Page 18 of Dirty Sweet Daddy

"I'm not ashamed of you," he says, voice strained. "I could never be ashamed of you. I'm ashamed of myself. Of what I've done to you."

"And what exactly have you done to me?" I challenge. "Loved me? Made me feel seen for the first time in my life? Given me pleasure I never knew existed?"

He winces. "I've taken advantage⁠—"

"No." I cut him off sharply. "You don't get to rewrite our story that way. I pursued you, remember? I wanted you. I still want you."

"You're so young," he says, the words sounding like they pain him. "You don't know what you're giving up."

"Don't tell me what I know," I say, anger flaring again. "I'm so sick of people—of men—thinking they know what's best for me without bothering to ask what I want. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

That hits home. I see it in the way he flinches slightly.

"I'm listening now," he says quietly. "Tell me what you want."

I move closer, until I'm standing between his knees. Slowly, deliberately, I take his large hands in mine and place them on my waist.

"You," I say simply. "I want you. Every scarred, stubborn, protective inch of you."

His hands tighten reflexively on my waist, but his expression remains guarded. "Kate⁠—"

"You want to know something? Something true?" I interrupt, needing him to hear this. "You don't ruin me, Lucas. You never have. You make me feel safe. Cherished. Loved." My voice breaks slightly on the last word, but I push on. "For the first time in my life, someone sees me. Really sees me. Not as an obligation or an afterthought or a responsibility, but as a person. As a woman."

His eyes are locked on mine now, something desperate and hungry in their depths.

"My father never saw me," I continue, the old pain surfacing briefly. "After mom died, I was just…furniture. Something in his house he had to work around. But you—even before all this, even when I was just James's daughter to you—you looked at me like I mattered. You asked about my day and actually listened to the answer. You remembered things I told you. You made me feel real."

A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. Lucas's thumb gently brushes it away, the gesture so tender it nearly breaks me.

"I'm choosing you," I tell him fiercely. "Every day, I'm choosing you. Not because I don't know better or because I'm confused or because I have daddy issues or because I'm settling. But because you're everything I've ever wanted. Because when you look at me, when you touch me, when you call me your good girl—" his breath catches audibly at that "—I feel complete. I feel like I've found where I belong."

I take his face between my hands, forcing him to look at me, to see the truth in my eyes. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I know what people will say. I know they'll whisper and judge and think the worst. And I don't care. Not if I have you."

His control is visibly crumbling, his hands tightening on my waist, pulling me incrementally closer. "Kate," he says, voice thick with emotion. "You deserve so much more than me."

"I deserve to be happy," I counter. "And you make me happy. You make me feel safe. When you hold me at night, when you whisper in my ear how proud you are of me, when you touch me like I'm something precious…that's everything, Lucas. Everything."

I lean down, my lips hovering just above his. "So stop trying to protect me from yourself. Stop making decisions for me like I'm a child who doesn't know her own heart."

His resolve is breaking; I can see it in the desperate hunger in his eyes, feel it in the trembling of his hands on my body.

"I love you," I whisper against his lips. "I've loved you for years. And if you love me too—if what we've shared this past week means anything to you—then stop running. Stop hiding. Choose me back."

For a moment, the world hangs suspended between us, balanced on the knife-edge of his decision. I've laid my heart bare, left myself completely vulnerable. Now it's his turn to be brave.

twelve

. . .

Lucas

Her words shatter me. Complete demolition. No survivors. I've spent days—weeks—fighting this, convinced I was corrupting her, ruining her, stealing her future. But looking up at Kate now, her face tear-streaked but fierce with determination, I finally understand. She's not my victim. She's not trapped or confused or manipulated. This nineteen-year-old girl is wiser than all my years. She knows exactly what she wants—who she's choosing—and she's doing it anyway. With eyes wide open. The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking loose something that's been stuck in my chest since the first time I touched her. The guilt. The shame. It dissolves, replaced by something warm and certain and inevitable. Something that feels a lot like coming home.

"Say it again," I rasp, hands tightening on her waist, pulling her closer between my knees.

"I love you," she repeats without hesitation, those big hazel eyes locked on mine. "I've loved you for years."

Christ. What did I ever do to deserve this? To deserve her? This perfect, fierce, beautiful girl who sees all my darkness and chooses me anyway.