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"Brock," she breathes.

"I've spent four days wanting to do this," I growl against her lips.

"I know," she whispers, pulling me back down.

We don't make it past the living room sofa for the first hour.

I wake her slowly on Saturday morning, my mouth on her throat, my hand sliding between her thighs.

"Brock," she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

"I want you," I say against her skin.

"Yes."

I move down her body, kissing and tasting, my hands spreading her thighs wide. She's already wet, already arching into my touch.

"Please," she gasps.

"Please what?"

"Your mouth. I want your mouth on me."

"Good girl."

I take my time, licking and sucking until she's trembling and crying out my name. When I move back up her body, she reaches for me, her hands pulling at my shoulders.

"Inside me," she says. "Now."

I reach for the nightstand, roll on a condom, and push inside her in one slow, deep stroke.

We both groan.

"Look at me," I say.

She meets my eyes, her pupils blown wide, her lips parted.

"You're mine," I tell her.

"Yes."

I start to move, slow and deliberate, watching her face as I take her apart. When she comes, she clenches around me, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I follow a moment later, her name on my lips.

Afterward, we lie tangled together, her head on my chest, my hand stroking up and down her spine.

She shifts against me, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across my ribs. Then she tilts her head up, her brown eyes soft and vulnerable.

"Daddy," she whispers.

The word hits me like a physical blow. Hearing it from her lips—not in the heat of sex, but in this quiet, tender moment—makes my chest tighten.

I cup her face, my thumb brushing over her cheek. "Say it again."

"Daddy." Her voice is steadier this time, more confident.

I kiss her forehead, then her mouth, slow and deep. "You have no idea what that does to me."

She smiles against my lips. "I think I'm starting to."