r. @calebx1as - Tumblr Blog

5,915 words * ˛ ✦ ･ She'd given him permission eight months ago when she'd shown up on his doorstep with a duffel bag and tears in her eyes, when she'd asked if the offer still stood, if he still wanted to take care of her. "God," she whimpers, her hips bucking back, seeking more. "No." He works his fingers deep, scissoring them, finding that spot that makes her legs shake and her vocabulary reduce to single syllables. "There's no God here, baby. It's just me, just daddy."

WARNINGS: third person pov (fem!reader), alternate universe – modern, age gap, size difference, power imbalance — sugar daddy dynamics, pseudo-incest, brat taming, porn with no plot, overstimulation / edging, copious usage of "baby", hair-pulling + face-slapping + pussy slapping + spanking, marking, creampie / breeding kink, daddy kink, threat of asphyxiation.

Caleb's fingers tighten around the glass of Macallan, the ice clinking against the crystal as he watches her from across the penthouse living room.

She's sprawled on his leather sofa, legs kicked up, phone in hand, looking entirely too comfortable in the silk robe he'd bought her last week. The robe that costs more than most people's monthly rent. She hasn't even tied it properly, and the fabric slips open to reveal the curve of her thigh, the lace edge of panties his card had also paid for.

His jaw tightens.

The view from the seventy-third floor stretches out behind her, lights glittering with the skyscrapers and the nearby river's black mirror surface, but Caleb barely registers it.

His attention—his entire focus—narrows to the girl on his furniture, the girl who's become the centre of his gravity over the past eight months. Forty-three years old, a self-made aviation mogul who built his empire from one rickety cargo plane and sheer stubbornness, and he's reduced to this: hard and aching at the sight of small bare feet with painted toes, at the casual disrespect in the tilt of her head and her disregard of his presence.

He should be reviewing the quarterly reports for Skyhaven.

He should be on a conference call with the board about the new hangar in Minneapolis.

He should be anywhere but here, tethered by a chain of want that he personally forged link by link, starting with a promise to a dying woman and ending with this—this arrangement that makes him feel simultaneously powerful and utterly powerless.

"You missed our dinner reservation," Caleb says, his voice deceptively calm. He'd spent forty-five minutes in traffic, another twenty waiting at the restaurant before the maître d' had finally taken the hint and stopped asking if he'd like another whisky while he waited. "Again." The restaurant—EVER—had taken months to secure. He'd pulled strings, called in favours, made donations to charitable foundations he didn't give a shit about, all for the slightly breathless noise she'd made when he'd told her where they were going. All for the way her eyes had lit up, the way she'd said "Really?" in that soft voice that cut through every defence he had.

She doesn't look up from her phone. "Yeah, well, I got busy."

"Busy." The word lands like a stone in the quiet space. The city's glare spills through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the interior with its LED lights. Caleb sets his glass down on the marble bar with a deliberate click. "Busy doing what, exactly?"

"Just shit." She finally glances at him, and there's that spark in her eyes—the one that makes his blood pressure spike and his cock stir simultaneously. Defiance wrapped in innocence, brattiness disguised as nonchalance. "Chill out, old man. It's just a stupid restaurant."

His vision narrows.

Old man.

The curse word doesn't bother him. He's heard worse flying cargo planes through storm systems, listening to rookie pilots panic and snarl over comms. But the disrespect—the deliberate, calculated nature of it—while wearing his gifts, living in his penthouse, spending his money … that makes something dark and possessive rear its head.

It makes him remember that he's twenty-two years older, that he watched her graduate high school, that he held her hand at Josephine's funeral while she sobbed into his shoulder, and somehow, impossibly, she'd ended up here.

Under his control.

"Come here." The command is quiet, but she hears it. She always hears it, even when she pretends not to. Even when she pushes every boundary just to see if he'll still enforce them.

"Make me," she says, and her lips curl into that smirk that drives him fucking insane. That smirk that says she knows exactly what she's doing, that she's calculated every move in this chess game they're playing where the prize is his self-control and her submission.

Caleb moves before he's consciously decided to, crossing the space between them in three long strides. He towers over her—he's always towered over her, this girl half his age who somehow consumes every thought he has. She tips her head back to look at him, and even now, even when he's ready to put her over his knee, she's beautiful.

