Make Me Moan, Daddy Chapter 92

REINA

The mont Donico crossed the threshold with slung over his shoulder, the world snapped back into place with brutal clarity.

The door shut behind us, solid and final, the sound echoing through the house like punctuation. A period. An end to any illusion that I could still pretend this was nothing.

His hand was firm on the back of my thigh, fingers locked like he expected to bolt. His steps were steady, unhurried, like he’d done this before. Like carrying through a house was a routine he never wanted to derived from.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my palms flattening instinctively against his back.

He was warm. Solid. Real.

Too real.

"Put down, now." I muttered, swallowing down thickly.

But he didn’t listen. If course, he never listened.

"I said put down," I said, sharper than I felt.

His hand tightened around my thigh, not painfully, just enough to remind I wasn’t going anywhere.

"Mm," he humd. "You did."

The nerve of him.

"I’m serious, Donico." I grumbled, would this man ever take seriously?

"I know." He let out with a deep grunt, as if to tell that he would do anything to keep from getting mad at him.

That was it. No apology. No pause. No sign that he planned on listening.

He kept walking.

Every step felt deliberate, unhurried, like this was exactly how he intended the evening to start. Like carrying through the house was a choice he’d made long before he actually did it.

My body reacted before my pride could catch up. My grip tightened instead of loosening. My legs didn’t kick. My shoulders didn’t tense.

They relaxed.

That scared more than anything.

I hated how safe it felt with him. How my heartbeat, which should have been racing, started to slow. How my cheek brushed against his back and didn’t imdiately pull away.

I hated that a part of wanted to stay there.

Let him carry up the stairs. Let him decide where I went. Let him take responsibility for my weight, my balance, my choices.

The image hit hard and fast—his bedroom, low light, his hands settling on my hips like they belonged there.

"Donico," I snapped back to reality, panic flaring. "Put. . Down."

He stopped imdiately.

Not reluctantly. Not annoyed.

Just stopped.

The sudden stillness jolted . He shifted his stance and slid off his shoulder, setting on my feet with infuriating care. His hands stayed at my waist longer than necessary, thumbs pressing briefly like he was grounding .

"Careful," he murmured. "Heels. Don’t want you to fall over."

I stepped back fast, breaking the contact before my body betrayed again.

"I can walk." I gritted out, frowning as I snatched my bag from his hand.

"I know." He said with an infuriating smirk.

He looked at like he was taking inventory. Like he was checking to make sure I was intact. Like four days apart had been unacceptable for him.

"Go wash up," he said gently, reaching his hand to pet my hair. "Co downstairs when you’re done. Food should be ready in few minutes."

"I didn’t agree to—"

"I’ll be making it for you," he cut in smoothly, already turning toward the kitchen. "Don’t take too long in the shower, don’t want to imagine anything."

I stood there, stunned, watching him walk away like he hadn’t just flipped my entire nervous system upside down.

"And Reina?" he called.

I froze.

"Locking yourself in won’t help," he added lightly. "I’ll still be here."

Sothing warm and dangerous blood in my chest.

I hated that my mouth twitched upward.

I turned and rushed upstairs before he could see anything else.

The second I got into my room, I shut the door and locked it behind . My heart was pounding now, loud in my ears. I turned toward the mirror, raised my hand, and slapped myself right across the cheek.

The sound cracked through the room.

"Get it together," I whispered.

My reflection didn’t look convinced.

My face was flushed. My lips were parted. My eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with anger or annoyance.

I was excited.

Excited that he was downstairs. Excited that he’d stayed. Excited that he would cook for like this was normal, like this was allowed.

I pressed my palms to my face and dragged them down slowly.

"You’re weak," I told myself. "You’re letting him do this again."

He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t forced anything. He’d just suggested, and I’d followed along like I always did.

I stripped quickly and stepped into the shower, turning the water hot enough to sting. Steam filled the room, curling around , blurring the mirror like it was doing a favor. A favor to not see how helpless I looked.

It didn’t help.

My mind betrayed imdiately.

I pictured him leaning against the doorfra, arms crossed, watching the water cascading down my body. Saying sothing low and calm and confident. Dominating . Inside and out. Body and soul.

My breath hitched.

"No," I muttered, bracing my forehead against the tile wall.

I washed quickly, efficiently, like speed could rinse the thoughts away. I barely gave myself ti to breathe before stepping out and pulling on sothing short and simple—nothing soft, nothing inviting. I tied my hair back tight, like armor.

By the ti I went downstairs, the house slled warm.

Food. Oil. Heat.

And then I saw him.

Donico stood in front of the stove, broad shoulders filling the kitchen like it had been designed around him. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms flexing as he moved. An apron hung from his waist, ridiculous and unfairly attractive.

He didn’t turn.

"Took you long enough," he said.

"You said not to rush."

"I said don’t take too long," he replied, glancing over his shoulder. His mouth curved. "You look good by the way."

"I didn’t ask for your opinion." I huffed, rolling my eyes at him. Biting down on my inside cheeks to stop myself from smiling like a hopeless fool.

"I know."

He poured wine and slid the glass toward without looking.

"Sit. Enjoy the drink while I finish cooking."

I hesitated.

Then I sat.

The chair felt warm. That unsettled more than it should have.

"What are you cooking?" I asked, watching his hands. Gently twirling the win glass in my hand.

"Guess."

"Pasta."

He shook his head. He looked so fucking hot when he did that.

"Steak."

"No." He said, his shoulders trembling as he tipped his head back and laugh.

"Sothing Italian."

He raised an eyebrow, smirking at . "Everything I make is Italian, sweetheart."

I groaned. "You’re impossible."

"And yet," he said lightly, "you’re still sitting there ogling ."

I rolled my eyes. My mouth betrayed with a smile.

I tried again. For so reason, I didn’t want him to stop talking to , which was ridiculous. "Chicken?"

"Nope."

"Fish?" I grumbled, hating that I was very bad at guessing things.

He clicked his tongue. "You’re bad at this."

Ugh! Way to rub it on my face.

"Then tell ."

"No." He insisted. Fucking stubborn and inconsiderate.

I leaned forward without thinking, resting my chin on my hand. "Please?"

He paused. Just long enough for my pulse to jump.

Then he turned, leaning his hip against the counter, eyes dark and amused. "Say it properly."

My stomach flipped.

"You’re ridiculous."

"That won’t make tell you, princess." He grinned at . So lovingly and handsoly sexy.

I hesitated. Then, quiet and defiant, I said it.

"Daddy, please."

The kitchen went still. His jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to my mouth like it didn’t trust . The air shifted—thick, heavy, charged. I watched his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously as he visibly swallow.

"Careful," he said quietly. "We both know you don’t want to go there."

My heart pounded. Fuck, I hadn’t really ant to call him that.

"Tell what you’re cooking, then." I said, pretending nothing had changed.

His smile was slow. Dangerous.

"You’ll find out soon enough." He said with a wink that almost knocked off my seat.

And God help , I couldn’t stop smiling back.