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 Domenico had looked at me like that again.

Like he wasn’t rushing me. Like he had all the time 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 same time. 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 me 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.

Domenico’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 apartment, 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 me.

"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 me cute."

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

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 something 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 me snort. "You’re terrible at lying."

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

He stepped closer, eyes sweeping over me 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 me. "You want me 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 me now, baby."

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

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

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

I stood slowly, my movements 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 me 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 me. 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 time, 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 me 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 me. His hands were warm when they touched me, spreading oil slowly across my back, careful, grounding. His touch wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate, respectful, like he was reminding me my body wasn’t something to conquer.

A soft sound escaped me 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 judgment, 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. "Domenico!"

He laughed. "Ticklish."

"I am not—"

He did it again, worse this time, 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 came down on me, the couch dipping sharply as he caught himself, hands bracketing my sides. My breath knocked out of me 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 me, 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 same time I lifted my chin, and our lips pressed together—soft at first, accidental, and then not accidental at all.

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

And then there was nothing but him.