“Please, please, please—”
He strokes through my hair, murmuring praises as his cock returns, pressing insistently at my mound. My clit is on fire, a searing warning—but all concern of healing timeframes leaves my brain.
“Please!”
He bucks his hips, entering me with such a smooth, controlled thrust that only my sheer wetness drags him as deep as he goes. From the outside, my sore flesh isn’t touched at all. But from the inside…
I scream as pleasure tears through me in unbearable waves. Almost too much. Tears sting my eyes, and I slump, mindless as he takes me so, so gently.
“Beautiful,” he says, his breaths feathering, thrusts strengthening. “So beautiful... Mine.”
I’m boneless when he wrenches himself free and hisses through his own torturous release. Fiery heat spills against my lower back, and my eyes flutter as my brain rockets to cloud nine all over again.
When I finally regain my senses, I’m no longer bound. His fingers trace patterns up and down my arms as his grated voice sinks into my ear.
“So good,” he praises. “So beautiful when you come for me… So beautiful.”
I face him on jellied legs. Our lips meet. Teeth gnashing, tongues grappling for leverage. I’m in his arms before I know it, grinding against him without a damn for my healing piercing.
“N-No!” Seemingly with difficultly, he pulls back and shoves his hand between us, preventing me from further stimulation. Then he snatches my waist, lifting me into his arms completely.
Dazed, I go limp as he carries me into the master bedroom and then the bath, and finally into the shower. He strips us both of our remaining clothing. Then, one-handed, he programs the water and sets me on the bench, blocking me in with his body to keep me seated.
“Let me clean you off, beautiful,” he demands, as the water lashes down.
But I rub my legs together shamelessly, imploring him. “I want more.” I barely recognize my voice, rasping with lust. Never in my life have I so wantonly craved anything else. More. More pain mixed with pleasure. More teasing. Taunting. Everything.
I’m drugged on a kink I never knew existed. And deep down beyond the ecstasy, I know I should be terrified that he holds the keys to it all.
“You’ll have more than enough when I’m through with you.” He chuckles and sinks to his knees before me, brandishing a cloth and a bottle of soap. I shiver as he pries my legs apart and inspects me, frowning. “But not tonight,” he adds sternly. “You need rest. Now stay still so that I can clean you.”
A pout tugs on my lower lip, but I’m quickly distracted by his touch as he guides the cloth carefully over my aching frame. It’s dizzying how seamlessly he can go from spanking me, to bathing my limbs with the utmost care.
Almost as quickly as I can go from hating him, to practically purring in his arms. In my right mind, I’d be more alarmed by that, I think.
As it is, I go languid beneath his ministrations, and watching him is almost enough to make up for the lack of stimulation. When he’s done, he tosses the rag aside, shuts off the water, and returns with an armful of towels that he bundles me in.
Minutes later, we land on the bed, and I eagerly snuggle into him, nuzzling against his chest. “I’m sorry for being such a horrible bitch,” I confess, my tone surly.
He sighs, wrapping me in his arms, pulling me close. “You weren’t completely horrible.”
“Hey!” I playfully slap his chest only to copy his sigh as I eye him through my lashes. His serious expression remains unchanged, even as he strokes through my damp hair. I find myself observing him in full, from the pale skin of his chest to the jagged shape of his scar. I reach out, brushing my finger along the edge of it. It’s so long, stretching from his ear down to his collar bone.
I can’t even begin to imagine what might have caused it. An accident? Something more violent?
Without offering up an explanation, he lets my finger dance along his skin, but from the set of his jaw alone, I know instinctively not to ask him about it. Not yet, at least. Instead, I turn my attention to something a bit more imminent.
“It’s a good thing that you’re building a playground just for me,” I point out softly. Now those mysterious boxes in that room have a newer significance. “But you need to build one for Magda.”
He stiffens, inhaling sharply. I’m finding that it’s getting slightly easier to read him. I can peg this reaction to one cause in particular.
“You don’t want to talk about her,” I surmise. “Not yet.”
“No...” He shakes his head, his expression tense. “I will. But this… It is painful for me. I just need time.”
“At least you’re being honest with me.” I reinforce the praise by brushing my fingers down his chest. “That’s all I’m asking for. You don’t need to tell me everything—but I need to know something.”
“And you will.” He captures my hand and brings it to his cheek. “Just know that… I want this,” he confesses hoarsely. “More than anything. I want my daughter to be with me. I want to be a father to her. I want…”
“What changed within two years?” I ask gently.
He frowns and seems to shrug in the same instance. “She almost died,” he says. “Last year. She became very sick—an infection entered her bloodstream. You’ve heard of her condition? It makes any prolonged sickness far worse. She became septic and eventually required a machine just to breathe. For ten days, I spent every minute wondering if I’d lose her for good.”
“God…” I picture her frail, fragile appearance and shudder at the thought of her on a vent. I know firsthand how it feels to lose a child—even if I’ve never met my own—but I can’t imagine that level of torment. Thankfully. Swallowing hard, I struggle to form words. “That’s awful.” I squeeze his fingers tightly,
