“Promise?” I wink.
And just like that, he grabs me playfully, pinning my arms behind my back and forces me down onto the bed.
“Little girls that don’t listen have to learn the consequences,” he whispers into my ear as he moves my swimsuit to the side.
“I promise to be a bad girl then,” I quip. We both pause, laughing at my reply.
“I love your sense of humor, little one.”
“I love that you love my jokes, Daddy.”
“But you’re still in trouble,” he says, sliding his thick inches inside me and taking my breath away.
“And just like I said, this body is perfect.”
“I need to lay off that fattening yogurt.”
“You need to eat more,” he growls.
“Why would you say that?”
“Padding.”
“Padding. For what?”
“This,” he says quickly, slamming into me from behind with reckless abandon. At thirty-three years old my hormones are as wild as they’ve ever been and Daddy’s rough play is more than welcome. Partly because I love it so much, and partly because I know what comes after.
Aftercare. Where he holds me and tells me how much he loves me and how beautiful I am, usually while combing my hair.
And that’s the best part. With him, I get the best of all worlds, no matter where in the world we find ourselves.
But one thing is for certain. Wherever he is, and our kids are, is home. Because home isn’t where you hang your hat, home is where your heart is and mine belongs to him.
Always.
“I love you, baby girl.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
THE END