Not that he'll tell her that. Not yet. Not until she's begging, not until the brat has been tamed into something soft and pliant and his.

"Get up."

"Or what?" She stretches, deliberately, the robe falling open further. He catches a glimpse of bare stomach, and his control frays another inch. "You'll ground me? Take away my allowance? Oh, wait—"

He grabs her wrist, yanking her to her feet. Her phone clatters to the floor. She stumbles against him, all soft weight and sharp attitude, and his free hand finds her jaw. Not a caress, but a grip that reminds her that for all her bluster, for all her youth and fire, he's the one with the power here. The money. The experience. The control.

"Watch your mouth," he growls.

"Fuck you," she whispers, and he sees it, the way her pupils dilate.

She wants this. She's been pushing for it all evening, maybe all week. Missed dinners, sarcastic texts, that little jab about his age last night that had him jerking off in the shower like a teenager, fist tight around his cock while he imagined all the ways he'd make her pay for it.

"That's it." His voice drops lower, taking on the timber that makes his pilots snap to attention. "You've been asking for this."

He drags her to the bedroom—not roughly, but without giving her a choice. She could fight him; she's small but she's fierce when she wants to be. But she doesn't. Her feet move where he directs, her body pliant under his hands even as her mouth keeps running. Even as she maintains the fiction that she's still in control of this situation.

"Caleb, seriously, I was just—"

"Quiet." He pushes her through the doorway, then kicks it shut behind them. The sound echoes in the master suite, a sharp punctuation to the evening's transgressions. "Take off the robe."

She crosses her arms. "Make me."

He almost smiles. There it is, that challenge that makes his dick ache. He owns three private charter companies, has more money than he could spend in three lifetimes, and this twenty-one-year-old brat has him harder than he's been in years just from a few sharp words.

Just from the way she tilts her chin up, the way her eyes dare him to cross lines he drew himself, boundaries he established and then watched her dance across with a smirk.

"Fine." Caleb closes the distance between them, crowding her back against the wall. His hands find the belt of the robe, yanking it open with a sharp tug that leaves her gasping. The silk slides off her shoulders, pooling at her feet, and then she's just in the lingerie he'd selected. Black lace bra, matching panties, garter belt holding up sheer stockings. All his. All bought with his money, worn for his pleasure—even when she's being a goddamn menace. Even when she's testing every limit he'd carefully constructed to keep this thing between them from consuming them both.

"Better?" she asks, her voice breathless now, the bravado edged with something else. Something that sounds like anticipation. Like surrender waiting to happen.

"Not even close." His fingers trace the strap of her bra, down the cup, watching goosebumps rise on her skin. "You think you can disrespect me all week and there won't be consequences? You think you can throw my gifts in my face, miss reservations I spent months securing, call me 'old man' while wearing hundreds of fucking dollars of silk I put on your back, and I'll just ... what? Forgive you?"

"I think you're all talk." She lifts her chin, but he can see the pulse hammering in her throat. "I think you'll just lecture me and then fuck me vanilla missionary like you always do when you're 'disappointed.'"

The word drips with sarcasm, and his hand moves before he can stop it—not that Caleb really wants to. The crack of his palm against her cheek rings out, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to sting. Her head snaps to the side, and when she turns back, her eyes are wide, her breath coming fast; her hand flies to her cheek, fingertips tracing the warmth that blooms right there.

"Vanilla?" Caleb's voice is a low rasp that vibrates through his chest.

He grabs a fistful of her hair, not gently, not like he's been doing for months since he first gave in and touched her. He wraps it around his hand, pulls her head back until her throat is exposed, until she's up on her toes and breathing through her mouth, her lips parted in a way that makes him want to shove something between them.

Preferably his dick.

"Aha, you think that's what you're getting tonight, baby?"

"Don't call me—"

Caleb cuts her off with his mouth, kissing her hard and deep, swallowing whatever protest she was about to make. She tastes like the expensive wine he'd stocked the fridge with, like the privilege of youth and rebellion. His tongue sweeps past her lips, taking, claiming, owning every gasp and moan while his hand in her hair keeps her exactly where he wants her. She moans into it, her hands coming up to his chest—not pushing him away, but clutching at his shirt, her small fingers twisting in the expensive cotton.

