The Line We Surrendered

It's for you, Daddy. All for you. ????

????????????????????????????

His hand is still on my hip when I wake up.

Warm. Steady. Like even in sleep, he can't help but hold on.

I should leave. Mom will be home soon.

I should slip out from under him before the morning ruins this, before he wakes up and his mouth tightens and his body tenses and he starts pretending this was something it wasn't.

But I don't move.

Because his fingers twitch against my skin, and before I can second-guess it, before I can tell myself I imagined it, he exhales slow and pulls me closer.

Not like he's keeping me here.

But like he's finally letting himself want me here.

His lips brush my shoulder, soft, absentminded, like the kind of thing he used to do without thinking.

I don't think he's awake enough to stop himself yet.

And I don't dare breathe too hard in case he realizes what he's done.

But he just sighs, his body heavy against mine, and whispers--

"Go back to sleep, Babygirl."

Like this is normal.

Like I belong here.

Like we do.

And fuck.

I think I might.

He doesn't lock the door anymore, either.

I notice it the next night, when the house is quiet and the only light spilling down the hall comes from the crack under his office door.

It's always locked at night. Always closed. Always a barrier between us, a warning that I shouldn't come any closer. Lately anyway.

But tonight, it's open.

Just a little.

Just enough for me to hear him shift in his chair, sigh like he's been fighting a battle he already lost.

Just enough for me to test it.

I push the door open.

He looks up.

And instead of telling me to leave, instead of gripping the arms of his chair like he's restraining himself, instead of pretending this isn't happening--

He leans back.

His fingers tap once against the desk, slow, thoughtful.

And then, voice quiet--

"Couldn't sleep, baby?"

Like this is normal.

Like this is something he's ready to let himself have.

Like I am.

He touches me so much more now.

Not always in ways that break us.

Sometimes it's a hand at the small of my back when I pass him in the hall. Sometimes it's his fingers brushing mine when he hands me something. Sometimes it's his knuckles grazing my cheek when he tucks my hair behind my ear, like he's reminding himself i'm real.

And sometimes--

Sometimes it's everything.

Like the night I can't sleep, the night I wander into his room without thinking, without worrying about the rules he used to force between us.

The night he just sighs, folds back the covers, and says--

"C'mere, Babygirl."

And when I crawl in beside him, he pulls me in.

No hesitation. No tension.

Just strong, steady arms wrapping around me like he's done it a hundred times before, like it's easy, like it's second nature.

His chest is warm against my back.

His hand splays over my stomach, anchoring me to him.

And for the first time, I let myself ask.

"Why are you doing this?"

He's quiet for so long I don't think he's going to answer.

But then--

Soft, almost heartbroken--

"Because I missed you."

My throat tightens.

But before I can say anything, before I can tell him I missed him too, before I can turn and look at him--

His grip tightens, and he buries his face in my hair, and he whispers--

"Go to sleep, baby. I've got you."

Like he never stopped being the man who used to tuck me in, who used to hold me close, who used to be mine in a way that had nothing to do with this war we've been fighting.

Like maybe he never wanted to stop at all.

⸻

I like that he takes care of me now too. Like really takes care of me.

Not just when he touches me. Not just when he pulls me into his bed, into his arms, into something he swore he'd never let himself have.

But in the small things.

He leaves my water bottle by my door at night.

He brings me coffee in the morning, made exactly the way I like it.

He notices when I don't eat, when I stay up too late, when I need him before I even realize it myself.

And one night, when I come to bed shivering, he just sighs and pulls me under the covers, wrapping his body around mine, pressing warm lips to my temple.

"You need to take better care of yourself, baby."

"You do it for me."

His breath catches.

I don't think he was expecting me to say that.

But then he shifts, his fingers curling under my chin, tilting my face up until our eyes meet.

His thumb traces my cheek.

His voice is quiet when he says it, but I feel it everywhere.

"Yeah. I do."

He kisses me, slow and deep, no rush, no restraint, no hesitation--

It isn't just possession.

It isn't just desire.

It's love.

And I don't think he's afraid of it anymore.

The way he takes me apart

He kisses me like he's starving.

But he touches me like he has all the time in the world.

The way he worships me

His hands are slow tonight.

Not because he's unsure. Not because he's hesitating.

But because he wants to take his time.

Because he wants me to feel it.

Every touch. Every brush of his lips. Every slow, reverent way he lets his hands roam over my skin, like i'm something sacred, something he's waited his whole life to touch.

"Look at you, Babygirl."

