Chapter Five

Lena

I 'm drifting, floating on the edge of consciousness the next morning when a wickedly delightful pressure pulls me back to reality. I moan softly, feeling Carver's tongue dancing through my folds before circling my clit.

"Are you awake yet?" he asks, his deep voice vibrating against my sex.

I shiver beneath him, trying to formulate a response, but the rush of pleasure coursing through me is too intense. I can't think straight.

"You looked so fucking sweet. Daddy couldn't resist a little taste, pretty baby," he breathes, his tongue flicking against my clit again. There's a wicked, devilish note in his voice that sends a thrill racing through me.

My lips part, a breath away from confirming that I'm awake, but I quickly snap them shut. Instinct grips me, desire coiling tight inside of me. I want this—the rawness of his need, the way he takes what he wants without apology or request.

Maybe I shouldn't like the thought of being utterly helpless, his to command…but I do. Even in my sleep, I'm his to claim, his to devour. It's wrong, forbidden. But I don't care, not with him.

I let my body go limp, my breaths coming out in soft, deliberate snores as I pretend I'm still asleep. It's a silent invitation for him to take what he wants. To do his worst.

"So it's like that, huh?" His whisper is almost reverent, something dark bleeding around the edges. "Daddy has to fuck his little girl awake?"

I bite down on my lip hard enough to stifle the moan begging to spill forth as my core clenches at his filthy question.

He shifts, his large, powerful frame enveloping mine as he crawls over me. Every inch of him screams dominance—from the broad expanse of his chest pressed against my back to the firmness of his thighs bracketing mine. The weight of him on top of me is as comforting as it is exhilarating, grounding me in the moment.

My heart pounds against my breastbone, anticipation building as I wait for his next move. I'm beyond ready to dissolve under his touch, to be his good little girl, possessed by her Daddy.

"Good girl," he murmurs as his cock nudges against my folds. "Just keep sleeping while Daddy takes what he wants."

Heat spreads through me, molten and consuming, as he tips his hips forward, filling me in one hard thrust. I cling to the pretense of sleep by the skin of my teeth, savoring the wicked thrill that courses through my veins as he grunts a curse in my ear.

He feels so good on top of me, inside of me, consuming every inch of me. I never knew it could be this way—so intense, so powerful. But every moment with him is magic. Not sleight of hand or smoke and mirrors, but Old World, primal, mystical magic.

He drives into me in a steady rhythm, each thrust a silent stamp of possession making me more his than ever before. His hot breath fans across my neck as he whispers words like sinful secrets meant only for my ears.

"Goddamn this perfect little pussy," he groans, his gruff, gravelly voice thick with lust. "You love letting Daddy do bad things to you, don't you, pretty baby?"

My inner walls clench around him in response, a silent scream of pleasure as he hits that tender spot inside me again and again, the one that makes stars burst to life behind my eyelids. The room spins with the intensity of the moment, my body betraying my act every time I arch into him, seeking more of his heat, another of his touches.

"Such a good little girl," he murmurs, tracing a rough hand along the curve of my hip, his fingers leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Sleeping so soundly while Daddy fucks you full."

His words sear through me, hot as a brand, and I can't help but squirm against him. He catches me, one hand moving to hold me steady, his grip firm.

"Fucking love this," he whispers, igniting an inferno within me. I love it too—every touch, every stroke, every word he says. "But you're not just a pretty little thing for me to fuck while you're asleep. You want my cum inside of you, don't you? You want me to fill up your belly with my seed."

My heart pounds frantically at his filthy words, desire spiraling higher. God, yes. I want all of him. Every single part of him.

I grind down onto him, my body answering him even when my voice remains silent. It's as though he's unlocked some part of me that I never knew existed—some part that craves his possession, his intensity.

His pounds into me, driving every breath from my body as he claims me in fierce, possessive strokes that make my toes curl and my head spin.

"You're so tight for me," he groans. "Daddy's going to make sure you remember who you belong to every time you try to sit down tomorrow. You'll be sore and won't even remember why." His lips brush the shell of my ear. "But I'll know, little girl. When your little panties are wet and you're all sticky when you wake up, I'll know it's my cum dripping from that pretty little hole."

His filthy words send a jolt straight through my core, liquefying me. Pleasure blooms in waves, crashing over me again and again. There's no room for pretense or play as I shatter. There's only sensation, infinite and exquisite.

His low growl of satisfaction vibrates through me as he buries himself deep inside me, following me over the edge. His cock jerks as his seed splashes inside me in hot pulses that leave me moaning his name into the pillow until I'm gasping for breath.