When he pulls back, they're both breathing hard. "You're going to learn," he murmurs, his thumb tracing her heated cheek. "Right now."

He pulls her away from the wall, steering her toward the bed with his grip in her hair.

She stumbles, off-balance, and he doesn't let her regain it; keeps her teetering on the edge of control, just the way he likes her. When they reach the edge of the king-sized bed, the one they'd picked out together last month, after she'd complained his old one was too firm— after they'd tested three different showrooms and he'd watched her bounce on each mattress like a kid, her laughter echoing through the empty store—he releases her hair only to push her down, facedown, across the mattress.

She lands with a soft oof, her ass presented perfectly in those lace panties. The garter belt frames everything, the stockings still smooth and unwrinkled. His cock throbs against his zipper, demanding release, but he ignores it for now.

"Wait," she starts to protest, but he's already moving.

The first slap lands on her right ass cheek, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. She jerks forward with a yelp that morphs into something else when his hand comes down again, left cheek this time. He's not holding back, not like the playful taps he'd given her before when she'd asked, giggling, if he'd ever spanked anyone, if he'd ever wanted to.

This is the reality of what she signed up for when she moved into his penthouse and let him pay her tuition and bought her first designer bag with his black card.

"C-Caleb!" Her voice is high, shocked, but beneath it he can hear the pleasure.

"Quiet." Another slap, then another, his hand falling in a steady rhythm that lands against her ass beneath the lace. The fabric offers no protection; if anything, it makes each blow sharper, the heat trapped against her skin. She squirms, tries to shift away, but he puts a hand on the small of her back, holding her down with ease.

"Fuck, fuck—"

He slaps harder, the sound of flesh on flesh echoing off the high ceilings. "Language."

"O-Oh my—fuck!"

"Language." The repeat of the word is a whip-crack, and he punctuates it with another smack, this one low, catching the crease where her thigh meets her ass. She whimpers, her body going lax against the mattress, the fight leaking out of her like air from a punctured tire. He can see the wet spot spreading on her panties, darkening the lace.

She hates it when he corrects her. She does it anyway. It's a game, a vicious cycle they both thrive on, both need like oxygen.

"You missed dinner," he says, his voice cold and level even as his palm burns. "You disrespected me in my own home. You used that filthy mouth."

"I'll d-do it again," she gasps, and he can hear the tears in her voice now, the pleasure-pain that makes her tremble like a leaf in a hurricane. "I'll fucking do it again—"

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her panties and yanks them down, tearing the delicate lace without a second thought. She cries out, but it dissolves into a moan when his fingers find her soaked. Hot and slick, pulsing around his touch when he pushes two inside without warning, without permission, because he doesn't need it.

She'd given him permission eight months ago when she'd shown up on his doorstep with a duffel bag and tears in her eyes, when she'd asked if the offer still stood, if he still wanted to take care of her.

"God," she whimpers, her hips bucking back, seeking more.

"No." He works his fingers deep, scissoring them, finding that spot that makes her legs shake and her vocabulary reduce to single syllables. "There's no God here, baby. It's just me, just daddy."

She's tight around his fingers, her inner walls clenching as he pumps them in and out with a rhythm that matches the beat of his own heart. With his other hand, he pulls her ass cheek aside, exposing her fully to his gaze. The sight makes his mouth water, makes his cock ache with a need that's bordering on pain.

But he's not done yet. Not nearly.

"You're soaking," he murmurs, his thumb tracing circles around her clit without giving her the pressure she needs. The pressure she's been silently begging for with every twitch of her hips. "All this because I slapped you? Because I put you in your place?"

"Fuck y-you—"

He pulls his fingers out, and she makes a sound of protest that dies in her throat when he slaps her pussy. Not hard, but enough. Enough to sting, to shock, to make her whole body jolt and fresh wetness coat his fingers.

Her hands fist in the thousand-dollar duvet cover. "Caleb, please—"

"Please what?" He slaps again, watching her lips swell, watching them glisten with her arousal. "Please stop? Please more? Use your words, baby. I know you have them. I know that smart mouth can form complete sentences when it wants to."

