Page 136 of Hunt Me, Daddy

My inner walls clenched around him and he finally let go, driving into me one last, brutal time before burying himself deep inside me, his entire body tensing as he came with a long, low groan. I felt the hot, hard pulse of his release, and it triggered another, much bigger orgasm in me, a final, shuddering endlesswave of pleasure that left me feeling completely boneless and spent.

He collapsed on top of me, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows. We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us panting, our bodies slick with sweat, the room smelling of sex and us. He carefully withdrew and rolled me over, pulling me into his arms and tucking the blanket around us.

I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart. I felt safe. Protected. Cared for.

Seven years of grief and anger and loneliness had come to this. To this. A dangerous, brilliant, infuriating man who had spanked me, fucked me, and held me together while I fell apart. A man who had invaded my life, my home, my very thoughts, and in doing so had somehow managed to make me feel more myself than I had in years.

“Is that what you needed, little girl?” His voice was a low rumble against my ear.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, my face heating just a little.

He tightened his arm around me, pulling me closer. “You’re safe with me,solnyshko. Always and forever.”

I knew he meant it. I also knew that safe was a relative term when you were dealing with a man like Ivan Morozov, a family like the Morozovs, and a war with a man like Mikhail Orlov.

But for tonight, in this bed, with this man, I was safe.

And for the first time in seven years, that was enough.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up before he did. I slipped out of bed, my body aching in the most delicious ways, pulled on one of his comfy-looking button-up shirts, and padded into the kitchen. I put on a pot of coffee, the scent filling the apartment with a comforting familiarity. I was standing at the window, looking out at the city, when I felt him behind me.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him, his chin resting on my shoulder. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I said, leaning my head back against him.

We stood in comfortable silence for a while, watching the city come to life. The coffeepot gurgled, its rhythmic sound a steady, soothing counterpoint to the quiet hum of the computers in the other room. After a while longer, he moved away and poured two cups of coffee, handing one to me. We drank in silence, the coffee warming me from the inside out. When I was done, he took my cup and set it on the counter, then turned back to me, his pale eyes searching mine. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lips.

“You are so beautiful, little girl,” he said.

“What does it mean?” I asked. My eyes went to the window. “The Daddy thing. What does it actually mean to you?”

He was quiet for a moment, the kind of quiet of a man who already knew and was taking the time to say it correctly.

“It means there’s always someone to take care of you,” he said.

I looked at my coffee mug.

“To make sure you’re safe. That you sleep when you need to sleep and eat actual food and don’t run yourself into the ground because stopping feels like losing.” His hand moved to my jaw, tilting my face up. “It means someone notices when you’re tired before you do. Someone who makes sure you come home.”

I looked at him.

“That’s very comprehensive,” I said.

“Yes.” His mouth curved. “It is.”

“And when I don’t cooperate with the eating or the sleeping or the coming home part?”

“Then I will punish you.”

“The spanking kind of punishment, then.”

“Among other things.”

I made a face that I was categorically not going to describe as a pout. It was a considered expression of mild objection delivered by a rational adult. “Spankings hurt, you know.”

His expression didn’t change. “Yes.”