"What if," I start, then hesitate. "What if when the storm ends, this does too? What if it's just the isolation, the forced proximity?"
He stills, his eyes darkening. “Did you not understand what I told you back there? This isn't about the storm. This is about you and me. About what happened the second I walked into your store and saw you. About what's been building for three days."
Three days. Has it only been three days? It feels like I've known him forever, like he's been imprinted on my soul.
"I'm scared of how fast this is happening," I confess. "How intense it is."
"Some things are meant to be intense." His thumb strokes my cheek. "Some people are meant to crash into each other's lives and change everything."
The certainty in his voice is both terrifying and comforting.
"How can you be so sure?" I ask.
"I just am.” His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "I know you're meant to be mine."
Mine.The word echoes in my head, making my pulse race.
"You're so young," he says, a hint of wonder in his voice. "So innocent. Could have anyone you wanted. Why would you want a scarred old bastard like me?"
The vulnerability in his question catches me off guard. For all his dominance, his possessiveness, there's insecurity there too.
"Because you make me feel safe," I answer honestly. "Because when you look at me, I feel beautiful for the first time in my life."
Something shifts in his expression—softens, just for a moment. Then he's kissing me again, but different from before. Not claiming or possessing. Worshipping.
His tongue traces the seam of my lips, coaxing them open. I yield to him, letting him deepen the kiss, teach me what he likes. His groan of approval when I tentatively suck on his tongue makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs against my mouth. "Learning so fast. Going to be perfect for daddy, aren't you?"
Daddy.The word should feel wrong, taboo. Instead, it makes me press closer to him, seeking more contact.
His hand slides under my cardigan, fingers skimming bare skin at my waist. Every touch is electric, sending shivers up my spine. When his thumb brushes the underside of my breast, I gasp into his mouth.
"Sensitive," he observes, eyes darkening with desire. "Every part of you responding to me."
I should be embarrassed by how obvious my reactions are. Should try to maintain some dignity. Instead, I arch into his touch, silently begging for more.
"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," he coaxes, thumb circling closer to my nipple without quite touching. "Need to hear you say it."
I bite my lip, uncertain how to ask for things I've never experienced.
"Don't know how to ask?" His voice drops lower. "That's okay. I'll teach you. Teach you how to beg for what you need."
The thought of begging—of being so desperate I lose all pride—should horrify me. Instead, it makes me press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache building there.
"For now, just tell me if you want me to stop," he says, his eyes serious despite the desire burning in them. "Say the word and I'll back off."
The consideration behind his words—the respect for my boundaries despite his obvious need—makes my decision for me.
"Don't stop," I whisper. "Please."
His smile is pure male satisfaction. "Good girl. So polite. So perfect."
He kisses me again, his cock pushing urgently against my stomach. He takes my mouth like he owns it, tongue commanding mine, setting the pace. My body ignites everywhere he touches—shoulder, waist, hip, thigh. His hands are everywhere, greedy but careful, kneading and stroking, mapping me like he means to memorize my every line.
I reach for the buttons on his shirt, fingers clumsy, desperate, and he lets me, a low growl of approval vibrating through both of us. Each button I undo reveals more of his chest—the hardmuscle, the scars and ink. When my palm lands on warm skin, he shudders.
"That's right," he rumbles. "Touch me, sweetheart. Take what you want."