She's panting now, her face turned to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress. He can see her eyes squeezed shut, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. The mark on her cheek from earlier is still visible, and he leans down, pressing his mouth to her skin, sucking a bruise against her jawline. She moans, the sound vibrating against his lips, her hips making a small, involuntary circle.

"P-Please," she whispers, and it's the first honest word she's said all night.

"Please what?"

"Please let m-me cum, daddy."

Caleb laughs against her skin, the sound dark and cruel, edged with all the frustration she's caused him. "You think you deserve to come? After the week you've had? After the week you've made me have? After missing dinner, running up the credit card on shoes you don't need, sending me that picture of you at that club with your friends, the one where you're practically falling out of that dress—" His fingers slide back inside her, curling upward unerringly, and her back arches clean off the bed. He's merciless now, fucking her with his hand, his thumb finally pressing against her clit in tight, hard circles that make her writhe.

Her noises get louder, less controlled, more desperate. He's building her up fast, pushing her right to the edge, feeling the way her muscles tense, the way her breathing changes.

"You're close," he observes, feeling the flutter of her muscles, the way she gets impossibly tighter around his fingers. "I can feel it. You're about to fall apart, aren't you? You're about to make a mess all over my hand."

"Yes, y-yes—"

He stops. Just ... stops. His fingers still inside her, his thumb lifting away, leaving her empty and desperate. She screams into the mattress, a frustrated, animal sound that's music to his ears.

"Fucking hell, Caleb, you can't—"

"I can." He pulls his fingers out slowly, deliberately, brings them to his mouth, and sucks them clean while she watches over her shoulder with glassy, wounded eyes. "I can do whatever I want. That's the arrangement, isn't it? I pay, you obey. I provide, you behave." He says it like a mantra, like reminding himself as much as he does to her.

"Bullshit," she whispers, but there's no heat in it. Just desperate, clawing need. "The arrangement is you pay and I let you fuck me."

He grabs her hips, flipping her over onto her back with an ease that speaks to the difference in their sizes, their strengths. She bounces on the mattress, her legs splaying open involuntarily, her body knowing what it needs even as her mouth continues to defy, to snark, to brat out. Her bra is still on, though it's askew, one nipple peeking over the lace like a secret. Her thighs are trembling. Her pussy is visibly tender and swollen and so fucking wet it's dripping onto his thousand-thread-count sheets, making a mess he'll smile at every time he does laundry.

"The arrangement," he says, his voice low as he crawls onto the bed, settling between her legs like he's coming home, "is that I own you. Every inch. Every hole. Every fucking thought."

He leans down, his breath hot against her ear. "And you're about to remember that."

Caleb doesn't give her warning before he slides down and his mouth is suddenly on her. No teasing laps, no gentle buildup—just his tongue flat against her cunt, licking from her hole to her clit in one long, heavy stroke that has her hands flying to his hair. She pulls, hard enough to sting, but he's had worse from turbulence, from pulling G-forces that made his vision go grey at the edges.

He wraps his arms around her thighs, holding her open, and feasts.

She tastes like sex and sin and everything he's not supposed to want but craves anyway; like the strawberries she'd eaten earlier, like the particular flavour of her own cunt that's become his favourite thing in the world. He sucks her clit between his lips, flicking it with his tongue, feeling her thighs shake against his shoulders. When he pushes two fingers back inside her, she bucks so hard he has to pin her hips down with his forearm, has to use his weight to keep her from launching off the bed.

"N-No, oh! Fuck—"

"Language," he murmurs against her pussy, the warning coming as an afterthought when compared to how the vibration of his voice is making her sob.

Caleb curls his fingers, finding her g-spot again, and sucks harder, adding his teeth just barely, just enough. She's babbling now, incoherent streams of yes and please and fuck mixed with his name, with Daddy, with nonsense syllables that mean the same thing. He could listen to it for hours. He plans to. He brings her to the edge again and again, backing off just before she crashes over.

Each time, her curses get more creative, more breathless, and each time, his cock gets harder, his control thinner. She's soaked his face, his chin, his hand. The sheets are ruined, dark with her wetness. He doesn't care. He'll buy new ones. He'll buy a hundred new sets.

