We lie there for a long time, our bodies slick with sweat, him pulsing inside me. Breathless, he drags my face to his and kisses me. “You did so fucking good,” he praises against my lips.
He pulls away with a lazy, utterly satisfied smile that makes my heart skip a beat. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, withdrawing himself from me and rolling off before I can protest.
Damon retreats to the adjoining bath, returning a moment later with a warm, wet washcloth. I reach for it as he approaches, but he shakes his head. “No, I want to clean up the mess I made of you.” His voice is low and possessive. “And you’re going to be a good girl and spread your thighs nice and wide, so I can wash my cum and that little bit of blood from you.”
A blush creeps up my neck. I had forgotten, in the heat of the moment, about the possibility of blood. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to…like it.
I obey without hesitation, parting my thighs, with a strange mix of vulnerability and trust as he kneels between them. He looks down at me, his expression unreadable, but hiseyes hold a tenderness that takes my breath away. He reverently wipes between my legs, cleaning me with the same care he took in claiming me. The warm cloth is soothing against my sensitive, swollen flesh. His face is mesmerized with concentration and the almost worshipful way he tends to me. There is no judgment or disgust, only a quiet, possessive pride that makes my heart ache.
After finishing with me, he uses the same cloth to clean the cum from his cock, his movements now economical and efficient. He tosses it aside, then climbs onto the bed, dragging me into his arms. My naked body is soft and pliant as he pulls me against him until my head rests on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. He lifts the blanket over us, then wraps his arms tightly around me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his lips brushing against my hair as he snuggles me closer. “You did so well, trouble. So fucking well. I’m fucking proud of you.”
Tears well in my eyes, hot and sudden, overwhelmed by my emotions—a chaotic jumble of love, gratitude, and a lingering sense of disbelief. I have never felt so cherished, so seen, so completely and utterly accepted for who I am.
“I’m more than okay,” I whisper, my voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m… I’m perfect.”
He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through my entire body. “Yes, you are,” he agrees, his arms tightening around me. “You absolutely are.”
We lie in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds are of our soft, even breaths and the gentle hum of the house around us. I feel safe and protected, sensations I havespent my entire life searching for. I trace idle patterns on his chest as I drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, the steady beat of his heart as my lullaby.
I wake slowly with the soft sheets tangled around my waist, warmth radiating against me, and the steady rhythm of Mackenzi’s breathing against my pec. When I open my eyes, I find the pale gray morning light filtering through the curtains, washing the room in muted dawn and softening everything around the edges.
For a moment, I don’t move, not wanting to disturb her. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, and feeling an unfamiliar notion settling in my chest. The usual pang of danger, responsibility, and exhaustion has been replaced with something equally as dangerous.Contentment.
I’ve spent decades sleeping in war zones, safe houses, and God knows where else under active threat. It’s been years of conditioning myself to wake instantly, alert and detached, with every nerve wired for violence before my eyes fully opened. But this morning, I’m waking up entwined around a girl who has somehow managed to subdue every instinct I possess, leaving me vulnerable in an entirely different way.
My gaze lowers, and I find Mackenzi curled against my side, half sprawled across me beneath the sheets, her hair a wild mess across the pillow. There’s still the faintest flush from my roughness painted across her skin from last night. The tiny marks I left scattered along her hips and waist are barely visible in the dim light, but seeing them sends heat crawling through my body all over again.
Jesus Christ.
I should feel guilt. Regret. Even some sense of professional shame, considering the fact her father entrusted her safety to me. Instead, having her in my arms with my cum deep inside her, all I feel is possessive satisfaction.Because Mackenzi Bradenburg is mine.
Her lashes flutter seconds before she shifts against me, the movement dragging a low ache through my chest so sharp, it catches me off guard. I’ve spent most of my life learning hownotto need things. Attachment creates weaknesses that enemies can exploit. But this fucking girl makes me want things I stopped allowing myself to wish for a long time ago.
Her eyes slowly open, still heavy with sleep. The second they land on me, her expression softens into adoration and trust. “Hi.” Her whisper is rough from sleep, quiet and warm.
I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my knuckles dragging gently along her cheek. “Morning, trouble.”
A sleepy smile curves her mouth as she tips her face up to kiss me. It’s soft and slow, but devoid of any hesitation. Her warm lips press against mine like she woke up wanting me this morning. And God help me, I melt into her instantly.
I kiss her back harder than I intend to, one hand sliding into her hair while the other settles against her waist, beneath the shirt she stole from me sometime overnight. She makes a quiet whimper against my mouth that travels in my bloodstream, straight to my fucking cock.
When we finally pull apart, she stays close enough that our noses still brush. “Morning, Daddy.”
My eyes close briefly as I exhale through my nose. “Fuck… I love hearing you say that first thing in the morning.” Her smile widens slightly, shy satisfaction flickering across her face.
I pull her closer until she’s nearly on top of me, wrapping both arms around her and burying my face in her neck. She smells like a mixture of her perfume, my cologne, and sex. I can’t imagine anything better. If the world would let me, I would stay right here for the rest of the day.
“How are you feeling?” I ask quietly. Last night was intense—physically, things definitely steered toward less than gentle, and it was emotional in a way that evenIhadn’t prepared for.
Her expression warms at the question. She shifts slightly, and awareness flickers across her face as she takes stock of herself. “A little sore,” she admits softly. Instant guilt stirs in my chest, having already seen the bruises my fingertips left behind, until she smiles. “But it’s a good sore.”
“Are you sure?”
She nods against the pillow, eyes bright despite the early hour.
“I’ll try to be more gentle next time,” I promise, brushing my thumb along her hip.
