stood hard and wet from her, the head slick and dark, and he felt the vulnerability of it like a physical weight—a man who'd spent his life hiding behind axes and timber and locked doors, now laid out open and aching under a twenty-year-old girl.

Her hand wrapped around the base of his cock, and he sucked in a breath. Her fingers were cool, her grip sure, and she guided him to her entrance with a slowness that made his hips buck up involuntarily.

"Easy," she murmured. "Let me take it."

She sank down. The heat of her cunt enveloped him inch by inch, a slow, dragging fire that made his vision blur. Her head fell back, her throat arching, and she let out a sound that was half gasp, half moan, a sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of her lungs.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, Daddy."

He was buried in her to the hilt, her weight settled on his hips, her cunt gripping him in waves that made his hands fist in the sheets. She sat there for a moment, her eyes closed, her lips parted, and he watched her—watched the way her breasts rose and fell with her breath, watched the way her fingers pressed into her own thighs, watched the way her belly curved just above where he was inside her.

Then she began to move.

It was slow at first, a rocking of her hips that ground him deep inside her, a motion that felt less like fucking and more like a ritual. Her hands found his chest, her fingers splaying across the coarse hair there, and she leaned forward, her hair falling in a curtain around them both.

"You feel that?" she whispered. "You feel how deep you are?"

He nodded, unable to speak. His hands found her waist, his callused fingers spanning the soft, warm skin there, and he held her—not to guide her, not to control her, but to remind himself that this was real. That this was her. That this was happening.

She rose up until only the head of his cock remained inside her, then sank back down with a force that made the floorboards groan. Her head tilted to the side, her honey-brown eyes glazed, and she let out a moan that was raw and unguarded, a sound he'd never heard from her before.

"God," she gasped. "You're so big. I can feel you—" She pressed a hand to her lower belly, just above where he was buried inside her. "I can feel you right here."

He looked down. And there it was—the faintest bulge in her belly, a subtle distortion of her pale skin where his cock pressed against her from within. The sight of it, the proof of how deep he was inside her, made his cock throb, and she felt it, her cunt clenching around him in response.

"See?" she breathed. "You're everywhere, Daddy. You're all the way up inside me."

She began to ride him in earnest then, a rising and falling rhythm that made the bed creak and the lamp's amber light flicker. Her thighs worked, her hips rolling, and she leaned forward, her mouth finding his chest, her tongue tracing a wet line across his pectoral muscle.

He gasped. The sensation was electric, a sharp jolt of pleasure that went straight to his cock. Her mouth moved lower, her lips closing around his nipple, and she sucked, hard, her tongue flicking across the sensitive peak.

"Gina—"

She did it again, her teeth grazing him, and his head fell back against the pillow, his body arching up into her. His hands tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh, and he heard himself make a sound he'd never made before—a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere primal, somewhere he'd kept locked away for two years.

"That's it," she whispered, her mouth moving to his other nipple, her tongue circling it before she sucked it between her lips. "That's it, Daddy. Let go."

He was lost. Utterly, completely lost. The heat of her cunt, the wet suction of her mouth on his chest, the weight of her body moving on his—it was too much, more than he could hold, and he felt himself teetering on the edge of something he couldn't name.

She lifted her head, her lips slick and swollen, her eyes dark with a hunger that made his blood run hot. "I want to see you broken," she said, and her voice was low, rough, stripped of all its honey. "I want to see you beg."

He shook his head. "I don't—"

"Yes, you do." She rose up on her knees, almost pulling off him entirely, and he felt the loss of her like a physical ache. "Tell me what you want, Daddy. Tell me, and I'll give it to you."

His hands found her hips, trying to pull her back down, but she resisted, holding herself just above him, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance without entering.

"Say it," she whispered.

He was trembling. His whole body was trembling, the fine vibration starting in his muscles and working its way out to his skin. He'd spent two years locking this door, two years denying this hunger, and now it was burning him alive from the inside.

"Please," he heard himself say, the word rough and broken in his throat.

"Please what?"

