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Daddy held me through it. I had to press my face into his shoulder and breathe him in. He switched the plug off and gave me time to settle. His weight stayed close, his breath hot against my neck, his hand still on my hip, and I was oversensitive and trembling and completely, utterly gone.

"There's my baby," he said. "There's my perfect boy."

After a little while, the plug came out gently. He worked the silicone free and the absence of it left me feeling empty and light. He set it aside and reached for the baby wipes he kept in the drawer, and then his hands were on me again, cleaning me up. I lay there pliant. Heavy-lidded.

He tossed the wipe and reached for the diaper next. We kept a stack of them in the bottom drawer — the good ones, thick and soft and white, with tapes that made that particular crinkling sound when they fastened. He unfolded one and slid it under me, his hands lifting my hips with effortless strength, and the material settled against my skin.

The tabs came next. He pulled the front up between my legs and smoothed it flat against my stomach. He pressed each one down firmly, making sure it held, and then his hand rested on my belly for a moment, and he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

The paci came next. He didn't say anything. Just pressed it to my lips, and I opened my mouth and took it without looking, the familiar shape settling against my tongue.

I curled into him then. My body turned toward his of its own accord, my face pressing into his chest, and he held me there, and he made that low sound, almost a hum, and I sank into it.

He scooped me up. One arm under my knees, the other behind my back, and I was in the air and then against his chest, my face tucked into the curve of his neck, and he carried me out of the bedroom and down the hall like I weighed nothing. My arms looped around his neck. The paci stayed in.

The living room was exactly the way I loved it. The stone fireplace was going, the flames low and amber behind the grate, throwing warm light across the deep sofas and the soft blankets piled at one end. The overhead lights were off, just the lamps on, and the room felt like something out of a storybook, cozy and dim and safe. The coffee table in front of the fireplace had been cleared, and on it, waiting, were my dolls.

Daddy had set them out. I hadn't asked him to. He'd done it while I was getting ready that morning, or maybe while I was sleeping in. Teresa, and the astronaut doll JJ had given me for my birthday, and the fox in the little sweater, and the moth plushie from today sitting proudly at the end of the row.

He settled onto the sofa with me still in his arms, and then he arranged me against his side, one big arm around my shoulders. I reached for Teresa with both hands because she was my favorite, had been since Daddy gave her to me two Christmases ago, and I pulled her into my lap and started talking to her without taking the paci out, a mumble.

He didn't say anything. Just let me talk. I curled into him with Teresa clutched against my chest and the fire crackling in the grate and the diaper soft between my legs, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the mask slide off completely. Just baby. Just the version of myself that didn't have to be anything for anyone. Daddy's arm tightened around me. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

"There's my boy," he said. "There's my perfect baby."

Chapter 20. JJ

I'd just spent a long time on the phone with Max. We'd done a video call, and he told me all about how he and Dominic had been talking every day, about what they liked and didn't like, their fantasies and their limits, and—

"He even said he had no problem with me having an OnlyFans when I told him about it! I was sick with nerves, thinking that might be the end of everything right there," he said. "But it wasn't," he added, closing his eyes in that dreamy way of his, hugging a plush cupcake.

I was in my room too, listening to him be lovesick and getting way too invested in every single detail like we were a couple of teenagers gossiping about crushes.

When we hung up, I went down to the kitchen, where Daddy was making lunch and telling Sawyer the latest NBA scores.

"How are the Heat doing?" I asked, butting into the conversation.

Sawyer gave me that impatient look he loved giving me, the one that always made me want to smack him.

"Good afternoon to you too, JJ," he said. I took a breath and rolled my eyes.

"I just asked how my team's doing. I'm not doing anything wrong. Daddy, he's picking on me. I'm putting a frog in his room. He's gonna see," I said.

Daddy's brow furrowed.

"I don't want to hear about any fighting, you two. Or you'll both be having a nice long talk with my belt," he said.

The second I heard that, a wave of want ran through me, but I ignored it — had to keep up the act. I made a point of putting on a whole little show, rolling my eyes and dropping heavily into my chair.

"Understood, JJ?" Daddy asked.

"Understood, Sir," I grumbled.

"Good. And Sawyer, no need to talk to your brother like that. Answer him when he asks about his team."

I lit up hearing that and stuck my tongue out at Sawyer. He made a face but wasn't going to keep the fight going.

"They're bad, as usual. That what you wanted to hear? The Heat suck," Sawyer said.