I’m still on the couch, head pillowed in Kaleb’s lap, blanket tucked around my shoulders. His hand rests lightly on my hair, fingers occasionally drifting in slow, absent strokes.
I shift just a little, and that’s when I feel it.
Hard.Thick. Pressing right under my cheek.
Kaleb’s big, pulsatingly hard Daddy cock.
My eyes snap open, heat rushing straight to my face. Oh god. I’m literally lying on his erection like it’s a pillow. How long has it been like this? Did I do something in my sleep? Did he…?
I don’t dare move yet. Just breathe. Slow. In. Out.
Above me, Kaleb doesn’t react. No grunt, no shift, no awkward cough. He just keeps turning pages—slow and deliberate like he’s savoring every word. The soft rustle of paper is the only sound besides the fire and the distant rain.
Curiosity wins over embarrassment.
I tilt my head carefully, peeking up without sitting up yet. He’s reading an actual book—not a phone, not a tablet. A thick hardcover, faded green cloth spine, gold lettering too wornto read from this angle. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips pressed in concentration.
He looks… peaceful.
Almost gentle.
Nothing like the stern Daddy who just spanked me in an alley earlier.
I can’t help it. A tiny giggle bubbles up.
Kaleb glances down, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re awake.”
“Mm-hmm.”I push myself up slowly, blanket pooling around my waist. My butt protests with a dull, warm ache—still tender, but the cream helped a lot. I tuck my legs under me, facing him on the couch. “What are you reading?”
He holds the book up so I can see the cover.Middlemarchby George Eliot.
My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re readingMiddlemarch?”
Kaleb closes it with a soft thud, sets it on the armrest. “Problem?”
“No! I just…” I bite my lip, trying not to smile too wide. “It’s a classic. Like, doorstopper 19th-century classic. I didn’t expect… um…”
“Didn’t expect a tree surgeon to read literature?” His voice is gruff, but there’s a defensive edge under it. “I might swing a chainsaw for a living, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy culture.”
The way he says it—half growl, half pout—is so unexpectedly adorable that I can’t hold back the laugh. It spills out bright and genuine.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, holding up my hands. “It’s just… reallycool. I like that there are more sides to you. The grumpy lumberjack who secretly reads Victorian novels? That’s… hot.”
Kaleb simply snorts, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
“Hot, huh?”
“Very.” I lean forward a little, elbows on my knees. “What part are you at?”
“Dorothea’s just realizing Casaubon’s a dry old stick. He’s starting to question everything.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Hits different when you’ve lived long enough to know people like that.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. It does.”
For a moment we just sit there, the fire popping, rain tapping the windows. It feels… easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times instead of once.
Then he glances at the clock on the mantel. “Late afternoon already. Got a busy evening ahead. I need to check some equipment, sharpen chains, prep for tomorrow if the rain clears.”
I nod, suddenly aware I’ve taken up his whole day. “Right. Of course. I should get back to the B&B.”