Chapter 18: Morning Devotion
The grey light of morning had solidified into something pale and tangible. It striped the rumpled sheets, the curve of Tamara’s hip under the velvet cover, the heavy plane of Silas’s shoulder. He’d been awake for an hour, watching her sleep. Watching the peaceful rise and fall of her ribs, the way her eyelashes feathered against cheeks that were no longer tear-streaked but soft with rest.
His promise from the night hummed in his veins—a quiet, electric current. This space is yours. It’s safe.
He wanted to seal that promise into her skin before the world could intrude.
He moved with a predator’s patience, shifting down the bed. The covers whispered as he drew them back, exposing the length of her legs. The room was cool, and goosebumps rose on her thighs. She murmured, a meaningless sound of sleep, and turned onto her back. One arm flopped above her head, a study in unconscious surrender.
Silas bent his head. He started at her ankle, pressing his lips to the delicate bone. A kiss. Then another, higher, on the swell of her calf. His hands followed, smoothing up her skin, warming her. He was mapping her, claiming every inch not with force, but with a deliberate, reverent attention she’d never known.
She stirred again, deeper this time. A sigh leaked from her lips. Her thighs fell apart slightly, a natural, sleepy yielding.
His large hand settled on the inside of her thigh, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. He felt the fine tremor that passed through her muscle even in sleep. He leaned in, his breath warm against her stomach, then lower, nuzzling her smooth mound. He breathed her in—sleep, sex, salt, her.
His tongue found her. A slow, flat stroke that was more a greeting than a demand.
Tamara’s back arched off the bed with a soft gasp. Her eyes flew open, clouded with disorientation and the sharp, bright shock of sensation. “Si—?”
“Shhh,” he murmured, the vibration against her core making her jolt. He didn’t let her rise fully. He held her hip down with one firm hand, his other arm sliding under her thigh to cradle her. “Daddy needs to see you,” he said, his voice gravelly with morning and intent. “No hiding. No thinking. Just this.”
He didn’t let her process. He took her back under with his mouth. Slow, languorous licks that built a heat so gradual it felt like the sunrise itself—inevitable, consuming. His tongue circled her clit with a maddening lack of urgency, then dipped inside her, tasting the remnants of last night and the fresh, clean arousal he was pulling from her now.
She was panting, her hands fluttering, then gripping the sheets. “I’m… I’m not…”
“You are,” he corrected, lifting his head just enough to speak. His eyes, dark and focused, locked onto hers. “You’re going to come for me. Right here, right now. While you’re still soft from sleep. Let me see it.”
He replaced his mouth with his hand. Two thick fingers slid into her, curling, finding the spot that made her cry out. His thumb pressed relentless, perfect circles against her clit. The pace was steady, unyielding. It wasn’t about frenzy. It was about ownership. He watched her face, every flicker of resistance, every dawning spike of pleasure.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice a low rumble. “Give it to me. Let it go.”
The climax didn’t crash over her; it unfolded. It started deep in her belly, a coil of pure, golden heat that unwound, wave after slow wave, spreading through her limbs, turning her bones to liquid. She made a sound, a broken, sobbing gasp that was his name and a prayer. Her hips lifted, ground against his hand, seeking more, seeking everything, until the waves finally ebbed, leaving her trembling and utterly spent.
He withdrew his hand slowly, bringing his fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact. He tasted her. A primal, satisfied look flashed in his eyes.
Then he moved up her body, his weight settling over her, caging her in warmth and muscle. He kissed her, deep and thorough, letting her taste herself on his tongue. She was pliant, her kisses lazy and open.
“Good morning,” he said against her lips.
A weak, shuddering laugh escaped her. “You’re… a lot.”
“I’m yours,” he stated, as if it were the simplest truth in the world. He rolled, taking her with him so she was sprawled on top of him, her head on his chest. His heart thudded a steady, strong rhythm under her ear. “And you have the whole day. What does my baby girl need?”
The question, after that, was almost too profound. She nuzzled into his skin, the scent of him—soap and sweat and man—filling her senses. The phantom buzz of a phone, the mental checklist of medications, appointments, her husband’s empty gaze… it all felt distant, muffled.
“Pancakes?” she whispered, the request feeling absurd and perfect.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “Pancakes it is. With stupid amounts of syrup. And then…” He stroked her hair, his fingers catching in the tangles. “We talk about the phone. And what you need next.”
