"I've got you," he says. Low. Against my hands. "I'm right here."
He settles over me. Forehead against mine. Hands on my face. His body between me and everything outside this room.
"I need you closer."
He understands. He shifts his weight. Chest against mine, skin to skin, the warmth of him everywhere, and I can feel his heart beating against my sternum and my arms are around his neck and this is just two people pressed together trying to make the outside world smaller by making the inside world as close as possible.
His hand slides down my stomach. Between my thighs. Slow, unhurried, following the warmth. Not asking. Knowing.
His fingers find my clit and I'm already wet, which makes sense because I've been lying against him for however long that was with his heart under my ear and his hand in my hair and apparently safety and tenderness and his body next to mine combine into something my body processes as want. I push against his hand and he gives me what I need: slow, steady pressure. Two fingers sliding inside me, curling. His thumbworking my clit in circles while his mouth stays at my ear, low and close.
"You're safe here," he says. "You're in my house. In my bed. No one is getting through that door."
I make a sound.
"I've got you," he says again, and his fingers curl deeper and his thumb presses harder and I'm climbing, tension building in my thighs and my stomach and I'm gripping his shoulders and my face is still pressed against his neck because I can't look at him right now, I can't, if I look at him I'm going to fall apart in a way that has nothing to do with the orgasm that's building and everything to do with the fact that someone is finally, finally holding the thing I've been carrying alone.
I come quietly. A shudder, a gasp, a clenching around his fingers while I press my face against his throat and he holds me through it with his free arm around my back and his voice in my ear sayingthat's it, I've got you, I'm right here.
The aftershock rolls through me and my eyes are wet, which is mortifying, and I say "don't look at me" and he says "I'm not" and he is. Of course he is. He's always looking.
He gives me a minute. His hand still between my thighs, still inside me, not moving. Just there. Then he withdraws slowly, carefully, and settles his weight over me and I feel his cock against my thigh, hard, and I reach down and take him in my hand and guide him in.
He enters me slowly. So slowly. Face to face, his forehead against mine, his eyes open. I keep mine open too even though the instinct is to close them because tonight is not about hiding and the eye contact is almost too much. I can see everything on his face. The want. The fear underneath it. The something else underneath that, the thing I've been circling for weeks without saying its name.
He starts to move. Slow and deep, his hips rolling, every stroke filling me completely. His hands frame my face. His thumbs against my cheekbones. I have never been looked at like this during sex. I have never been looked at like this during anything. Four thousand people watch me every week and not one of them has seen a fraction of what Declan Maguire is seeing right now.
"You're safe," he says again, low, his mouth close to mine. "Nothing is going to happen to you."
I pull him deeper with my legs around him. His cock pushes in and the angle makes me gasp, and I hold on.
"Right here," he says. "I'm right here."
And it comes out.
Not planned. Not chosen. Not performed or tested or decided. Just the fear and the safety and his voice in my ear and his body inside mine and the word rises up from somewhere I didn't know it lived and I say it against his mouth on a breath.
"Daddy."
Everything stops.
His whole body goes still. Every muscle. His hands tighten on my face. His cock is buried deep inside me and he is not moving and I can feel what that word has done to him— physically, immediately, unmistakably. He is harder inside me than he was a second ago. His breathing has changed.
I just called my dad's best friend Daddy during sex,says my brain, which has maintained operations throughout every crisis I've ever experienced and is not about to stop now.I think that means I've genuinely lost my mind. I also think I'm going to say it again.
"Say it again," he says. Not a command. Rawer than a command. His voice is wrecked and his eyes are dark and his hands are holding my face like I'm something he can't believe is real.
I look at him. The silver at his temples under my hands. His dark eyes, stripped of every layer of control I've ever seen on him. The underneath. The way, way underneath.
"Daddy," I say. Quieter this time. Deliberate.
He starts to fuck me again.
This time it’s desperate and close and his forehead is against mine and his hands are on my face and he drives into me deep and slow and I feel every inch of it and I say it again, "Daddy," and he makes a sound against my mouth that I feel in my whole body, a sound I have never heard him make, low and broken and absolutely undone.
His thumb finds my clit between us. Pressing, circling, while his cock fills me in long deep strokes. The combination builds fast, too fast, and I'm climbing again with my hands in his hair and my legs locked around him and his face so close I can feel his breath on my lips.
"I've got you," he says, and his voice cracks on it, actually cracks, and I say "Daddy" one more time because I can feel what it does to him, I can feel his cock throb inside me when I say it, and that tips me over the edge.
