Page 76 of Vance

She tenses, scooting across the mattress. “Vance… No…”

I roughly grab her hips, pulling her back, my cock a demanding pressure against her virgin hole. “Relax, sweetheart,” I murmur. “Daddy doesn’t want to hurt you. I promise. But you need a punishment you’ll remember so you don’t act like this again. Don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she answers timidly.

I push forward; the head of my cock breaches her ring of muscle. The tight, clenching heat of her ass is a sensation so intense, it’s almost painful. I groan, my head falling back, my eyes rolling shut.

“God… you’re so fucking tight,” I grit out, my voice strained. “Now open up, and let me all the way in, so I can fuck some obedience into you.”

She whimpers, a small, helpless sound that goes straight to my head. I push deeper, burying myself in her until my balls rest against her slick, swollen folds, the tight, clenching heat threatening to undo me completely.

I start slow, my strokes gentle and shallow, giving her virgin ass time to adjust. But my need is too strong, the desire too overwhelming. I can’t hold back. My thrusts become longer, deeper, and more demanding until I’m giving her exactly what she needs.

“Mine,” I snarl. “You’re mine, Sophia. This ass… Your pussy… Every fucking inch of you… It’s all mine.” I grip her hips tighter, my fingers digging into her soft flesh, watching her body struggle to accommodate my size. She’s so fucking tight around my cock that she has my vision blurring at the edges.

“Fuck, Sophia,” I growl, my jaw tight with restraint. “You’re strangling my cock, sweetheart.”

She whimpers beneath me, her face pressed into the mattress, her hands fisting the sheets. “I… I can’t… It’s too much…”

I thrust forward, sinking deeper, my thighs shaking. I’m not going to last. I know it with every instinct in my body. “It’s not too much,” I grunt, pulling back slowly, feeling her drag against me as she cries out, a broken, desperate sound. “You can take it. You will take it. Because you need to learn, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she whimpers. “I need it.

I slam into her, and she screams into the bed, her back arching. My strokes become erratic, losing their rhythm as my pleasure builds to a breaking point. “You’re going to take every inch, take my cum deep in this tight little ass, and you’re going to remember who owns you. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she sobs, pushing back to meet me, her body rigid beneath mine. “Please…”

Her desperate little beg is my undoing. My hips stutter, my grip bruising as I haul her onto my cock one final time, burying myself as deep as I can go. She screams, her ass seizing around my cock, as it pushes her over the edge. “Fuuuuck,” I roar, exploding inside her.

My cock pulses in my hand; thick, white ropes of cum shooting from the tip, splattering against the tile, my stomach, and raining down my thighs. It’s a violent, shattering release, a physical manifestation of the rage, longing, and the possessive love that consumes me.

I lean against the wall, my body trembling and breaths coming in ragged gasps. The water washes away the evidence of my release, but it doesn’t wash away the burning, all-consuming need to find Sophia. To bring her home. I rest my forehead on the cool tile, my eyes closed, with the image of her round with my child flitting through my thoughts.

I will find her. I swear it. And when I do, she will never, ever leave me again.

There’s something painfully normal about making dinner with Connor. We move around each other without thinking, falling into an easy rhythm that feels strangely familiar. I stand beside him, chopping vegetables for the salad, my knife tapping steadily against the cutting board, as he stirs a pan of risotto on the stovetop. Steam curls from it, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of garlic and parmesan, while classical music plays softly from the speaker on the counter.

“Pass me the white wine?” Connor asks, not looking up from the pot, his wrist moving in steady circles. I reach for the bottle and hand it to him, my fingers brushing his as he takes it. He adds the wine to the risotto, the liquid sizzling when it hits the hot pan. After stirring it in, he stretches his arms toward the ceiling, and his spine cracks audibly in three distinct places. He groans, a low sound of relief that vibrates through his chest as he rolls his shoulders.

“Oh, God,” he exhales, his eyes closing. “That kink in my neck has been fighting me for two days.”

I stop cutting, place the knife on the cutting board, and turn to face him before asking, “Is that from sleeping on the couch?”

When I arrived, Connor chivalrously gave me the only private space in his apartment—his bedroom—without hesitation or complaint. He has taken the couch for himself, night after night, without once considering my requests to swap.

But I’ve seen him each morning, and I know how uncomfortable he must be. His long frame is far too big for the narrow cushions. More than once, I’ve found him folded into some impossible position that looks less like sleep and more like yoga. And now he’s paying for it with a stiff neck.

He drops his arms, rolling his neck again, the muscles in his shoulders shifting beneath his T-shirt. “It’s fine,” he insists, waving off my concern. “Really. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m starting to feel like the houseguest who won’t leave.” There’s a jovialness to my tone, but the sentiment is sincere. I’ve been here for just under three weeks, and with every passing day I’m finding my imposition a little harder to ignore.

This is his home. His space. And after a decade without speaking, I inserted myself into it in the middle of the night and never left. He hasn’t complained once, but that almost makes me feel worse. The more gracious he is, the more I worry about how much I’m taking advantage of him.

“Nonsense.” Connor gives me an incredulous look, as though the idea is ridiculous. He turns back to the stove, giving the risotto another slow stir before adding, “Besides, if I wanted you gone, I’d tell you.”

I watch him for a moment, searching his face for some indication that he’s saying it to make me feel better. But I don’t find one. He seems completely sincere.

“At least let me give you back your bed. I can sleep on the couch. I’m the one imposing here, I’m the one who⁠—”