Chapter 11: Daddy's Little Girl
The walk from the garage to the apartment above was a blur of sensation and disorientation. Jace carried her, her body still humming with aftershocks, her face pressed against the worn cotton of his t-shirt. Rhett led the way, his broad back a dark silhouette against the dingy stairwell light.
The apartment was a stark contrast to the workshop below. It was still masculine, still cluttered with the detritus of a solitary life—spare motorcycle parts on a bookshelf, a stack of grease-stained manuals on the floor—but it was warm. A gas fireplace flickered behind a glass screen, casting the room in trembling amber light. The air smelled of leather soap and the pine-scented cleaner Rhett used on the floors.
Jace didn’t set her down on the worn leather couch she expected. Instead, Rhett guided them to a large, deep armchair positioned close to the fire’s heat. He sat, his movements deliberate, and Jace placed her in his lap. She was arranged sideways, her bare legs draped over the armrest, her back supported by Rhett’s chest. He was solid and warm behind her, a wall of quiet heat. One of his arms wrapped around her ribs, just beneath her breasts, holding her firmly in place. It wasn’t a request.
She felt small. Not just physically. The magnitude of what had happened in the garage, the raw vulnerability of her climax, had stripped her usual defenses to the bone. She shivered.
Rhett’s free hand came up, not to her skin, but to her hair. He stroked it slowly, his fingers catching in the tangles. “Shhh,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her back. “Just settle.”
Jace knelt on the rug in front of the chair. He had a strange, soft look on his face, one she rarely saw. He picked up one of her feet, his thumb pressing into the arch. A sigh escaped her, unwanted.
“Out of your head, sweetheart,” Jace said, his tone lighter than Rhett’s but no less commanding. “We’ve got you.”
Rhett’s hand left her hair and went to the button of her jeans—his flannel shirt was still untied around her, the only thing covering her top half. He popped the button with a soft snick, dragged the zipper down. The sound was obscenely loud. He began to work the denim down her hips, his hands firm and methodical.
“Lift,” he said, and she automatically raised her hips, allowing him to slide the jeans and her panties down her legs and off. Jace took them, tossing them aside onto the couch. She was naked again, exposed in the firelight, cradled in Rhett’s lap.
“There’s my little girl,” Rhett said, his lips close to her ear. The term landed strangely, a caress and a constraint all at once. It didn’t feel like mockery. It felt like a redefinition.
Jace reached into a small drawer on the side table. When his hand emerged, he was holding a single, pale blue adult pacifier. It was simple, silicone. He didn’t explain it. He just brought it to her lips.
“Open,” he said.
She balked, a flicker of her old self sparking. “What the fuck is that?”
Rhett’s arm tightened around her ribs, just shy of painful. “Don’t question him. Open your mouth.”
Her jaw felt tight. Humiliation, warm and prickling, crawled up her neck. But beneath it, a terrifying thread of something else—a longing to obey, to let the decision be taken. Parting her lips felt like surrender.
Jace slid the silicone nipple between her teeth. “Suck.”
The command was blunt. She complied, the rubbery taste flooding her mouth. It was an anchor, focusing her breath into a rhythmic, shallow pull. Her cheeks hollowed. The world narrowed to the sensation, the crackle of the fire, and the heavy, secure weight of Rhett against her back.
His hand, large and calloused, slid down her flat stomach. He didn’t tease. His fingers parted her labia, found her clit—swollen and hypersensitive from the rope. He began rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure was perfect, maddeningly patient. A low moan vibrated around the pacifier.
“Good,” Rhett whispered. “Just like that. Be still for me.”
She tried, but her hips wanted to jerk, to seek more. His iron hold kept her pinned. She was completely at the mercy of his touch, a fusion of pleasure and helplessness that made her eyes burn.
Jace watched, his gaze intense. He stood and disappeared into the small kitchen, returning with a glass bottle filled with warm milk. He unscrewed the cap and brought the nipple to her lips, beside the pacifier. “Let go,” he instructed.
She released the pacifier with a soft pop. He replaced it immediately with the bottle’s teat. “Drink.”
It was warm, slightly sweet. She sucked, the act profoundly infantilizing. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as Rhett’s fingers continued their relentless, circling torture. She drank, gulping around the building pressure in her core. Just as the first flutters of an orgasm began to tighten her belly, Rhett stopped.
His fingers left her clit.
She whimpered, a desperate, miserable sound against the bottle.
“Not yet,” Rhett said. His voice was gentle, final.
Jace pulled the bottle away. Milk dripped from the corner of her mouth. He wiped it with his thumb, then pushed the pacifier back between her lips. “Suck.”
She sobbed around it, her body trembling with frustrated need. The cycle repeated. Rhett’s fingers, knowing and cruel, would work her to the brink. Then stop. Jace would feed her the warm milk, making her swallow down her cries with the liquid. Then the pacifier again. Each time, the climb was higher, the fall back more disorienting.
Her mind frayed. Thoughts scattered. She was just sensation—the fire’s heat on her legs, the scratch of Rhett’s denim against her thigh, the suckling reflex that soothed and shamed her, the exquisite agony between her legs.
During one of the bottle feedings, Jace leaned in. His mouth closed over her nipple, his tongue lashing the peak before he sucked, hard. The dual sensation—sucking, being suckled—unraveled something deep in her psyche. She babbled incoherently, milk and saliva slicking her chin.
Rhett pressed her face into his chest, muffling her sounds. His fingers were inside her now, two thick digits pumping into her drenched cunt while his thumb pressed on her clit. “Come on, little girl,” he coaxed, his voice a rough burr. “Let it go. Show us how good you can be.”
The dam broke. It wasn’t the violent rupture of the garage. This was a slow, total collapse. Pleasure seeped out of her, wave after warm, draining wave, pulling her under. She came with a shattered cry against his shirt, her body liquefying, held together only by his arms. The pacifier fell from her slack mouth.
She floated in the aftermath, boneless and empty. Jace was cleaning her face with a soft cloth. Rhett was still holding her, his breath steady against her temple.
“Such a good girl,” he murmured. The words sank into her, a balm and a brand.
She was drifting, untethered, when Jace spoke, his voice casual, almost conversational. “Remember that guy from the bar last week? The one who wouldn’t stop buying you drinks after we told him to fuck off?”
A cold trickle cut through the warm haze. Sadie went still.
Rhett’s embrace didn’t change, but she felt a new tension in the arm around her. “What about him?” Rhett asked, his tone flat.
“Saw his bike outside the parts store yesterday,” Jace said, standing up and stretching. “Throttle cable was looking pretty frayed. Real safety hazard.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the fire’s crackle. Rhett’s hand resumed its slow stroking of her hair.
“Probably snapped on him,” Rhett said finally, his voice quiet, final. “Could happen to anybody.”
Jace nodded, a faint, cold smile touching his lips. He looked down at Sadie, her eyes wide and watchful now. “Guess some people just don’t know when to walk away.”
The safety she’d felt moments ago twisted, deepening into something darker, more absolute. It wasn’t just protection. It was possession, with teeth. She closed her eyes, the taste of milk and rubber still on her tongue, and let the terrifying certainty of it wrap around her as tightly as Rhett’s arms.