Make Me Moan, Daddy Chapter 94

REINA

I should have told him no.

Not the soft version. Not the lazy, half-hearted excuse that barely counted as resistance. I should have said it clearly, firmly, with my spine straight and my hands at my sides instead of doing this ridiculous thing where I shook my head while still standing close enough to feel his heat.

But Donico had looked at like that again.

Like he wasn’t rushing . Like he had all the ti in the world and I was the one who would crack first.

"I don’t need a massage," I said, crossing my arms even as my body leaned toward him. "I’m fine."

"You’re stiff," he replied easily. "And you haven’t been sitting still for more than ten seconds since dinner."

"That’s not true."

He smiled. "You just adjusted your weight."

I hated him.

I hated that he noticed things. That he paid attention in a way that felt invasive and comforting at the sa ti. That he made everything sound reasonable, like this wasn’t dangerous territory, like it wasn’t another step closer to losing control.

"I’m serious," I added. "You don’t have to do this."

"I know," he said. "I want to."

That answer weakened more than anything else.

I sighed, irritated with myself, and turned toward the hallway. My fingers reached for his hand without permission, curling around his like it belonged there. I tugged him along before I could stop myself.

Donico’s brows lifted. "Interesting way of saying no."

"Don’t read into it."

"I’m not," he said. "I’m enjoying it."

"You enjoy everything."

"Only when it involves you."

I rolled my eyes, but my pulse had already started doing strange things. The sound of our footsteps echoed softly as we moved through the apartnt, the silence between us thickening with every step.

When we reached the staircase, his gaze drifted upward, slow and deliberate.

"Shouldn’t we do this properly?" he asked. "Your room would be more comfortable."

I stopped so suddenly he almost walked into .

"No."

He blinked, then smiled. "That was fast."

"I know how you get," I said, turning to face him. "And I’m not doing this in my bedroom."

"How do I get?" he asked, far too innocent.

"You get...," I gestured vaguely. "Like you."

He chuckled. "Princess, the bedroom isn’t the only place people get dirty."

My face burned. So fucking hot I felt it between my legs.

"Oh my God," I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "You’re unbelievable."

"And you’re blushing," he said.

"I am not."

"You are," he replied gently. "It’s cute."

"Stop calling cute."

He leaned closer, voice dropping just a fraction. "Make ."

I turned away before I could embarrass myself further and marched into the living room, dropping his hand only when I reached the couch. My heart was racing like I’d just done sothing reckless.

Which I had.

He followed, unhurried, like he knew exactly where this was going. He gestured toward the couch with a tilt of his head.

"Sit," he said.

I sat, crossing my legs defensively. "I said a massage. Not... whatever you’re planning."

"Relax," he replied. "You’ll be in control."

That made snort. "You’re terrible at lying."

He smiled. "I’m not lying. I’m just optimistic."

He stepped closer, eyes sweeping over in a way that made my skin prickle. "Clothes," he said.

I stared at him. "No."

"For the massage."

"I didn’t agree to that part."

He folded his arms, studying . "You want to work through fabric?"

"I want you to stop pushing."

"I want you to stop pretending you don’t want this." He said with a sly smirk.

My mouth opened, ready to argue, but the words stalled. He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t teasing. He was calm. Certain.

"I’ve already seen everything," he continued softly. "I’ve been there. Touched you. There’s no reason to be shy with now, baby."

I looked away, jaw tight. He was right, and I hated that too. Hated that my resistance felt performative now. Like sothing I was doing to convince myself rather than him.

"This doesn’t an anything," I muttered.

"It ans you’re tired," he replied. "And I’m helping. That’s all this is going to be. I promise."

I stood slowly, my movents stiff with hesitation. My hands trembled as I reached for the hem of my dress.

"You’re impossible," I said again with a small sigh.

"And yet," he murmured, "you keep doing as I say."

That’s because you’re not making it easy for to think on my own.

I almost yelled that at him, but I stopped myself before I could. I wouldn’t want him to know he had so much power over . I definitely wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.

The dress slid up and over my head. I let it fall onto the couch, followed by everything else, refusing to turn around. The air felt cooler against my skin, my nerves humming with awareness.

I heard his breath hitch.

"Reina," he said quietly.

"Don’t," I warned. "Don’t say anything."

He listened this ti, though the silence between us said enough. I moved to lie down on the couch before my courage failed completely, settling onto my stomach, face turned toward the cushions.

I heard him move away and felt a flicker of unease until cabinets opened in the kitchen.

"Please tell that’s not cooking oil," I said weakly.

"It’s olive oil," he replied. "Relax. You’re Italian by association now."

I huffed despite myself.

The couch dipped as he sat beside . His hands were warm when they touched , spreading oil slowly across my back, careful, grounding. His touch wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, respectful, like he was reminding my body wasn’t sothing to conquer.

A soft sound escaped before I could stop it.

"There," he murmured. "You see?"

"I hate that you’re good at this."

"I’m good at a lot of things. I’m very sure you know that already."

His thumbs pressed into my shoulders, easing tension I hadn’t realized I was carrying. I let myself sink into it despite my better judgnt, breathing slowly, muscles loosening one by one.

"You hold everything here," he said. "Like you’re always bracing."

"Maybe I have a reason."

"Maybe," he replied. "Or maybe you don’t trust anyone else to hold it for you."

That made my chest ache.

His hands slid lower, tracing my spine, sending heat pooling low in my stomach. I shifted slightly, trying not to react, which only made him chuckle.

"Easy," he said. "I’ve got you."

He squeezed my sides suddenly.

I yelped. "Donico!"

He laughed. "Ticklish."

"I am not—"

He did it again, worse this ti, and I kicked back without thinking. My heel connected solidly with his thigh.

"Oof," he grunted, losing his balance.

The next second, everything shifted.

His weight ca down on , the couch dipping sharply as he caught himself, hands bracketing my sides. My breath knocked out of as his body pressed mine, warm and solid and entirely too close.

We froze.

Our faces were inches apart. His breath fanned across my mouth. My hands were still curled in the cushion beneath , heart slamming so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"Reina," he said quietly.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t need to.

He leaned down at the sa ti I lifted my chin, and our lips pressed together—soft at first, accidental, and then not accidental at all.

The mont stretched, suspended, heavy with everything we hadn’t said.

And then there was nothing but him.