"Please—" He swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut. "Please fuck me. Fuck me good."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with something he couldn't name. Then he felt her shift above him, felt her hand cup his jaw, felt her thumb trace the line of his stubble.

"Open your eyes, Daddy."

He did. Her face was inches from his, her honey-brown eyes soft, almost tender. A small smile curved her lips—not the mocking smile she'd worn for two years, but something real, something raw.

"Good boy," she whispered. "I'll give you something really good."

She rose off him completely, the cold air rushing in where her heat had been, and he felt the loss of her like a wound. But before he could protest, before he could reach for her, she was shifting, turning, positioning herself over him in a way that made his heart stop.

She straddled his hips, but higher. Her hands found his chest, bracing herself, and he felt the head of his cock press against a different entrance—tight, resistant, untouched.

"Gina—"

"Shhh." Her voice was soft, steady. "Trust me, Daddy."

She began to lower herself, and the resistance was immediate, a tight ring of muscle that gripped the head of his cock like a fist. She gasped, her nails scoring his chest, and he felt her whole body shudder above him.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, God."

"We don't have to—"

"Yes, we do." Her voice was strained, but certain. "I want this. I want all of you. Everywhere."

The words died in his throat. There was no argument left in him, no line he hadn't already crossed, no door he hadn't already left open. She was right—she was always right, and the knowing of it burned through him like the whiskey he'd stopped drinking the day he married her mother.

Her body descended. The tight ring of muscle gave way inch by inch, a slow, agonizing stretch that pulled a sound from his chest he didn't recognize—something between a groan and a prayer. Her fingers dug into the coarse hair on his chest, her knuckles white, her back arching as she took him deeper.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped, the words torn from her, stripped of all the honeyed mockery she'd worn for two years. This was raw. This was real. Her head fell forward, her hair spilling around her face, and he watched a tear slide down her cheek—not from pain, not from regret, but from the sheer overwhelming fullness of him inside her.

He was fully seated. She was impaled on him, her thighs trembling on either side of his hips, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He could feel every flutter of her body around him, the way her inner walls gripped and released in involuntary waves, the way her whole frame shook with the effort of holding still.

"Don't move," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Just—just give me a second."

He didn't move. He couldn't. He was frozen beneath her, his hands gripping her thighs, his eyes fixed on her face as she fought to master herself. The flannel had slipped from both shoulders now, hanging loose around her elbows, and her breasts rose and fell with each ragged breath.

She opened her eyes. They were dark, almost black in the amber light, and she looked down at him with an expression he'd never seen on her face before—not triumph, not mockery, but something raw and unguarded. Something that looked almost like fear.

"You're so deep," she breathed. "I can feel you in my stomach. I can feel you everywhere."

He wanted to say something, anything, but his voice was gone. He could only watch her, could only feel her, the impossible tightness of her body wrapped around his cock like a fist that kept clenching and unclenching.

She began to move.

It was a slow, rocking motion at first, a gentle sway that made him feel every inch of her, every ripple of muscle. Her hands slid up his chest, her nails leaving faint red lines in their wake, and she leaned forward, her hair falling in a curtain around them both.

"You feel how tight I am?" she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "You feel how you're stretching me?"

He nodded, his jaw clenched, his hands moving to her hips. He didn't try to guide her. He just held her, his callused fingers spanning the soft skin of her waist, grounding himself in the reality of her body on his.

She rode him slow, deliberate, each rise of her hips pulling a groan from his chest, each descent seating him deeper until he felt the pressure of her in his gut. Her head tilted, honey-brown hair spilling across her shoulder, and she watched him through half-lidded eyes—watching him the way she'd watched him for two years, but there was nothing patient in it now. There was hunger. There was ownership.

"You feel that?" she breathed, her hand pressing flat to her belly, just above where he was buried. "Right there. That's how deep you are, Daddy. That's how far inside me you've gotten."

He looked down and saw it again—the faint bulge of himself moving beneath her skin, the proof of how completely he filled her. His hands tightened on her waist, and she smiled, that slow, knowing smile that had haunted him from the first summer she'd come home from college.

"You like that," she said. "You like seeing yourself in me."