For long moments after, we simply lay there, trembling and tangled up together. And then Carver groans, placing a soft kiss against my shoulder as he rolls us carefully, still buried deep inside me.

"If you keep letting me play like this, I'll take everything you have, little angel," he warns, his voice a heated murmur against my skin.

"Maybe you should," I breathe, the first words I've spoken as I turn to face him. His eyes lock onto mine, the gunmetal gray depths swirling with something fierce and possessive. "I like it when Daddy is a bad man, doing bad things to me."

His roar reverberates through the room, the sound of a man on the edge of something vast and infinite. Something that doesn't scare him at all.

The sound has a joyous laugh burbling from my lips.

He hears it and shakes his head, his eyes soft.

"Dangerous little girl," he mutters without heat.

Before I can respond, his arms are around me, lifting me from the bed in a way that makes me feel weightless, priceless. He cradles me to his chest, striding from the room.

"Shower time, little angel," he says, a possessive glint in his eyes and a thread in his voice that leave no room for argument.

I rest my head on his shoulder, perfectly content to let him take me where he will. He carries me into the bathroom, juggling me easily as he gets the shower going. Within minutes, steam billows around us.

He holds me carefully as he steps into the tiny shower. Hot water cascades over us, pulling a moan from my lips.

There's barely any room to work with, but somehow, Carver makes it work. His hands are everywhere as he gently lathers me up with soap, leaving me slick and tingling."Fucking love this," he grunts, brushing his fingers across my belly. "It's so damn soft and sweet."

I don't have to ask to know he means it. I feel the truth every time he touches me. My body is far from perfect, but in his eyes, it's a masterpiece worthy of the most ardent devotion.

I tilt my head back, closing my eyes as he traces the curves he's claimed as his own, worshiping them with a gentleness that should seem foreign on him but fits him like a glove.

"You like that?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear, sending another thrill through me.

"More than you know," I whisper back, leaning into his touch, craving the contrast of his calloused hands on my sensitive skin.

He kisses me gently and then rinses the suds from my body, ensuring every last bubble is gone. When the last one swirls down the drain, those gray eyes meet mine, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"I like getting you dirty, little angel," he rumbles. "But goddamn if cleaning you up isn't heaven on earth."

My heart flutters at his words, and I find myself falling even deeper for this beautiful, rough man.

"I can help you cook," I say later that night, watching from the couch as he moves around the kitchen. His back is to me, his broad shoulders shifting as he cooks. I can't help but stare, fascinated by the way his muscles play beneath his skin. He's a study in contradictions—hard edges and soft touches, fierce growls and gentle whispers…every inch of him perfect.

He glances at me over his shoulder, one brow arched as if he thinks I've lost my mind. "I take care of you, Lena," he says. "Not the other way around."

My stomach flutters at the heat in his voice. Part of me—the part that's always been smothered by my grandfather and Dalton, yearning for independence—wants to argue. But this—the way Carver cares for me—doesn't feel smothering. It's endearing, sweet. I like it a lot. So I don't argue. I simply nod and settle down on the couch, content to let him have his way.

He rewards me with a grin. Those seem to come a little more often the longer we spend together. I'm not sure what happened to him, but I have a feeling that he didn't leave the military for the fun of it. I think I was right yesterday—something bad happened. I'm not sure what, but he wears his wounds like armor.

"Yesterday, you said your family owns a company," he calls over his shoulder, the clatter of a pan punctuating his words. "Tell me about it."

"It's a recording company. Um, Grady Records. My great grandfather started it back in the 1930s, when country music was in its infancy in Nashville. By the 60s, it was one of the biggest companies in Nashville, and it's only grown since," I explain. "We're still growing."

"You're proud of it."

"I am," I whisper. "Back then, there wasn't a place for black artists in a lot of studios. Country music owes a lot to them, but no one wanted to give them a place in the industry. My great grandfather made sure they had a home with our company, and they helped shape the future of country music. Now, we make a place for artists that most studios are too afraid to touch—they're too experimental, too this, too that. There's always someone this industry claims isn't country enough. We prove them wrong."

"You work at the company, pretty baby?"

"Sometimes." I shrug, running my fingers over the blanket he wrapped me in. "I prefer making music to pulling the strings."

"You're a musician?"

"I play piano and sing. Um, I went to Julliard."

"Jesus." He turns wide eyes on me. "That's not a maybe someday type of school, Lena."

I shrug again. "My grandfather hates the idea of me being on stage." I glance down at the blanket. "I'm not sure how I feel about it, either."

"Why the fuck not?"

"I don't know," I whisper. "It's a lot of people, Carver. A lot of pressure. Maybe that's not what I want for my life." I love music and I'm good at it. It's in my blood and always will be. But it's never been my big dream. I hate feeling like that isn't enough—like I'm not enough.

