He crosses the room in a few slow steps, stopping right in front of me. His fingers brush through my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear. His touch is soft, reverent, and when he finally speaks, his voice is a low, velvet growl.
“You’re sure?”
I nod, keeping my gaze on his, steady even through the pulse of anticipation thudding in my chest.
“Yes,” I say. “I need this. I need you.”
A beat passes. Then he crouches down, leveling with me, one hand cupping my cheek while the other rests against my chest, feeling my heartbeat.
“You have me, baby girl,” he murmurs. “You always have. And you always will.”
He leans in and kisses me—slow and deep, his lips claiming mine not with desperation, but with devotion. I melt into it, hands clutching his shoulders, and when he pulls back, his thumb traces my lower lip.
“I missed this,” I whisper.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
Then he rises to his full height, towering over me, and the shift in him is palpable. Still Elijah, still my love—but also something more. My Daddy.
“Up,” he says gently but firmly, offering his hand. “Come sit on my lap.”
I stand, and he takes my hand, guiding me onto his lap as he settles into the chair. My legs straddle his thighs, skin against fabric, and I can already feel how hard he is beneath me.
His hands cradle my hips, but his eyes stay on mine.
“I’m going to remind you who you belong to,” he says softly, brushing his mouth over my jaw, “not because I need to prove anything…”
He moves lower, kissing the hollow of my throat, the curve of my shoulder.
“…but because you deserve to feel worshipped. Every inch of you.”
My breath hitches, and I grip him tighter.
“You were never broken, Ava,” he murmurs. “But I’m going to help you remember how powerful you are.”
His hands move up, fingers trailing along my spine, up to my hair, guiding my mouth to his again. His kiss deepens, taking, giving, consuming. And I let it.
Because in this moment, I’m not remembering the pain or the fear or the lost time.
I’m rememberingus.
I’m remembering love.
And I know, without a doubt, that I’m safe.
That I’m his.
His hands roam slowly over my back, fingers tracing my spine, grounding me in the now. The air between us thickens with heat and something deeper—need, yes, but also reverence.
Elijah looks up at me, his voice a husky promise.
“Tell me what you want, baby girl.”
“You,” I whisper, already breathless. “All of you.”
He groans softly, gripping my hips, and tilts them forward, grinding me against his hard shaft. The friction draws a gasp from my throat, and I shiver—because it feels like everything I’ve been missing, everything I’ve been aching for.
“I missed the way you melt for me,” he murmurs against my throat, kissing, sucking gently, leaving heat in his wake. “I missed your sounds, your skin… your fire.”
