"Yeah? You like bein' full of me? Like knowin' I ruined you for anyone else?" I thrust up gently, meeting her halfway, the angle letting me grind against that sweet spot inside her.
"Yes—oh God?—"
I grab her hips tighter, guiding her rhythm. "Ride me harder, little one. Show Daddy how much you need this fat cock splittin' you open."
She picks up the pace—just a bit—gasping with each downstroke. Water slaps against the tub sides, steam thick around us. Her nails dig into my shoulders again, drawing fresh blood. I don't care. The slow build is agony—exquisite—her walls milking me, clenching tighter as she chases her peak.
"You're gonna come all over me," I growl, one hand slipping between us to thumb her clit in slow, firm circles. "Gonna cream on Daddy's dick like the good slut you are. Then I'm gonna fill this tight hole again—pump you so full it'll leak out when you stand."
Her movements turn desperate, hips grinding down hard. "Please—I'm close?—"
"Do it. Come for me, baby. Squeeze me dry."
She shatters—back arching, cry echoing off the tiles—her pussy clamping down like a vice. I thrust up once, twice—deep and deliberate—and follow her over, roaring as I spill inside her. Hot jets flood her, marking her again, the overflow mixing with the bathwater.
She collapses against my chest, trembling. I hold her close, stroking her wet hair, kissing her temple.
"Mine," I murmur. "Always mine."
She nods, breathless. "Yours, Daddy."
I’m goingto be useless today. Not tactically—don’t get cute. I can still clear a room, pick a lock, and put a round on target in a whiteout with my non-dominant hand.
But mentally? My brain is a slow-motion highlight reel of Emma Lincoln in my bed.
Last night. This morning. Her laugh turning breathless. Her hands in my hair. The way she looked at me like I was something she could finally trust. Like I wasn’t a threat. Like I was… home.
It’s not just lust.
It’s worse.
It’s wanting. Wanting is the thing that gets you killed. Wanting is the thing that makes you sloppy, and I don’t do sloppy. Except I do, apparently, because I let a woman I met yesterday crawl under my skin and set up shop like she’s always belonged there. I want her to be mine.
Forever.
And that thought hits hard, clean, and terrifyingly certain. I don’t do forever. I do missions. Exits. Clean lines. But when she’s curled against my chest in the morning light and she whispers my name like she’s testing how it tastes… I’m not thinking about clean lines. I’m thinking about keeping.
Mine.
I scrub a hand over my face as I head into the main lodge, trying to reset. Trying to tuck the hunger down where it belongs. Tryingto be the man I was before she smiled at me like I wasn’t a broken thing in boots.
The meeting room is already active—screens up, coffee flowing, Wyatt tapping at keys like the world will end if he pauses for breath. Gavin stands at the head of the table, commander posture locked in, calm and lethal. Rafe leans against the wall with his arms crossed, looking relaxed in that way that screamsI’ve killed men and slept fine afterward.Boyd is posted near the door like a silent security system. Thorne is… Thorne—quiet, watching everything, missing nothing. Chase is pacing, which is his version of “I’m trying not to explode.” Eli has a med bag open, reorganizing it for the thousandth time because he copes with stress by making sure bandaids are perfectly aligned. Wyatt’s sitting back, legs kicked up, arms behind his head. And Harlan’s got that look. Like he’s ready to kill.
Silas is here too, sheriff jacket on, expression sharp.
And Emma?—
Emma is in the corner of the room with Harper and Kayley, sitting on the floor by a blanket that now belongs to the babies. Poppi’s little hands are clutching Harper’s shirt. Aidan is gnawing on something rubber with the determination of a man who pays taxes. Emma is making a face at him, and Aidan squeals like he’s chosen violence today.
She laughs, warm and bright, and my chest tightens like something is wrapping around my ribs. She looks like she belongs here. Like Haven 7 has always had a place shaped exactly like her.
Kayley catches me staring and smirks. The traitor.
Harper’s smile turns knowing. Also a traitor.
Chase notices too, because of course he does, and he wiggles his eyebrows like he’s twelve.
I ignore them all. I am not giving Chase the satisfaction of a reaction he can weaponize.