"Daddy, I-I can't," her voice breaks, tears thick in it. "I can't take it, p-please, I'll be good—"

"You can." Caleb kisses her inner thigh, bites down hard enough to leave a mark that'll bloom by morning, that'll have her remembering every time she moves. "You will. Because I said so, and what I say goes."

He adds a third finger, stretching her, fucking her hard and deep while his mouth works her clit relentlessly.

She's so close he can taste it, feel it in the way her muscles lock up, the way she holds her breath like she's drowning. This time, when he feels her start to tip over, he doesn't stop. He pushes harder, faster, his tongue a relentless point of pressure until she screams.

The orgasm rips through her, violent and beautiful. Her back arches clear off the bed, her thighs clamping around his head like a vise, her hands yanking his hair so hard that it makes his eyes water. He doesn't let up, doesn't give her a moment to breathe. He keeps licking, keeps pumping his fingers through the clenching, through the gush of wetness that coats his hand, the aftershocks that make her twitch and whimper. He drags it out until she's crying, actual tears tracking down her face, her words devolved into pure, animal nonsense.

"No, no, no—s'too m-much, daddy, s'too much!" She's pushing at his head now, weak and uncoordinated, her strength already gone.

He finally pulls back, his face smeared with her slick, his fingers still buried deep.

She's a mess. A gorgeous, wrecked mess. Her eyes are glazed, her makeup smudged, her cheeks smeared with too much tears, sweat, and probably a hint of drool. Ah, he wants to mark her everywhere.

"That's one, baby," he coos, and it makes her whimper, already oversensitive, already overwhelmed.

Caleb stands, unbuckling his belt with steady hands. Her eyes track the motion, fixated on his hands as he pulls it free of the loops. The leather slides out with a soft hiss that sounds like a threat. He doubles it over, slaps it against his palm. The crack makes her flinch, makes her thighs press together with an audible squelch.

"You think you're done, hm?" he asks, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them hang from his hips. "You think that little orgasm is enough to make up for the week you've put me through?"

She shakes her head, silent for the first time all night, her mouth is probably too tired to form the sharp words she'd been using as weapons.

"Good." He pushes his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. It's hard enough to ache, the head wet with precum, the vein along the side throbbing with his heartbeat. He wraps his hand around it, strokes once, twice, watching her watch him, watching her eyes fix on the way his hand moves. "Because I'm not even close to finished with you."

Caleb crawls back onto the bed, kneeling between her legs. He grabs her ankles, pulling her down the mattress until her ass is at the edge, her legs draped over his thighs. He palms her ass, feels the heat radiating from the skin he spanked raw, the skin that will be bruised tomorrow. She hisses but doesn't pull away. Instead, her hips make a small, involuntary roll upward, seeking friction, seeking him.

"P-Please," she whispers, and it's the sound he lives for. The sound of the brat breaking.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

He spanks her again, just once, right on her sore cheek. The sound is sharp, and her yelp is sharper. "Try again."

"Please fuck me, sir."

Better. But not quite. Not enough. Still a brat somehow, even if she already broke earlier.

He leans down, his cock hot against her stomach, his mouth at her ear. "That's not what you call me. You know what you call me. You've known for months, even if you've been too stubborn to say it when you're not cumming, when your pretty brain is still thinking straight."

Caleb has never asked for it outright, until now. But he's paid for this apartment, her tuition, her wardrobe. He's paid for her fucking manicures, for the appointments at the salon he schedules for her, for the cars she doesn't even appreciate. He's earned it. He's earned every goddamn thing.

She's silent for a long moment, her breathing ragged. Then, so quietly he almost misses it, a whisper that sounds earnest, almost genuine now that she's thinking clearly, saying it with all her little heart, "p-please fuck me, daddy."

The word hits him like a drug injected straight into his bloodstream. His cock jerks against her skin, and he has to close his eyes, has to count backwards from ten to keep from coming just from hearing it..

"Again." The command is steel.

"Please, d-daddy." Louder now. Her hips lift, rubbing against him, the wetness of her soaking his shaft. "Please, I'm so empty, I need—"

He slams into her.

