“You’re empty now,” he whispered into my hair. “Daddy got every drop. You did so good. So, so good for me.”
I drifted, half-conscious, heart slowing in a soft, so warm.
He wrapped both arms around me. Kissed my shoulder. Held me like I was something sacred.
“You float as far as you want,” he murmured. “Daddy’s staying right here.”
“You’re so damn kinky.” I mumbled.
“We’re so damn kinky, baby.” He corrected gently, and kissed my shoulder.
39
Madeline
Vince was behind me, propped up against the headboard in a black t-shirt, arm around my waist, his hand tucked just under the hem of my shirt.
We had the lights dimmed. My favourite dynasty gossip series played quietly across it—commentators dissecting alliances and outfits and the week’s scandals with.
I should’ve been loving it.
Instead, my mood sat… wrong.
I’d already adjusted my position three times and we were barely halfway through the episode. First curled sideways with my head on his chest, then on my stomach with my arms folded under my chin, now half-sitting again, shoulder against him, knees bent.
His hand followed every shift. Palm at my hip, then my lower back, then my thigh.
“You okay, angel?” he murmured against my hair.
“Fine.”
He hummed. The kind of sound that said he didn’t believe me, but wasn’t going to push yet.
On-screen, the host replayed a clip from last week’s Sovereign coverage, pausing over a still of some poor heir tripping on a staircase while the crest banners flared overhead.
I huffed a small laugh that died quickly.
Vince tightened his arm around my waist. “You’re not even pausing it to rant about their take. That’s not fine.”
“You’re surprisingly invested in my viewing habits.”
“You’re surprisingly quiet,” he countered.
I reached for the bowl of apple slices on the bedside table more to have something to do with my hands than from actual hunger. My fingers fumbled the slice. It slid out of my grip and bounced harmlessly off his thigh.
“Shit, sorry.”
His hand caught my wrist before I could snatch it back. “Hey.” He threaded our fingers together, and rested them on my stomach. “You’re jittery.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Liar.”
He tossed the slice into the bowl, and placed it aside.
I sighed and sank a little heavier into him, letting the weight of his chest hold my back in place. The show transitioned to the next feature.
“Oh, this is the one where they do the ‘Who Wore It Best’ on consort candidates,” I muttered. “Watch them crown Adams white-gold like it’s a personality trait.”
