"Yes," I admit on a broken moan, the fantasy pushing me closer to the edge. "Please, Daddy."
His movements become more deliberate, deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. "Going to keep you so full," he promises. "Keep you dripping with me. Make sure it takes."
The combination of his words, his touch on my clit, and the fullness of him inside me sends me spiraling into orgasm. I cry out his name—his real name, not the title he prefers—as waves of pleasure crash over me.
Gray follows immediately, his release triggering when my body tightens around him. He holds my hips flush against his, ensuring he's buried as deep as possible as he empties himself inside me.
"Beck," he groans—the first time he's used my name during sex instead of "baby girl." The sound of it on his lips as he comes undoes me all over again.
We stay joined as our breathing slows, my forehead resting against his, his arms wrapped securely around my back. The fire crackles beside us, rain continues to drum against the windows, and I feel...safe. Cherished.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm thanking him for the orgasm or for listening to my story. For seeing me.
He strokes my back, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You never have to be alone again."
And as I curl against his chest, his seed warm inside me, I realize with startling clarity that I don't want to be.
eight
. . .
Gray
Ten dayswith Beck in my cabin, and I've decided to let her return to the diner. Not because I want to. Every instinct screams to keep her locked away, safe, where no one else can see her. But she was going stir-crazy, and I need her happy. Need her choosing to stay, not feeling trapped. So I drive her to her shift, park my truck where I can see the entire diner through the front windows, and settle in to watch. Like I did for weeks before she knew I existed. The difference is now she knows I'm here. Now she looks up every few minutes, eyes finding mine through the glass, a small smile curving those soft lips that were wrapped around my cock this morning.
The paperwork to clear her name is moving, but slowly. Bureaucracy is a bitch even when you're calling in favors. Meanwhile, I've tracked three bounty hunters to this area in the past week. Dealt with two already. They won't be a problem anymore.
Beck moves between tables, coffee pot in hand, that little waitress smile in place. She's different now—still watchful, but the haunted look is fading from her eyes. She stands straighter.She doesn't flinch at loud noises. She's sleeping through the night, curled against my chest.
Mine.The word pulses with every beat of my heart.
A blue sedan pulls into the parking lot. Instinct prickles at the base of my skull before I consciously register why. The car is too clean. Too nondescript. A rental. The man who steps out confirms my suspicion—mid-forties, weathered face, scanning the surroundings with the practiced sweep of someone used to hunting. Bounty hunter. Has to be.
I watch him enter the diner, choose a booth with a clear view of both exits. Professional. Dangerous. My hand moves to the knife at my belt, the gun holstered under my jacket.
Through the window, I see Beck approach his table. She doesn't recognize the danger, gives him the same polite smile she gives everyone. Takes his order. Turns away.
His eyes follow her ass as she walks to the kitchen.
Red edges my vision.
I'm out of the truck and across the parking lot in seconds. Enter the diner, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully. Beck looks up, surprise crossing her face at seeing me inside instead of watching from the truck.
"Everything okay?" she asks, balancing plates for another table.
"Fine," I tell her, eyes locked on the bounty hunter who's now studying me with professional interest. "Just need to use the bathroom."
She nods, moving away to deliver her order. I walk past the hunter's booth, deliberately catching his eye. The challenge is clear in my gaze. He doesn't look away. Smart enough to recognize another predator, not smart enough to back down.
I continue to the back hallway, past the bathrooms, to the rear exit. Wait.
Three minutes later, the door pushes open. The hunter steps out, hand already moving to his waistband.
"Looking for someone?" I ask from behind him.
He spins, fast for his age, but not fast enough. My fist connects with his throat before he can draw his weapon.
"Beck Monroe," he chokes out, staggering back. "Where is she?"
