Chapter 3: A Quiet Dinner Interrupted
The silence after her mother slammed the bedroom door upstairs was a physical thing, thick and cold. Megumi remained at the table, her body humming with a shameful, residual tremor. The polished wood under her palms felt like ice. Between her legs, she was still achingly wet, a slick contrast to the chill settling in the dining room.
Sukuna hadn’t moved. He leaned back in his chair at the head of the table, swirling the last of his whiskey in the heavy crystal glass. The clink of the ice was obscenely loud.
“Look at me, baby girl.”
His voice was a low rumble, the same one that had vibrated against her skin in the dark of his bedroom last night. She dragged her eyes up from the wreckage of their dinner plates—the congealing gravy, the smudge of her lipstick on a water glass. His gaze was heavy, unwavering. It pinned her in place as effectively as his hand had on her thigh minutes before.
“She’s in a mood,” he said, a statement devoid of concern.
Megumi nodded, her throat too tight for words. The criticism still rang in her ears: Clumsy. Sloppy. Useless. Her mother’s voice was a needle, always finding the softest parts of her. She wrapped her arms around herself, her small breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her dress. The dress she’d chosen because he liked the way the neckline slipped off one shoulder.
“Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. She pushed back from the table, her legs shaky. The ornate rug muffled her steps as she rounded the corner to where he sat. He didn’t pull her onto his lap. He simply caught her wrist, his fingers circling the delicate bones, and guided her down until she was kneeling on the floor beside his chair. The position was familiar, humbling. It steadied her.
His free hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip. He studied her face, the redness around her eyes. “She hurt your feelings.”
It wasn’t a question. Megumi leaned into his touch, a soft whimper escaping her. “She… she said I was a disgrace.”
“She’s wrong.” His thumb pressed against her lip, and instinctively, she parted them, taking the tip into her mouth. She tasted the salt of his skin, the faint trace of tobacco. “You’re my good girl. My perfect thing. Aren’t you?”
She nodded, suckling gently, her eyes fluttering shut. This was the truth. This, right here, with the weight of his approval settling over her, was the only truth that mattered.
“Open your eyes. Look at me while you do that.”
She obeyed. His expression was serene, possessive. He watched her mouth work on his thumb with a focused intensity that made heat pool low in her belly again. The earlier, frantic climax under the table felt like a distant dream compared to this slow, deliberate worship.
“You came at the table,” he murmured, a dark pride in his tone. “With her right there, yelling. My brave little pet. So hungry for me you couldn’t even wait.”
He withdrew his thumb, a string of saliva connecting it to her lip for a second before it broke. Then his hand slid down, over the pulse in her neck, over the prominent collar bone, until his palm covered her breast. Even through the dress and her bra, she could feel the sheer size of his hand. He squeezed, not gently. A sharp, possessive pressure that made her gasp.
“These belong to me,” he said, his voice dropping. “Every part of you. She doesn’t get a single piece.”
He twisted his wrist, tugging at her nipple until the pleasure bordered on pain. Megumi’s head fell forward, her forehead resting against the hard muscle of his thigh. She breathed in his scent—clean linen, whiskey, him. Her fingers crept up to clutch at the fabric of his trousers.
“Please, daddy.”
“Please what?”
“Touch me.”
“I am touching you.” He pinched her nipple again, rolling it between his finger and thumb, and she cried out, a sharp, choked sound that echoed in the silent room.
“More. Please.”
A door creaked upstairs. They both froze. The sound of her mother’s footsteps moved across the ceiling, then faded towards the master suite at the opposite end of the hall. A different master suite. The one Sukuna hadn’t entered in years.
The tension bled out of him. His grip softened, becoming a caress. “She’s going to brood for hours now. We have time.”
He stood, his movements fluid and powerful, and her hands fell away. He looked down at her, kneeling at his feet, her dress disheveled, her lips swollen, her eyes wide and utterly devoted. A slow smile touched his mouth.
“On the bed. The big one. Now.”
She scrambled up, her heart hammering against her ribs. He didn’t mean her narrow, childish bed in her pastel room. He meant the bed. The one in the room that smelled like them. She led the way, her bare feet silent on the stairs, feeling his presence behind her like a wall of heat.
The hallway was dark, but the door to his room was ajar, the golden lamp from last night still casting its low, seductive glow. The scent hit her the moment she crossed the threshold—vanilla, sweat, him. It was the smell of safety. Of madness.
