"I know so." His thumb traces my bottom lip, a gesture that's become familiar but still sends shivers down my spine. "You're brilliant, Priscilla. Observant. Empathetic. Beautiful inside and out."
No one has ever spoken to me this way, seen me this way. As if I'm something precious, something valuable. Something worth keeping.
"Woodrow..." I whisper, not even sure what I want to say. Thank you? I'm falling for you? This is crazy but I never want it to end?
He doesn't let me finish, capturing my lips in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens, his tongue teasing mine, his hand sliding into my hair to hold me exactly where he wants me. I melt into him, as I always do, my body recognizing its master even as my mind marvels at the intensity of our connection.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, but there's something else there too. Something softer, almost vulnerable.
"You're so perfect," he murmurs, his hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me effortlessly to straddle his lap. "So fucking perfect for me."
I settle over him, feeling his hardness beneath me, my core already wet and aching for him. "I never believed in this," I confess, rolling my hips against his. "Never thought I'd feel this way about anyone."
"Feel what way?" he presses, his hands gripping my hips, guiding my movements against him.
I bite my lip, suddenly shy despite everything we've done together. "Like I'd die if you stopped touching me. Like nothing matters except being with you. Like…like I'm yours."
Something fierce and possessive flashes in his eyes. In one smooth motion, he lifts me, carrying me to the plush rug in frontof the fireplace. He lays me down gently, the fire warming my skin as he strips off my clothes, then his own.
Naked, he's breathtaking—all hard muscle and battle scars, his cock thick and ready between his powerful thighs. I reach for him, needing him closer, needing him inside me.
He settles between my legs, his weight supported on his forearms as he looks down at me, our faces inches apart. "I want to see your eyes," he says, positioning himself at my entrance. "Want to watch you while I claim you."
I nod, spreading my thighs wider for him, my hands settling on his broad shoulders. He pushes inside slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact. It's different this time—still intense, still claiming, but with a tenderness that makes my throat tight with emotion.
"So perfect," he groans, fully seated within me. "So tight around my cock. Like you were made for me."
"I was," I whisper, the truth of it settling in my bones. "Made for you. Only for you."
He begins to move, long, deep strokes that hit places inside me that make stars burst behind my eyes. But I don't close them. I keep watching him, seeing the pleasure and possession written on his face.
"Mine," he growls, increasing his pace. "Every inch of you, mine."
"Yours," I echo, my nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure builds within me. "All yours, Daddy."
The endearment slips out naturally now, no longer embarrassing or shameful. It's who he is to me—my protector, my lover, my everything.
"Going to fill you up," he promises, his thrusts becoming more forceful. "Going to pump you so full of my seed it takes root. Make you round with my baby."
The words send a thrill through me. I should be terrified at the thought—I'm only twenty-four, I barely know this man—but instead, I find myself nodding, urging him on.
"Yes," I gasp, wrapping my legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "Please, Woodrow. Fill me up."
His eyes darken at my consent, his rhythm faltering for just a moment before he redoubles his efforts, driving into me with renewed purpose. One hand slides between us, finding my clit, circling it with practiced precision.
"Come for me, little girl," he commands, his voice rough with exertion and emotion. "Come on Daddy's cock."
My orgasm hits with unexpected force, my back arching off the rug, a cry tearing from my throat. My inner walls clamp down on him, pulsing, drawing him deeper. He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he comes, his hot release flooding my womb in powerful jets.
We stay joined, panting, our eyes still locked together. In the firelight, with his seed inside me, his weight a comforting pressure above me, I realize the truth I've been avoiding.
I'm falling in love with him.
This man who took me from my life, who claims to be protecting me, who fucks me with such possession it borders on worship—I'm falling for him. Hard and fast and completely.
Should I be worried about Stockholm Syndrome? About the unhealthy power dynamics? About the fact that my entire world has narrowed to this cabin, this man, this all-consuming need?
Probably.
