Page 30 of Puck Me Daddy

"I've got you, baby girl," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Let's try something new today."

I nodded, my nerves melting away under his reassuring touch. He guided me forward, his voice low and soothing as he instructed me on a new move. I listened, my body relaxing into his as we glided across the ice.

Halfway around the rink, Demian paused, turning to face me. He pressed his forehead gently to mine, his eyes locked onto mine.

"I am so proud of you, Tilly," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Your bravery, your strength . . . Every single day, it astounds me."

Tears welled up in my eyes, his words wrapping around my heart. I laughed, blinking away the tears. "Demian, I—"

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a gloved finger to my lips. "Just feel, baby girl. Feel my love. Feel your strength."

I nodded, my vision blurring as tears spilled over. He was right. I could feel it all—his love, my strength, our bond.

As the night wore on, we found our rhythm, our laughter echoing through the rink. Demian's touches grew more playful, his hands lingering on my curves, his whispers hot against my neck. Each graze of his fingers, each heated look, sent a jolt of desire coursing through me. By the time we stepped off the ice, my body was humming with need.

“Let’s go home, Daddy,” I said. “I need to be with you.”

Demian pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his arms tightening around me. "I need to be with you too, darling. Forever.”

Inever imagined mylife could change so completely in such a short time, yet here I was—living in a penthouse that felt more like home than anywhere I’d ever been, sharing my mornings with a man whose discipline and devotion made me feel safe enough to grow. My old world of hard-hitting headlines had given way to an existence where I could finally write the truth about myself, even if it was under an anonymous byline.The strength in vulnerability, the freedom in trust—these were lessons I’d only dreamed of learning.

In the hush of late evenings, I wrote my age-play column at the kitchen island while Demian practiced his stickhandling drills on the balcony, the two of us separated only by glass and a deep, mutual love for what we did. Sometimes I would pause and watch him, a perfect blend of power and grace. At times, he’d come inside, tapping his stick on the tile floor just to remind me of the authority I both craved and respected. And yes, there were still moments when I deliberately broke a small rule just to feel that firm, guiding presence. But now I understood: it was less about rebellion and more about reaffirming the intimacy that had changed my life.

Friends and colleagues sometimes questioned my choice to step away from traditional journalism, to guard my identity behind a pseudonym. Yet every response I offered to a struggling Little, every heartfelt comment from a reader who felt “seen” for the first time, confirmed that I was exactly where I needed to be. I was helping people, but I was also helping myself—untangling old fears, shedding old skins, finding strength I never knew I had.

And Demian was there through it all, the unwavering constant in my new world. With each day that passed, we only grew more certain of how deeply our lives were entwined. He’d knead my shoulders when I was hunched over the laptop too long, make me giggle by tickling my sides if I slipped into stubbornness, and remind me with a single stern look when it was time to put my things away and listen to him. The dance of power and affection never felt forced or contrived; it felt natural, grounding us both.

We weren’t perfect, but perfection had never been our goal. We wanted only to be honest: with ourselves, with each other, and with the small corner of the world following my words from behind a screen. And so we pressed forward—loving, learning,laughing. Every day, we discovered fresh ways to show our devotion, whether on the rink at dawn, in playful spankings at breakfast, or in the hushed late-night conversations that lulled me to sleep in his arms.

If life was a story, this was far from the end—more like the start of a new volume. There would be new challenges to face, fresh boundaries to push, and more secrets I might choose to share online. And Demian would be there, strong and kind, ready to guide me and let me guide him when he needed it most. I looked at Captain Frosty perched on the shelf, and at the confident man I called Daddy, and realized, with both a little thrill and a calm certainty, that this—this nurturing, liberating, beautifully unorthodox life—was exactly where I belonged.