No warning, no slow slide, no gentle preparation—just one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt in one smooth, hard motion. She screams, her body bowing, her nails clawing at his chest hard enough to leave red tracks. She's so fucking tight after that orgasm, squeezing him like a fist, like she's trying to force him out and keep him inside at the same time, and it's all he can do not to lose it right there.

Caleb holds still, buried deep, feeling her flutter around him, adjusting to his size, to the intrusion, to the claiming. "Fuck," he grits out, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth hurt. "Fuck, baby, you're so tight."

She's babbling again, his name mixed with please and daddy and yes and a stream of nonsense that makes no sense and perfect sense at the same time. He pulls back, almost all the way out, the wetness making the slide obscene, then drives back in. The rhythm he sets is punishing, hard deep strokes that rock the frame against the wall with a steady thump-thump-thump that echoes through the penthouse. Each thrust forces a sound from her, rough and raw. He grabs her hair, wrapping it around his fist again, pulling her head back so he can see her face, so he can watch the way she goes brainless happen in real time.

Her eyes are barely focused, her mouth slack and open, drooling a little, tears and spit mixing on her cheeks. There she is—he's fucked her stupid, fucked the brat right out of her, and the sight of it makes him thrust harder, makes him want to fuck her even dumber, until there's nothing left but this mess.

"Look at you," Caleb murmurs, his voice a mocking coo. "Look at this mess. My pretty little girl, all used up. You can't even think, can you? Can't even form a sentence. What's your name, baby? Can you remember?"

She moans, her hands falling limp to her sides, giving up even the pretence of participation, the feigned protests. She's just taking him now, just existing for his pleasure, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He slaps her face—not hard, just a tap to bring her focus back, to make those eyes find his even if they're dazed to hell and back. "Who owns you?"

"Y-You," she whispers, and it's the truth, raw and unvarnished.

"Who?"

"Daddy's." The word is automatic now, programmed into her by his hands and his cock and his will.

"Uh huh, that's right." Caleb releases her hair, grabs her legs, pushes them back until her knees are near her shoulders, folding her in half. The new angle has him hitting deeper, rubbing against her front wall with every stroke, and she makes a choked sound, her eyes rolling back, her mouth opening in a silent scream.

"This is mine. This pussy is mine. This ass is mine." He punctuates each claim with a sharp thrust that drives the words home. "You're mine. Every part of you. Every thought you have when you're alone, every time you touch yourself, you're thinking of me. Aren't you?"

He can feel his orgasm building, that familiar tightness in his spine, the way his balls draw up and get heavy. He doesn't want to stop, wants to fuck her like this for hours, keep her in this space where she's just his, no attitude, no curse words, just need and obedience and the sweet sound of his name. But his body has other plans. She's too tight, too hot, too fucking perfect, gripping him like she was made for this, like she's been made for him alone.

"Come on," he growls, his hand finding her throat. Not squeezing, just resting there, feeling her pulse hammer against his palm, feeling her life under his hand. "Come on, baby, one more. Give me one more. Milk my cock like a good girl."

"Daddy, I-I can't," her voice is reduced to a whimper, exhausted, wrecked.

"You can." He thumbs her clit with his other hand, rubbing in tight circles that match his thrusts, that build her back up from nothing. "You will. Because I said so, and daddy gets what daddy wants."

She breaks on command, exactly as he knew she would. Her pussy clamps down so hard it hurts, rippling around him in waves that drag him over the edge with her, that pull his orgasm from him whether he's ready or not. He slams deep and stays there, grinding against her as he comes, painting her insides with pulse after pulse of hot cum. The breeding kink he hasn't admitted to, the one that makes him groan as he imagines filling her up, making her swell with his kid, making her truly his in a way no piece of paper nor transaction ever could—it's front and centre now, and he can't stop the words from spilling.

"Take it," Caleb grunts, his hips jerking involuntarily with each spurt. "Take every fucking drop. Going to fill you up, make you so full, going to keep you pregnant and pliant and fucking mine—"

She wails, another orgasm ripping through her at his words, at the fantasy, milking him dry, her body greedy for everything he has to give. He collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows so he doesn't crush her, but stays buried deep, stays connected. He's still hard, still twitching, still leaking, and he can feel his cum leaking out around his shaft, mixing with her wetness, making an even bigger mess of his sheets.

