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“Still with me, wife?” I ask with a smirk.
“Mm.” She doesn’t move her arm. “Barely. You might’ve killed me.”
“Good thing I didn’t. I’d miss you.”
That gets a laugh out of her—soft, drowsy, the sound of someone too spent to muster anything louder. I press a kiss to her shoulder and slide off the bed.
The bathroom light is too bright. I dampen a washcloth with warm water, wring it out. Before I stride back to the bedroom, I look down and run a finger through the small smears of blood on my softening cock.
Possessiveness stirs again.
Kira hasn’t moved when I return to the bedroom. Her legs are still parted, and my cum and a tiny bit of blood leak from between her thighs.
Pure fucking perfection.
Getting back on the bed, I settle between her legs and wipe her clean. I check the places I know will be tender—the inside of her thighs, her pussy, the small red marks my fingers left on her hips.
She makes soft sounds when the cloth passes over sensitive skin, little hums of pleasure-pain that make my mouth twitch.
“Sorry about the lingerie,” I murmur, wiping a streak of cum from her inner thigh.
She moves her arm enough to playfully glare at me. “Liar,” she yawns. “You’re not sorry at all.”
“I’m not,” I agree. “But I’ll buy you more.”
“No zippers,” she says. “I hate that. And no buttons either.”
“I promise.” I grin.
That earns me another smile, lazy and content, and she lets her eyes drift shut while I finish cleaning her. When I’m done, I toss the cloth toward the hamper and climb back into bed.
Kira rolls toward me without being asked. I pull her against my chest, her back to my front, my arm around her waist, and she fits against me as if she were made specifically for me. Her hair smells like sex and vanilla, and I breathe it in while my hand traces idle patterns on her stomach.
We lie like that for a while. Quiet, and neither of us seems inclined to break the silence. But eventually, she does.
“You know,” she says, her voice sleep-thick and warm, “I think I could get used to this whole marriage thing, Daddy.”
I trace my thumb over her stomach. “Does it ever bother you?”
“Does what bother me?”
“Calling me Daddy. After everything with your dad.”
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “Dad and Daddy are… they’re not the same thing to me. One’s the man who raised me. The other’s…” She trails off, and I feel her smile against my arm where her face is pressed. “The other’s the man who just fucked me through the mattress and is currently holding me like he’s afraid I’ll float away.”
I huff out a laugh. “Good to know.”
She shifts in my arms, turning to face me. In the dim light, her eyes are dark, unreadable, but the smile on her face is unmistakable—wicked, teasing, the particular grin she wears when she’s about to say something that will either make me laugh or groan.
“You know what’s funny?” she says. “If we ever have kids, they are absolutely not allowed to call you Daddy. That’s my thing. They can call you… I don’t know, Pop. Or Sir. Something dignified.”
A laugh bursts out of me, genuine and unfiltered—and Kira’s grin widens at the sound of it.
Kids…
I haven’t thought about having more. Paolo is grown, and I figured that part of my life was finished. But a kid with Kira? Her eyes. Her stubborn fucking mouth. Her temper.
I look down at my wife curled against me, already halfway to sleep.
