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“Again.”
“Yours, Daddy, I’m yours—”
He reaches around, finds my cock, and jacks me with a perfect rhythm that matches the drive of his hips. The sensation is blinding. I’m so close it hurts.
He bites at my shoulder gently, and I arch into it. “That’s my sweet boy. Always so good for me. You want to come again, baby? You want Daddy to fuck it out of you?”
I nod so hard my hair flops into my eyes. “Please, please—”
“That’s it. Show me how bad you need it, sweetheart. Come for me.”
He pulls me up by the scruff of my sweater, holding me pressed against his chest, cock still buried deep. His breath is hot against my ear.
“You’re never getting away, you know that?” he snarls, voice trembling with want. “If you left, I’d burn the city down to find you. You’re mine, princess. Mine. Now come.”
The words hit me in the softest, rawest parts. I moan, and the world goes white. I come hard, pulsing over his fist, entire body spasming in helpless surrender. He fucks through it, never letting up, grinding into me until I collapse against his shoulder, sobbing out his name.
He holds me firm, letting me ride out every twitch and aftershock before pushing me forward onto the bed again. He fucks in earnest now, losing the last of his control, hips smashing into me so hard the bed frame thuds against the wall. I’m spent, limp, but every punch of his cock inside me burns with an afterglow that’s pure heaven.
“Good boy,” he rasps, wild and hoarse, “my pretty, perfect princess—”
He comes with a roar, gripping my hips in both hands, holding me impaled while he empties himself inside me.
When he finally lets go, we collapse sideways in a tangle of limbs and ruined clothing and sweat. He’s still inside me, softening but not leaving, his arms a vise around my chest, his face buried in the back of my neck. He breathes hard for a minute, then kisses my hair, my ear, the curve of my shoulder.
“Let’s go home, baby,” he murmurs.
My eyes fill with tears because I feel like I’ve been waiting for so long for him to say those words.
We’re going home.
22
Adrien
Going home turns out to involve considerably more shit than I remember bringing here.
I stand in the middle of the safe house the next morning with a roll of packing tape in one hand and a cardboard box at my feet.
Everything I pick up is proof Kamden existed here. Not the witness. Not the kid I drugged and dragged out of an alley because I couldn’t bring myself to put a bullet in him.
Kammie. My boy.
I pick up his fashion coloring book and put it into the box marked BEDROOM / LITTLE STUFF, a label Kamden turned bright red over when he saw it.
Then his sippy cup.
“Wait.”
I look over.
Kamden crawls across the floor on his knees and reaches into the box. He takes the cup back out, holding it to his chest like something precious.
“I want this in the car.”
“You need a cup for a forty-minute drive?”
“What if I get thirsty?”
