“You trust me, baby girl?” His voice is low and edged with hunger, but there’s a gentleness threading through it that melts every wall I still have.
“Yes,” I whisper, breath catching.
“Let go. Daddy’s got you.”he says. “Let me devour you.”
Heat coils through my stomach, my spine, my entire body. I feel like trembling glass in his hands, fragile, yet somehow stronger than I’ve ever been.
He picks me up and then eases me down, slow, reverent, like he’s positioning something precious. The moment ourbodies align, his grip shifts—still tender, still careful, but more commanding now. I feel his breath against me, and my whole body draws tight with anticipation.
And then…
Pleasure. Overwhelming. Drowning in the sensation of being wanted, tasted, claimed. The only sounds in the room are my gasps, the low rumble of his approval, and the rapid rhythm of my heart. I lose track of time, of thought, of anything that isn’t him.
There’s no shame here. No insecurity. Just his mouth, his hands, and the raw, worshipful way he pulls me apart and puts me back together again.
When the world finally settles, I’m left gasping, trembling, folded forward over his shoulders as he holds me like I’m fragile and holy all at once.
He doesn’t let go—not when I slump against him, not when my breath stutters, not even when I whisper his name like a prayer.
Only when I look down, dazed and glowing, he murmurs against my skin:
“That’s my good girl.”
I don’t remember when the trembling started—just that it’s still there, lingering in my limbs like a storm that hasn’t quite passed.
Elijah doesn’t say a word at first. He just holds me, carefully guiding me off of him and into his lap like I’m something precious. His hoodie—still half off me—ends up tangled around us both as he gathers me close, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders.
“Breathe, baby,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Just breathe.”
I do. Slowly. One inhale. One shaky exhale. His chest rises and falls beneath mine, steady as always, and I let it anchor me.
“I didn’t… I didn’t expect it to feel like that,” I murmur, my voice small against the curve of his neck.
He pulls me closer, like that wasn’t even possible.
“That’s what happens when you trust,” he says quietly. “When you let go. That was everything, baby girl. You are everything.”
I close my eyes, holding on tighter. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, genuinely confused.
“For not letting me disappear into my own head.”
His hand strokes slowly down my back, again and again, like a lullaby. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that,” he says. “Keeping you safe—physically, emotionally, all of it—is my job. My privilege.”
I laugh softly. “You’re making me cry again.”
He smiles against my skin. “Then cry, baby. I’ve got you.”
And he does.
For a while, we stay like that—tangled up in each other, in his office, in the quiet aftermath of something bigger than either of us expected. His hands never stop moving: stroking, grounding, praising in the silence.
“You were so good for me,” he murmurs. “So brave. So beautiful. Letting me take care of you like that… it means more than you know.”
My eyes flutter shut. “I feel safe with you.”
His arms tighten, and I feel him sigh like the words mattered.
