“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, stroking my hair, my face, my shaking hands.
I am boneless, emptied out, but I want more. I want all of him.
“Will you fuck me?” I ask, voice small and pleading. “Please?”
He cups my cheek, thumb gentle on my mouth. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want you,” I say. “I want everything.”
He shucks off his boxers. He stops, looks at me. “Nothing stopping us now, baby girl,” and then he’s pressing into me, slow, raw, and savoring every deliberate push inside.
He’s bigger than I remember, or maybe it just feels that way now, when I’m open and raw and aching for him. He slides in, inch by inch, watching my face for pain. There isn’t any. It's just a pressure, a fullness, a sense of finally being filled by something good.
“God, you feel so perfect,” he groans.
He sets a rhythm, slow at first, grinding in deep, making me feel every inch of him. His hand circles my throat … not tight, just a warning, a promise that he could, if I wanted. I do. I want him to take everything, to leave me marked and claimed.
He fucks me harder, the bedframe bangs against the wall, and with each thrust, I unravel a little more. I am gone, I am his. I come again, a tidal surge that leaves me panting and clutching at his back, my nails dig half-moons into his skin.
He comes with a shout, body rigid, then slumps onto me, panting. For a long time, we are just a heap of sweat and skin and ragged breath.
He rolls off, pulls me into the curve of his body, arms tight around me.
“Did I hurt you?” his voice hoarse and low.
I shake my head. “No. Never. I want it. I want you, I need you, Father.”
He kisses the top of my head, then my eyelids, then my lips.
After a while, the tremors subside. We lie tangled together, blankets kicked to the floor, the room close and humid, filled with sex and smoke and something sweet I can’t name.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, drifting, half-dreaming, but at some point, I prop my chin on his chest and look at him.
“I’ve never called anyone ‘Father’ like that before,” I say. “It just…seems right, seems to fit.”
He smiles, brushes hair from my forehead. “I liked it.”
I study his face, memorize the lines, the way his eyes crinkle when he’s happy. “It doesn’t weird you out?”
His answer is a kiss, deep and sure. “You make me want to protect you. You make me want to be what you need. And if that means being your own personalFather, or anything else, I’ll do it.”
My heart twists, then settles.
For the first time, I understand what it means to be loved not for what you are, but for all the things you think you lack.
I trace shapes on his chest, lazy. “I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” he says, “I’m certain. I guarantee it.”
We talk, low and soft, about the future. College, my mother, what it would mean to start over somewhere new. The world outside the cabin feels like it belongs to someone else. Here, in this room, nothing can touch us.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy. I burrow into him, let his arms wrap me up.
“You’re safe,” he whispers, stroking my hair.
I believe him. For the first time, I really do.
The last thing I see before I drift off is the pattern of moonlight on the wall—silver squares shifting as the branches outside sway. The last thing I feel is his hand on my back, steady and warm, anchoring me to the world.
