I follow his gaze. The two little cups of fried ice cream are sitting in a sad puddle of melted vanilla, cinnamon-sugar crust floating like wreckage. One spoon is still stuck upright in the middle like a tiny white flag of surrender.
I snort. “RIP.”
Silas makes a low, thoughtful sound. His hand slides lower, cupping my ass with lazy ownership. “Waste not, want not.”
I lift my head, already grinning. “You’re not serious.”
His eyes darken again—slow, deliberate. That feral edge creeps back in, the one that makes my stomach flip even though we just finished. “Dead serious.”
Before I can answer, he rolls us so I’m flat on my back again, pinned under him on the couch cushions. He reaches over, scoops a finger through the melted mess of one cup—warm, sticky vanilla cream laced with cinnamon—and brings it to my lips.
“Open.”
I part my lips without hesitation. He slides his finger inside; I suck it clean, tongue curling around the digit, tasting sugar and him. His pupils blow wide.
“Good boy,” he murmurs, voice gone gravel again. “Now let me clean you up properly.”
He dips his finger back into the melted ice cream—twice this time—and trails it slowly down the center of my chest. The first cool drip hits my sternum, then lower, paintinga sticky line over my stomach where I’m still marked from earlier. Goosebumps chase the path.
“Silas—”
“Shh.” He leans down, mouth following the trail he just made. Hot tongue lapping at the sweet mess, slow deliberate strokes that make me arch despite how oversensitive I am. He groans against my skin like I taste better than any dessert. “Not letting this go to waste. You’re too fucking pretty covered in it.”
He works his way lower—licking, sucking, nipping—until he reaches the sticky smear across my lower belly. His tongue swirls, collects every drop, then drags up again to my nipple, circling it until I’m whimpering and half-hard again.
“Fuck, Daddy,” I gasp, fingers threading through his hair.
He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes—lips shiny, pupils blown. “Tastes better on you than it ever did in the cup.”
I laugh, breathless. “You’re feral.”
“Only for you.” He dips back down, lapping one final stripe from hipbone to navel, then kisses the spot like it’s sacred. “Mine.”
“Yours,” I agree, voice soft now, wrecked in a different way.
He crawls back up my body, settling between my thighs again—not pushing for more, just holding me close. His mouth finds mine—slow, deep, tasting like vanilla and cinnamon and us.
When we finally break apart, he rests his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“Boyfriends,” he whispers, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Partners. A whole life together. You still in?”
I smile into the scant space between us, still trembling alittle from everything—orgasm, sugar, him, the quiet certainty settling in my bones. I love that he’s checking in again, and I catch my lower lip between my teeth before I reply.
“All the way in,” I murmur. “Forever doesn’t feel scary anymore. It just feels…right. Like the only thing that makes sense.”
His eyes go soft, almost reverent. He kisses me again—gentle this time, lingering—and pulls me tighter against his chest.
“Good,” he breathes against my hair. “Because I’m never letting this go.”
I nuzzle into his neck, voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Careful, Daddy. Keep talking like that and I might start expecting breakfast in bed every morning. And foot rubs. And you doing the dishes while I supervise from the couch. I’m an expert supervisor.”
He huffs a laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest into mine. “Brat.”
“Yours,” I remind him, nipping lightly at his collarbone.
His hand slides up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. “Damn right.”
I tilt my head back into the cushion so I can see his face—flushed, satisfied, stupidly fond. “You gonna carry me to bed, or do I have to walk on these wobbly legs you ruined?”