He couldn't deny it. He couldn't deny anything anymore. The truth of it was written in the way he watched his cock slide in and out of her, the way his breath caught every time she sank down and the bulge appeared again.

She leaned forward, her mouth finding his chest, her tongue tracing a wet line across the coarse hair there. She sucked his nipple between her lips, and his body arched up into her, a sound torn from his throat that he didn't recognize.

"Gina—"

She did it again, her teeth grazing, her tongue flicking, and his head fell back against the pillow. The cold air of the room raised goosebumps on his skin, but he was burning, his whole body burning from the inside out.

She rode him harder, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made the bed creak and the floorboards groan beneath them. Her thighs worked, slick with sweat, and her breath came in short, sharp bursts that matched the slap of her body against his.

"You feel how tight I am?" she gasped. "You feel how much I want you?"

He nodded, his jaw clenched, his fingers digging into her waist. He was close—so close—the pressure building at the base of his spine, the heat coiling in his gut. She felt it too, the way his cock throbbed inside her, and she slowed, a cruel smile curving her lips.

"Not yet, Daddy," she whispered. "I want to see you broken first."

She rose off him completely, and the cold air rushed in where her heat had been, a sudden absence that made him ache. He reached for her, but she caught his wrists, pinning them to the mattress beside his head.

"I said I want to see you beg," she said. "And I meant it."

She picked up the pace, her hips rolling in a rhythm that was primal, instinctive, her body taking what it wanted from him. The tightness was overwhelming, a constriction so complete he could feel every ridge of her, every flutter of her inner walls. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer, needing her closer.

"That's it," she moaned, her mouth finding his neck, her teeth grazing his skin. "That's it, Daddy. Take it. Take all of me."

He was lost. Utterly, completely lost. The heat of her, the impossible tightness, the weight of her body moving on his—it was too much, more than he could hold. He felt himself teetering on the edge, the pressure building, the heat coiling at the base of his spine.

"I'm close," he gasped, the words torn from him. "Gina, I'm—"

"Not yet." Her voice was sharp, commanding. She slowed, her hips grinding against him in a slow circle that made him see stars. "Not until I say so."

He whimpered. He actually whimpered, a sound he'd never made in his life, and she smiled down at him, that knowing, hungry smile.

"That's better," she whispered. "That's exactly what I wanted to see."

She began to move again, faster now, her thighs working, her body rising and falling on his with a force that made the bed slam against the wall. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, wet and rhythmic, and he could feel himself losing control, the edge rushing toward him.

"Now," she breathed, her voice cracking. "Now, Daddy. Give it to me. Fill me."

He came with a roar, his body arching off the bed, his hands gripping her hips so hard he knew he'd leave bruises. His cock throbbed inside her, emptying deep, and she cried out, her inner walls clenching around him in wave after wave, milking him dry.

She collapsed on top of him, her body slick with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps against his neck. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her, feeling her heart pound against his chest, feeling the aftershocks ripple through her body.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their breathing, the creak of the bed settling, the wind rattling the window against the February cold. He could feel her softening around him, could feel the sticky heat of their combined release seeping onto his thighs.

She lifted her head, her honey-brown eyes soft, almost tender. Her hair was a wild tangle around her face, her lips swollen, her cheeks flushed. She looked at him—really looked at him—and he saw something in her eyes he'd never seen before.

"You're mine now," she whispered. "You know that, right? You're mine."

He wanted to deny it. He wanted to tell her it was a mistake, that they could never do this again, that her mother was coming home in three days. But the words wouldn't come. He could only look at her, could only feel the truth of her words settling into his bones.

She leaned down and kissed him, soft and slow, her lips moving against his with a tenderness that undid him. When she pulled back, she was smiling—not the mocking smile, not the hungry smile, but something real, something raw.

"Good boy," she whispered. "Now sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her she should go back to her own room, that this was wrong. But his body was heavy, spent, and the warmth of her against his side was pulling him under. He felt her shift, felt her settle against him, her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his heart.

He closed his eyes. And for the first time in two years, he slept without locking the door.