Page 243 of Red Scale Daddy
My mind is a whirl of sensation, his body a heat source I can’t escape—not that I want to. His cock presses against me, insistent, and I shift my hips, inviting him in. He doesn’t hesitate, sliding into me with a groan that’s half frustration, half relief.
“Roma,” he cries, his rhythm quickening, each thrust deliberate and deep. His hands roam my body, fingers digging into my skin as if he’s trying to memorize every inch of me.
“I’m yours,” I moan, the words spilling out in a rush. My hands claw at his back, nails digging into his skin as I pull him closer, desperate for the connection. His breath catches, a sound that’s almost a laugh, and he leans down to capture my lips in a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger.
When I come, it’s with a cry that he muffles with his mouth, his grip tightening as though he’s afraid I’ll float away. But he’s not done—far from it. Before I can catch my breath, he’s rolling me onto my stomach, his hands on my hips, pulling me back against him. I brace myself on my elbows, the sheets tangled beneath me, as he thrusts into me again, deeper this time.
His hands slide up my back, fingers pressing into my shoulders as he leans over me, his breath hot against my neck. You’re perfect,” he murmurs, the words raw and unfiltered. His rhythm falters for a moment, and I feel the shift in him, the way his body tightens as he gets closer.
I reach behind me, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. “Dux,” I gasp, my voice breaking as I feel the tension snap, the waves of pleasure crashing over me again.
He buries his face in my neck, his groan muffled against my skin as he follows me over the edge, his body shuddering against mine.
For a moment, we stay like that, his weight on me, his breath hot against my skin. Then he shifts, pulling me into his arms as he rolls onto his back.
I curl into him, my head resting on his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat. His fingers trace patterns on my skin, a lazy, contented touch that makes warmth bloom in my chest.
Dux’s mouth falls open. I kiss him before he can react.
“I love you,” he says when he can speak again.
“I love you, too,” I say between heavy pants.
“How many children should we--”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say, putting a finger to his lips. “After all, we’ve got the rest of our lives together.”
CHAPTER 37
DUX
The first thing I learn about peace is that it is loud in all the wrong places.
Not battlefield loud. Not the scream of hull plating buckling under fire, not the vicious snap of weapons discharge, not the ugly percussion of boots hitting deck while death chases close behind. Peace has smaller noises, sneakier ones, the kind that creep under your skin because nobody trained you to survive them. A kettle whining in the kitchen. A wrench clattering off Roma’s workbench at two in the morning. Dad arguing with a nursery cabinet because he refuses to read assembly instructions on principle. A baby monitor crackling with the soft, indignant snuffle of a child who has apparently inherited everyone’s stubbornness and no one’s patience.
I stand barefoot in the doorway of the workshop with a mug of coffee cooling in my hand, watching Roma try to calibrate a propulsion model while our daughter gnaws on a teething ring in a padded sling against her chest. The morning light spills through the high windows in pale gold sheets, touching the dark coils of Roma’s hair, catching on the tiny metal components scattered across her bench, turning the whole room intosomething half domestic and half dangerous. Which, honestly, is Roma in architectural form.
“You are staring,” she says without looking up.
“I’m admiring.”
“That is staring with better manners.”
“I’ve been working on manners. Thought you’d appreciate the growth.”
Roma adjusts a microspanner between two fingers, eyes narrowed at the hovering schematic above the bench. “Growth would be not leaving your boots in the hall.”
“Those boots have been through a lot.”
“They are not honored veterans. They are footwear.”
“They have stories.”
“They have mud.”
Our daughter, Lyra, spits out the teething ring and makes a furious little sound against Roma’s chest, as if she too has opinions about my boots and intends to file a formal complaint. She is six months old and already rules three adults with the absolute tyranny of someone who cannot sit upright without assistance. She has Roma’s eyes, which means I am doomed twice over, and my unfortunate habit of smiling like trouble has just become a viable option.
Roma glances down at her. “Yes, I know. Your father is impossible.”
