Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 104

REINA

The plates were still warm when I slid them into the dishwasher. Steam curled upward from the edges, carrying the buttery scent of eggs and toasted bread. I was grateful for the mundane task—it gave me something to focus on, something ordinary to keep my hands busy while my mind raced in dangerous directions.

Behind me, I felt him. Not like a shadow in the corner or a movement in my peripheral vision. No, Domenico was there in that insistent, physical way he always managed—so close I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air. My muscles tensed, reflexively, and I had to remind myself to breathe.

"I’ll wash," he said softly, low enough that I almost didn’t hear it.

I shook my head without looking over my shoulder. "You cooked. I’ll do this."

"I don’t mind..."

"You made breakfast. I’ll handle the dishes. That’s fair."

There was a pause, just long enough for my heart to threaten to jump out of my chest. Then his arms slid around my waist. I froze.

Slow, careful. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just... there. Solid and warm. Like gravity in human form. His broad chest pressed against my back, his jaw resting lightly on my shoulder.

My shoulders dropped a fraction, though I didn’t dare move. I didn’t trust myself to.

"What are you doing?" I whispered, the sound slipped out of my throat like a moan.

"Observing," he murmured, brushing the tip of his nose against my neck, leaving a tingling sensation behind.

I could feel the smirk in his voice even before I turned my head slightly to glance at him. He had this way of saying things that made it impossible not to notice, impossible not to react.

I scooped a little foamy dish soap onto my fingers. Without thinking, I dabbed it gently on the bridge of his nose.

He froze. Just for a heartbeat. Then blinked slowly, staring at the white streak, his expression unreadable.

"You did that on purpose," he said finally.

"You looked too serious," I replied, letting the grin creep onto my face.

Before I could react further, he dipped his own finger into the foam and swiped it across my cheek. I gasped, and then laughed—too loud, too easy. I flicked at him, foam flying, and suddenly we were both laughing quietly, careful not to wake the neighbors.

He caught my wrists and pulled me lightly against him, my back pressing to his chest. My hands were trapped, my stomach fluttering in ways I didn’t want to admit.

"Truce," he said quietly, almost reluctantly.

"Fine," I whispered back.

He didn’t let go right away. His arms stayed close around my waist, a quiet weight that anchored me while I finished rinsing the last plate and sliding it into the dishwasher. Even when I wiped down the counters, he hovered close enough that I could feel his presence on my skin, the warmth of his chest, the occasional brush of his hands as he helped, almost involuntarily.

By the time we moved to the living room, the playful edge had faded into something else. Something quieter. Familiar. Dangerous in its simplicity. I picked up the blanket off the couch and folded it. I unfolded it again. Straightened it. Folded it. He observed, arms crossed, like a judge who refused to pass judgment but refused to look away.

I noticed he wasn’t reaching for his phone, wasn’t checking the time, wasn’t moving toward the door. My chest tightened.

"You’re not leaving," I said lightly.

He tilted his head, studying me. His face dropped. "Do you want me to?"

Fuck! Did I want him to leave? I wasn’t sure.

"...Don’t you have work?" I asked, the words more casual than I felt. Avoiding his question.

"I have work," he said slowly. "But I don’t have to show up today. Not unless I want to. And today, I don’t want to go."

My stomach flipped. "Why?" 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

"I missed you," he said quietly, simply. No theatrics. Just truth.

I smirked, a reflex to hide the heat in my chest. "You were here all night."

"Yes," he said, smiling, "but not like this."

The words hit me harder than I expected. Not because of what they said, but because of how he said them—like there was an entire conversation happening in the space between the syllables, like he was confessing without confessing.

I didn’t answer.

"Don’t you have class?" he asked, tilting his head again.

"I think I’ll skip," I said, shaking my head slowly. The admission was deliciously reckless, and I knew it.

I noticed him glance down at my hand when I picked up a pillow, the gold band glinting in the sunlight. My wedding ring. I hadn’t taken it off. I didn’t know why I hadn’t. Habit? Guilt? A quiet defiance of the thoughts running through my mind that morning? He noticed. I could tell by the fraction of tension that tightened his jaw, the way his eyes lingered, measuring me without speaking.

He didn’t say anything about it, though. Just swallowed and moved on.

"What do you want to do today?" he asked.

The question was dangerous in its openness. I could ask for anything. And yet, I said the first thing that came to mind.

"I need to do laundry," I said. "You’re welcome to tag along if you want."

He grinned. "Thrilling."

The laundry room smelled faintly of detergent and warm metal. I sorted the clothes on the counter while he leaned against the wall, eyes on me. Not judging. Not impatient. Just... observing. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, but not so close as to be threatening.

"You stare a lot," I said without looking at him.

"Hard not to," he said, voice low.

I bent to load the washer. When I straightened, he was right there, the air charged with something I couldn’t name. Close enough that my breath hit his chest.

He kissed me, once. Then another, soft and quick, almost a secret. At the corner of my mouth. I laughed softly, shaking my head, trying to pull back.

"Behave," I murmured, though my hands lingered on the edge of the counter.

Instead of stepping back, he kissed my knuckles, slow and deliberate, the warmth of his lips lingering. My pulse kicked up, faster than I wanted, and I realized I was holding my breath.

I bent to pick up a small pile of underwear from the basket, sorting it carefully. Something felt... off. When I looked up, he was standing there, hands in his pockets, expression impossibly calm.

I narrowed my eyes. "What did you do?"

He smirked faintly, innocent as a cat. "What?"

I noticed something sticking out of his pocket—delicate, lacy, unmistakably mine. My panties.

I stepped closer, reached into his pocket without asking, and pulled them out. He didn’t try to take them back. He didn’t protest.

Stealing a panties? Really?

"You’re impossible," I said, shaking my head, laughing despite myself. Shoving the lace panties back into his pocket and he returned my seductive smile.

"And yet," he said, voice low, "you didn’t stop me."

I didn’t.

The washer started humming, a steady, insistent sound. We stood there for a moment, quiet, the heat of his body pressing against me without movement. The scent of him, the weight of him, the unspoken words—all of it settled into the room like sunlight, filling the corners, the air, the quiet moments I didn’t know how to name.

It was just laundry. And yet, it was everything.