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We wash the dishes together afterward in comfortable, easy silence—a quiet rhythm that has nothing to do with secrecy or forbidden games, and everything to do with two people simply learning how to fit into each other's lives.

That night, with Kayla at her mother's house, Brock invites me to his home.

It's a beautiful house—modern, spacious, filled with warm wood and soft lighting. But it's also clearly a home, with Kayla's drawings on the fridge, her backpack by the door, her sneakers kicked off in the entryway.

Brock pours us each a glass of wine, and we sit together on the couch, the fireplace crackling softly in front of us.

"Thanksgiving is next week," he says, glancing over at me.

"Mmmhmm."

"I want you to spend it with us. Me and Kayla. My parents will be there. My sister and her family."

My heart skips. "Brock⁠—"

"I want you to be part of our family, Megan," he says, turning to face me. "If you're ready."

I set my wine glass down. "I'm ready."

Brock grins, and the sight of it—the pure, unguarded joy on his face—makes my chest ache.

I lean in and kiss him, slow and deliberate, my hand sliding up to cup his jaw. When I pull back, his eyes are dark with heat.

"Take me to bed," I whisper.

He stands immediately, offering me his hand. "Come here."

I take it, and he pulls me to my feet, leading me down the hallway to his bedroom.

The room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. Brock turns on a single lamp, casting a warm, golden light over the bed.

He undresses me slowly, his hands reverent as they slide the burgundy dress down my body. His fingers trace the curves of my hips, my thighs, and I shiver under his touch.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs.

He lays me down on the bed, his body covering mine, and I feel the solid weight of him, the heat of his skin against mine. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, and I arch into him, my hands tangling in his hair.

"Tell me what you want," he says, his lips brushing over my nipple.

"You," I breathe. "I want you, Daddy."

The word comes easily now, natural and intimate in the privacy of his bedroom. His eyes darken, and I see the way it affects him—the way hearing me say it makes his control slip just a little.

"God, Megan," he groans, his hand sliding between my thighs. "You have no idea what it does to me when you call me that."

His fingers find me wet and aching, and I gasp, my hips lifting toward his touch.

"Please," I whisper.

He takes his time, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, his mouth closing over my breast. I'm trembling, my body coiled tight with need, and when he finally pushes two fingers inside me, I cry out, my hands gripping his shoulders.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Let me hear you."

He works me slowly, his thumb pressing against my clit, his fingers curling inside me, and I feel the pleasure building, tightening, until I'm right on the edge.

"Brock," I gasp. "I'm⁠—"

"Come for me, Megan."