"Why?" Though I already knew why. Could hear the calculation in his tone, the casual way someone might ask about the weather while planning murder.
"Just curious."
"You can't kill everyone who's ever hurt me."
"Perhaps." His arm tightened fractionally. "But I'll settle for making sure no one hurts you again. Starting now."
The tablet was still playing somewhere in the sheets, Bluey's dad saying something about how everyone needs help sometimes, even grown-ups. Especially grown-ups. The synchronicity of it might have been funny if I hadn't been so overwhelmed by the feeling of safety that came from being held by someone dangerous enough to make that safety real.
"I don't know how to do this," I admitted, the words muffled against his chest.
"Do what?"
"Let someone take care of me. Trust someone with this part of me. It’s why I’ve been avoiding you. You probably noticed.”
He gave me a grin. It lit his face up.
“Every time I've tried to trust someone, it's been weaponized."
His hand stilled in my hair for a moment, then resumed its soothing motion. "Then we go slow. You show me what you need when you're ready. I'll be here regardless."
"What if I'm never ready?"
"Then I'll still be here." Simple. Matter-of-fact. Like patience was infinite when it came to me.
I pulled back enough to look at his face, needing to see his eyes when I asked the next question. "What do you want from this? From me?"
His gray eyes were dark in the fading light, pupils dilated. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my lower lip with a touch so light it might have been imagination.
"Everything," he said simply. "I want to be the person you come to when the world gets too heavy. Want to hold you when you're small and soft and needing care. Want to command you when you need someone else to make decisions. Want to protect you, provide for you, be the safe place you can rest."
My breath stuttered. "That's very Daddy of you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them—too honest, too revealing, too much. But his eyes darkened further, and a sound rumbled from his chest that was almost a growl.
"Is that what you need?" His thumb pressed slightly harder against my lip, not quite breaching but asking. "A Daddy to take care of his little bird?"
Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly with an intensity that made me squirm against him. Which was a mistake, because it brought me into contact with evidence that this conversation was affecting him too—the hard length pressing against my hip through his jeans.
"I don't know," I whispered, but we both knew I was lying.
"Liar." He said it with affection, almost amused. "Your body knows. Your mind just hasn't caught up yet."
He was right. My body had known from the first time he said "good girl".
"It's dangerous," I said, last defense against the inevitable.
"Everything worth having is." His hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, a possessive grip that made me shiver. "But you're already mine, little bird. Have been since you saved my life. We're just negotiating terms."
The arrogance of it should have made me angry. Instead, it made me wet, aching. This was physical need mixing with emotional want, creating something combustible.
"If we do this—" I started.
"When," he corrected. "When we do this."
"When," I agreed, and felt something shift in my chest, like tectonic plates realigning. "I need to know you won't use it against me. Won't tell anyone. Won't decide I'm too broken to—"
He kissed me.