They lie like that for a long moment, their panting breaths the only sound in the room. He can feel her heartbeat against his chest, can feel the aftershocks that make her twitch around him like little fluttering kisses.

His face is buried in her neck, and he opens his mouth, biting down on the tender skin there, marking her again, adding to the collection. She whimpers but doesn't push him away. Her arms come up, wrap around his back, hold him close. When he finally pulls out, it's with a slick, obscene sound that makes him want to shove back in, to start all over again.

Caleb doesn't. He rolls onto his back, pulling her with him so she's sprawled across his chest, her legs tangled with his, her face tucked under his chin. Her legs are still shaking. He can feel them trembling against his own, little aftershocks of pleasure and exhaustion.

"Fuck," she whispers into his skin, her breath hot and humid. "Fuck."

He smacks her ass, though it's half-hearted now, exhausted. "Language."

She laughs, the sound breathless and hoarse and so fucking perfect. "Can't. Can't think. You fucked all the words out of me."

"Good." Caleb kisses her forehead, his hand stroking up and down her back, feeling the bumps of her spine, the softness of her skin. "That's how I want you."

They're quiet for a while, the city continuing its endless hum outside, indifferent to what happens in this penthouse, in this bed. His hand finds hers, lifts it to his mouth. He kisses her bruised knuckles—she must have scraped them on the sheets when she was clawing for purchase. His other hand rests on her ass, feeling the heat radiating from the skin he'd marked.

"Are we still fighting?" she mumbles, her voice thick with exhaustion, with the kind of deep weariness that comes from being taken apart and put back together.

"Were we ever?" He feels her smile against his chest, feels the way she relaxes into him.

"You were mad."

"I'm still mad." He squeezes her ass, making her wince and squirm. "You missed dinner. That reservation took months to get. I had to donate to three different charities."

"Sorry, daddy." The word is sleepy now, sated, automatic. It still makes his chest tighten, still makes him feel like he's won something he didn't deserve.

"You're not sorry." He shifts, reaching for the nightstand where he keeps a bottle of water. He cracks it open, helps her sit up enough to drink. She gulps greedily, water dripping down her chin, her throat working. He wipes it away with his thumb, tender now where he was brutal before. "But you will be tomorrow when you can't sit comfortably. When you feel me with every step."

She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed. "Worth it. So fucking worth it."

Caleb watches her drift off, her body going limp and heavy against him, her breathing evening out into the soft rhythm of sleep. In sleep, she looks younger than twenty-one, vulnerable and small, all the sharp edges sanded away. He pulls the duvet up over them both, tucking it around her shoulders, cocooning them in warmth. His hand finds her hair, stroking through the tangled, sweaty mess he'd made of it, smoothing it back from her face.

The bruises are already forming. He should feel guilty—he's old enough to be her father, technically. He'd promised Josephine he'd look out for her, protect her, not fuck her senseless and mark her up like a territory map.

But Josephine was gone, and the girl in his arms was very much here. Very much his. Even if she drove him insane, even if she made him feel every one of his years with her attitude and her recklessness.

She was his, and he'd bought her fair and square—with tuition payments, with designer clothes, with a penthouse and a car and a credit card that never got declined.

Caleb kisses her temple, breathing in the scent of sex and sweat and his shampoo from her shower earlier, the smell of her coconut conditioner underneath. His hand drifts down to her stomach, splaying open there possessively, covering the space that in his fantasies might one day swell. She shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, making a soft noise of contentment. Her hand finds his chest, curls over his heart like she's claiming it right back.

He covers it with his own, his larger fingers dwarfing hers, and holds it there.

The phone buzzes on the nightstand—probably a text about tomorrow's charter flight, a pilot calling in sick, a client demanding something unreasonable at an unreasonable hour. He ignores it. Let them wait. Let them all wait. His empire can run itself for one night.

He has everything that he needs right here.

SAINT'S NOTES ! scheduled on queue, i'm busy studying — my board exam is next month so i have to lock in; this is put into queue along with a few others to be posted throughout february to march (maybe) considering that there's a lot going on. like. there really is something wrong with my brain to think about going to medschool after the whole shitshow four years of my undergrad, but anyway, it might be fun. who knows (i don't).

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

r.