His voice is low, steady, full of something dark and deep and wanting.

His fingertips trace the inside of my thigh, warm and deliberate, just barely skimming where I need him.

"You're already trembling for me."

I am.

Because he always does this to me.

Because when he touches me, especially like this--slow and knowing, like he has all the time in the world--I forget how to breathe.

He leans in, his lips barely grazing my skin, his breath warm, teasing.

"You want daddy's mouth on you, don't you?"

I swallow, my fingers curling against the sheets, my whole body aching, waiting.

His lips curve.

"Say it, baby."

His voice is dark, indulgent, already wrecked.

"Tell me exactly what you need."

I exhale shakily, my head tilting back, my voice barely more than a whisper.

"I need you, Daddy. I need your tongue on my pussy... Now, Daddy. Please?"

His breath hitches.

His hands tighten.

His lips brush higher, higher, teasing, lingering, so close but not enough.

"Mmm. I know, baby."

His fingers press into my thighs, parting them further, his breath ghosting over the heat of me, making me shudder.

"But i'm going to take my time with you."

His voice is a promise.

His lips move lower.

His hands grip tighter.

And when he finally, finally gives in--

When his mouth claims me--

I shatter.

Because this isn't just him taking me.

This isn't just him devouring me.

This is worship.

This is surrender.

This is him making sure I never forget--

I belong to him.

His mouth moves slow. Deliberate. Like he's savoring me, every curve, every fold. Like he has all the time in the world to taste me, tease me, break me apart.

His fingers press deeper into my thighs, holding me open, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

"That's it, babygirl."

His voice is wrecked, thick with something dark, something needing.

"Give it to me. Let Daddy have all of you. All of your sweet juices, sweetheart."

I whimper, my back arching, my fingers threading into his hair, tugging, pulling--pleading.

But he doesn't let me rush him.

His grip tightens, his lips dragging so slow, his tongue tracing every inch of me, like he's learning me from the inside out.

Lapping at my hole, rubbing slow, soft circles on my little clit.

"So fucking sweet."

His breath is hot against me.

"I could stay down here forever."

My breath stutters, my thighs trembling in his hands.

He groans when he feels it.

"Fuck, baby."

His fingers dig in, his control slipping, his mouth growing more desperate, more hungry.

"You feel that?"

His voice is thick with it now, dripping with want.

"That's how bad I need you too. Daddy's cock is so hard for you. You're desperate, aren't you my babygirl?"

His tongue moves deeper, his pace quickening, wrecking me, ruining me, pushing me to the edge of something I can't escape.

But slowly... Painfully so... Like he's pulling on a tiny thread, a millimetre at a time. Tugging me to orgasm at a pace I can just barely manage.

I'm desperate, pulling at the sheets, begging daddy to let me cum on his tongue.

"That's it, Babygirl."

His lips wrap around the most sensitive part of me, and I break. His tongue flicking rhythmically on my clit, two fingers keeping the same beat just inside my opening.

My body shudders, my breath catching, my hands tightening in his hair, anchoring myself because he's the only thing keeping me together.

"I'm cumming, Daddy... Please don't stop."

He groans against me, like he feels it, like he's falling apart with me.

And he doesn't stop.

He doesn't let go.

His tongue keeps moving, his lips still claiming, taking, owning, like he's not just making me cum, but he's making me come undone--

Making sure I never put myself back together.

And when the tremors slow, when my body slumps back against the mattress, breathless, spent--

He presses one last, soft, open-mouthed kiss to my thigh.

And murmurs, voice low, wrecked, full of something too deep to name--

"Mine. Always mine"

And then we hear mom's keys jangle, and the deadbolt unlocks.

We both jolt up from bed, scrambling to make ourselves look like we were doing anything but what we were just doing.

Mom comes in the room, we both appear yo be fast asleep. With enough room for Jesus between us in the bed, of course.

"Aw, did my two favourite people fall asleep watching movies in bed again?"

She comes and gives us each a kiss on the forehead before sneaking quietly out of the room.

We hear the door click shut.

Daddy pulls his fingers slowly from my wetness, bringing them to his tongue, thoroughly cleaning each finger of his own daughter's juices. Moaning, maybe for effect, but more likely because he's enjoying himself.

Satisfied, he pulls himself from the weight of the duvet, tucking it gently under my chin.

"Sleep well, sweetheart. You can rest as long as you need to. I'm going to go make us some breakfast."

I'm pretty sure i'm the luckiest girl in the world.