"What do you want, little angel?" he asks, leaning against the counter, watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach quiver.

"Family," I admit, telling him the secret I've never told anyone—that my dream isn't the company or music but something simple. Something I've only had a tiny taste of my entire life. I want to belong—not because my grandfather took me in when there was no one else or because my cousin and I grew up together, two orphans clinging to familiarity, but really belong. In a way I don't feel like I ever have.

I'm extremely grateful for everything I have. I know how lucky I am and how much worse my life could have been. But growing up, everyone had parents and siblings. I've never known what that feels like. I don't remember my parents. I've always been adrift, the odd one out.

I want a family of my own, roots to plant and grow and nourish. I want babies of my own and whole branches of a family tree instead of two spindly little sticks.

I've felt lost my whole life, overwhelmed by the world because I've never felt like I know exactly where I belong. Maybe it's silly to feel that way, but I feel that way anyway.

Carver's eyes soften with understanding. "I've never had a family. I grew up in foster care and joined the military as soon as I aged out of the system," he admits, and I want to cry. He gets it, perhaps better than I do. At least I had my grandfather and Dalton. He had no one. He's been unanchored and unmoored in a way I never have, truly adrift. "The men in my unit became my brothers."

"Are you still close with them?" I ask softly, needing to know more about the man who has become my entire world.

"There's no one left." He meets my gaze across the room, and I see the faintest tremor in his hand. That small sign of humanity, of the depth of his experiences, shatters my heart for him. The ghosts of his past linger in his eyes in the silence, whispering pieces of his story even when I think he'd rather keep them to himself.

"You don't have to tell me," I whisper.

"Lost too many good men over the years," he says abruptly, his voice a low, painful rumble. "But the worst…" He swallows audibly, turning away from me. "This last mission was a fucked-up raid. Should've been routine, but it wasn't. Most of us didn't make it out."

The veneer of strength he always projects, that iron control he maintains over everything, masks so much grief, so much pain. This is why he retired…the bad thing that happened that changed the course of his life. I suspected it was something like this, but this is so much worse than I thought.

"Carver…" I whisper, but he doesn't need words right now. He needs me.

I toss the blanket aside and slip off the couch, scurrying across the room toward him. Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around him from behind, my cheek pressed against the broad expanse of his back. He's a fortress of a man, but in this moment, I'm his sanctuary.

"Fuck, Lena…" His voice breaks, his body stiffening before he turns in my arms, dragging me up against his chest. His heart pounds against my ear like a fierce drum.

"I'm so sorry for everyone you lost." I pull back just enough to look up at him. Lines of grief etch deep grooves into his handsome. "It will always hurt in some way, and you'll always grieve. But I want you to know that you aren't alone anymore, Carver. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."

Ghosts and grief still linger in his gray eyes as they scan across my face, searching. "I don't, huh?" he murmurs softly, his thumb tracing my bottom lip.

"Nope. You have me to help," I say, nodding fiercely. "I'm your family now, Carver. I'll carry it with you."

Something wild and dangerous flickers to life in his eyes. He exhales a deep puff of air that ruffles my hair as his fingers tangle in the strands. Then his mouth crashes down on mine, his kiss an inferno that scorches any remaining distance between us.

"I'm not giving you up, pretty baby," he growls against my lips, each word punctuated with another possessive, soul-stealing kiss. "I hope you fucking know that. You're mine. You hear me? Mine."

The heat of his declaration envelops me, his growl reverberating through my bones.

"Yours," I whisper back, feeling the hot stamp of ownership in his kiss. My heart dances with hope, fluttering like a captive bird set free.

His hands roam over my body, branding me with every touch. Each one sends a jolt of pleasure coursing through me.

"Say it again," he commands, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze, his own filled with fierce intensity.

"Yours, Daddy." The words spill out without hesitation as I trace the hard lines of his jaw, reveling in the raw power beneath his skin.

"Fuck, that's right," he rasps, his lips crashing against mine once more.

He's a storm, wild and untamed, as he lifts me into his arms, pressing me up against the wall. I arch into him, craving the depth of his possession, the fierceness of his touch.

"Pretty baby, you're going to be so full of me," he murmurs, sending shivers of anticipation down my spine. "I'm going to breed you, mark you inside and out until there's no fucking question who you belong to."

"Yes," I pant, lost in the haze of his touch and the promise of his words as his hand slips down my stomach, dinner long forgotten.

"Mine," he growls as he plunges two fingers inside of me, claiming me all over again.

"Yours," I breathe, sealing the vow with a kiss that tastes like forever.