Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 103

DOMENICO

I woke up slowly.

Not the way I usually did—alert, already moving, already counting exits—but drifting, heavy, suspended in that quiet space between sleep and awareness where the body knows before the mind does.

Warmth first.

A weight across my thigh. A soft rise and fall against my chest.

Then the smell.

Her detergent. Something clean and faintly floral. Not mine. Never mine.

My eyes opened.

The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—plain white, faint crack near the corner, a shadow from the curtain rod cutting across it at an angle I didn’t recognize. It took a second for the pieces to line up, for memory to settle.

Reina’s apartment.

Paolo’s apartment for her.

The reality landed gently but firmly, like a hand pressing down on my chest to keep me from sitting up too fast.

She was curled into me, her body turned fully toward mine, leg thrown over my thigh like she’d claimed it without asking permission. One hand rested flat against my chest, fingers splayed, palm warm. Her head was tucked beneath my chin, hair brushing my neck every time she breathed.

She was still asleep.

I didn’t move.

I stared at the wall and let the weight of it sink in—where I was, whose bed this was, whose life I was trespassing in. The sheets were softer than mine, lighter. They smelled like her skin, her soap, her nights spent alone in this place when her husband wasn’t here.

That thought tightened something sharp in my ribs.

She shifted slightly, nose brushing my collarbone, lips parting on a quiet breath. A sound slipped from her throat—soft, unguarded—and she pressed closer instead of pulling away.

Like this was natural.

Like she belonged here.

Like I belonged here with her.

My jaw tightened.

I lifted my hand slowly, deliberately, as if sudden movement might wake her or break whatever fragile truce the morning had granted us. My thumb brushed the line of her shoulder, stopping just short of the dark mark there.

The hickey.

I stared at it longer than I should have.

Evidence. Possession. A mistake carved into skin.

I leaned down and kissed it.

The sound that came out of me was low and involuntary—half groan, half curse. My body responded immediately, heat pooling where it shouldn’t have, desire waking up like it hadn’t learned a fucking thing from last night.

I closed my eyes and breathed through it.

Not now.

Not here.

Not after going at it all night.

I stayed like that for another long minute, memorizing the feel of her—how warm she was, how easily she fit against me, how trusting her posture was even in sleep. This was the Reina no one else got. Not Paolo. Not the world.

Only me.

That knowledge didn’t make me proud.

It made my chest ache.

Carefully, I eased her hand off my chest and slipped out of bed. She stirred, made a small sound of protest, then settled again, face turning into the pillow. I stood there for a second, watching her sleep, resisting the urge to climb back in and pretend this was something it wasn’t.

I found my pants folded over the back of a chair near her desk.

Something I didn’t remember doing last night.

The realization hit harder than it should have.

I pulled them on quietly and left the bedroom, closing the door just enough to keep the light out. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

The apartment felt different in the morning. Still. Too intimate. I could tell which parts of it she used most—books stacked near the couch, a blanket draped carelessly over one arm, a mug in the sink from last night.

Reina’s presence was everywhere in the subtle ways that mattered. A jacket hanging near the door. Shoes neatly lined up. A framed photo on the shelf—her smiling, Paolo beside her, arm around her waist.

I didn’t look at it long.

I started the coffee instead.

The machine hummed softly, filling the quiet with something normal, something grounding. I leaned against the counter while it brewed, staring at the wall, trying to organize thoughts that refused to line up.

This was dangerous.

Not the sex. That had been dangerous from the start.

This—waking up with her, cooking in her kitchen, existing in her space like I had a right to it—this was worse. Even though it was clear she never wanted me here.

I poured two mugs anyway.

Set them on the counter.

Stared at them like they might accuse me of something.

Don’t push.

Don’t crowd her.

Don’t make her pull away again.

I put the mugs aside and opened the fridge. Eggs. Bread. Cheese. Simple. Neutral. I moved quietly, deliberately, focusing on the mechanics of it—the sound of the pan heating, the smell of butter melting—anything to keep my mind from drifting back upstairs and fucking her again.

The sound of bare feet on tile reached me before she did.

I knew she was there without turning.

A shift in the air. A presence behind me I’d learned to recognize too well.

"Boo."

I turned fast, catching her around the waist as she tried to dart past me. She squealed when I lifted her just enough to throw her off balance, laughter breaking free as I tickled her sides.

"Domenico!" she laughed, breathless. "Put me down!"

"You’re terrible at sneaking," I said, grinning despite myself.

"I almost had you."

"You never do."

I set her down gently. She was smiling up at me—real, loose, unguarded. Hair a mess, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder. For a second, it felt dangerously easy to forget everything else.

I pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before thinking better of it.

She didn’t pull away.

I handed her a mug. "Coffee."

"Thank you." Her fingers brushed mine.

That small contact sent a quiet shock through me.

I nodded toward the stool. "Sit. Eat."

She did—but the shift was immediate. Subtle, but I caught it. She wrapped both hands around the mug and didn’t drink. Her shoulders pulled in. Her gaze dropped to the counter.

I leaned back against it, waiting.

I’d learned patience the hard way.

"I don’t understand why you’re doing this," she said finally.

"Doing what?"

"All of it." She lifted the mug slightly, then set it down untouched. "You staying. Cooking. Acting like nothing’s wrong."

"Nothing has to be wrong," I said carefully.

She looked up then, eyes sharp. "I already said no."

"I know." I breathed out, hating how wounded I sound.

"And you’re still here."

"I told you I’d respect that."

Silence stretched between us. The coffee machine clicked softly behind us.

"We don’t have to call this anything," I said finally. "We don’t have to define it. Whatever this is—it can just be this."

She studied my face, searching. "You’re okay with that?"

I nodded once. "Yes."

Another pause.

"You won’t bring it up again," she said. "Me leaving him and marry you."

The word him landed hard.

"I won’t," I said without hesitation.

Her shoulders eased, relief softening her expression. "I like... this," she admitted. "Being with you. And the sex." She hesitated. "It’s something I never got from him, every other thing, he gave them all to me. But Paolo is a good man."

I didn’t interrupt.

"I don’t want a divorce." She said as a matter of fact, eyeing me to see if I was going to object.

"Then don’t," I said quietly, biting down on the inside of my cheek.

She blinked, surprised.

"I just don’t want you avoiding me again," I added quietly.

Her smile came slow and genuine. She stepped into me, arms sliding around my neck, legs wrapping around my waist like it was instinct. She kissed me on the lips—soft, warm, trusting.

I kissed her back.

Her lips tasted like drinking warm cocoa on a snowy day.

And swallowed everything else.