She went to the bed, the sheets still tangled from the night before. She didn’t wait for instruction. She pulled the dress over her head, let it fall to the floor. She removed her bra, her panties, each movement trembling but deliberate. Then she climbed onto the center of the mattress and laid back, exposing herself to him, to the dim light, to the hungry silence of the house.
He stood in the doorway, watching her, unbuttoning his shirt with agonizing slowness. His eyes traveled over her pale body, lingering on the slight curve of her hips, the dark triangle between her thighs, the small breasts with nipples already hardened into tight peaks.
“You look like a offering,” he said, finally shrugging the shirt off. His chest was a landscape of hard muscle and old scars. “My own personal sacrament.”
He joined her on the bed, the frame groaning under his weight. He didn’t immediately cover her. Instead, he propped himself on one elbow beside her, his free hand resuming its exploration. He traced the line of her jaw, the column of her throat, the shallow dip between her collarbones. His touch was a brand.
“You’re still wet from dinner,” he observed, his fingers trailing lower, over her quivering stomach. “Still thinking about my fingers inside you while she talked about your grades.”
She nodded, arching into his touch as his hand finally cupped her. His fingers slid through her folds easily. “Daddy…”
“Tell me what you want, Megumi.” He used her name rarely, and it always felt like a gift, a shock. It grounded her for a second in an identity outside of ‘baby girl’ or ‘pet’.
“You,” she gasped, as two thick fingers pushed into her. “Always you. Just… fuck me. Please. I need to feel it. All of it.”
He withdrew his fingers, slick and shining, and brought them to his mouth. He tasted her, his eyes locking with hers. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He shifted, kneeling between her legs, his massive frame blocking the light. He was fully hard, his cock jutting out, thick and intimidating. He took himself in hand, guiding the broad head through her wetness, notching it at her entrance. He leaned over her, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging her in.
“Look at me,” he commanded, and she did. Her world narrowed to the dark pools of his eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw, the vein pulsing in his neck.
He pushed in.
It was the same breathtaking, full sensation as last night, a slow, unstoppable invasion that stretched her to the point of burning, then beyond, into a fullness that felt like belonging. She cried out, a ragged sound, as he seated himself to the hilt, his pelvis flush against hers. He was so deep she could feel him in her womb, a perfect, terrible pressure.
“There,” he sighed, dropping his forehead against hers. His breath was warm. “My girl. My perfect, tight little girl. All mine.”
He began to move. Not with the frantic, hidden pace from the dinner table, but with deep, rolling thrusts that stole the air from her lungs. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each return a claiming. The room filled with the sound of skin on skin, of the bedstead tapping the wall in a slow rhythm, of her broken, continuous sobs.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough. “Take it. Take all of me. Let daddy fill you up.”
His hand slipped between them, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing tight, hard circles that matched the pace of his hips. The dual assault shattered her last semblance of thought. Pleasure coiled, white-hot and terrifying, at the base of her spine.
“I… I can’t…”
“You can. You will. Come for me. Let go.”
His command was the final thread snap. Her body seized, clenching around him in violent, rhythmic pulses. A silent scream tore through her, her back bowing off the bed. She was nothing but sensation, a mindless vessel for the wave of raw ecstasy that crashed over her, drowning her.
Through the haze, she felt his own control fracture. His thrusts lost their measured rhythm, becoming jerky, frantic. A low groan ripped from his chest, and he drove into her one final, devastating time, burying himself as deep as he could go. She felt the hot, sudden rush of his release inside her, a searing intimacy that made her whimper.
He collapsed atop her, his full weight a comfort, a prison. She could feel his heart hammering against her own. The scent of sex, of him, was overwhelming. She nuzzled into the sweat-damp skin of his neck, her lips forming the only word left in her.
“Daddy.”
He hummed, a vibration she felt in her bones. He was still inside her, softening but present. He shifted slightly, just enough to pull the rumpled sheet over them both. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her long, dark hair.
Down the hall, a door opened. The sharp, irritated click of her mother’s heels on the hardwood floor. Click. Click. Click. Moving towards the stairs.
Sukuna went still. Megumi held her breath.
The footsteps paused right outside his door. For one endless second, they waited in the warm, guilty dark, their secret screaming in the silence between them.
Then the heels turned and clicked away, descending the stairs.
Sukuna let out a slow breath. His arms tightened around her. “Sleep, baby,” he whispered into her hair, his voice already thick with drowsiness. “I’ve got you.”
And as she drifted, spent and owned, the last thing she heard was the distant, lonely sound of the front door closing. Her mother, leaving. Again.