The comfort of the moment tightened, just a fraction. The real world was in this room now, sitting at the foot of the bed. She’d called him Daddy. He’d taken her phone. They were past pretending this was a casual escape.
“I’m scared,” she admitted to his skin.
“I know.” His hand was steady on her back. “But you’re not doing it alone anymore. First, pancakes. Then, we figure it out. One thing at a time.”
She closed her eyes, listening to the solid beat of his heart. For the first time in years, the path forward didn’t seem like a lonely cliff edge. It seemed like a series of steps, and the first one was a kitchen filled with the smell of batter and the certainty of his hands, moving around her, making a space where she could simply be.
It seemed like a series of steps, and the first one was a kitchen filled with the smell of batter and the certainty of his hands, moving around her, making a space where she could simply be. That comforting vision held her in a doze for another twenty minutes, her body limp and sated atop his. Finally, he shifted, his large hands smoothing down her back to her hips.
“Alright, lazybones,” he murmured, his voice a rumble in his chest. “Pancakes require a chef. And this chef needs to get up.” He began to ease her off, a gentle, rolling motion meant to deposit her onto the warm sheets beside him.
She made a sound—a high, needy whine that was pure, unthinking protest. Her arms locked around his neck, her legs scrambling to reclaim their hold, spreading wider to anchor herself against his solid frame. She clung, a sleepy barnacle, her face buried against his throat. “No,” she mumbled, the word slurred and thick. “Stay.”
He laughed, a genuine, surprised sound that shook through both of them. “You’re like a koala,” he said, amused, trying to pry her loose with gentle hands. “A very stubborn, very naked koala. Come on, baby. Food.”
Her only answer was to press her entire body down, seeking his warmth, her thighs gripping his hips. In her sleepy, petulant wrangling, she shifted. The slick, hot heart of her, still swollen and sensitive from his mouth, grazed the rigid length of his morning erection.
The air vanished from his lungs.
His amused chuckle cut off into a sharp, inhaled hiss. Every muscle in his body went taut, a live wire snapping. His hands, which had been playfully trying to dislodge her, froze. Then they clamped onto her hips, holding her exactly there, not letting her move another inch.
“Tamara.” Her name was a warning and a plea, ground out between his teeth.
She felt it—the sudden, brutal tension in him, the way his body hardened beneath hers like stone. Her own sleepiness evaporated, replaced by a pulse of pure, liquid heat. She lifted her head. His eyes were black, his jaw clenched, all traces of gentle humor scorched away by a hotter, hungrier fire.
She didn’t speak. Holding his gaze, she pushed herself up on her arms, the movement slow and deliberate. She felt him, thick and insistent, nestling against her. A shiver wracked her. Then, with a certainty that came from somewhere deep in that soft, surrendered place he’d carved open, she rose up on her knees and guided him inside.
It was a slow, breathtaking slide. She took him, every inch, until she was fully seated, her body trembling with the overwhelming fullness. A broken sigh escaped her lips.
For a moment, he just let her. His hands stayed on her hips, his head thrown back against the pillow, cords standing out in his neck. He was letting her set the pace, this small illusion of control a gift in the wake of his earlier dominance. “That’s it,” he managed, his voice rough. “Take what you need.”
She began to move, a slow, rocking grind that was less about rhythm and more about feeling. Her eyes stayed locked on his, watching the storm there. Her hands braced on his chest, she rose and fell, learning the angle, the depth. The pleasure was a slow-burning build, a counterpoint to the sharp, shattering climax he’d given her earlier. This was hers. This connection.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “Riding me. Perfect.” His control was a thin, fraying thread. She could see it in the clench of his abdomen, in the way his fingers began to press guiding pulses against her skin.
Her movements grew more confident, more desperate. The slap of skin, their ragged breaths, the creak of the bed—it was the only sound in the world. The promised pancakes, the threatening phone, the entire life waiting outside this room dissolved into a haze. There was only this climb, this fusion, the sheer truth of him inside her.
His hands slid up to her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. “Come on, baby girl,” he urged, his own hips starting to meet her rises with shallow, driving thrusts. “Finish it. Let me feel you.”
It was the permission, the dark promise in his voice, that undid her. The coil snapped, her head falling back as a silent, searing wave tore through her, clamping her around him in rhythmic pulses. He swore, a low, guttural word, and drove up into her one last, final time, his own release hitting with a force that bowed his back off the bed.
She collapsed forward, a boneless heap on his chest, their sweat-slick skin sticking together. His arms came around her, holding her close as their hearts hammered a frantic, slowing duet against each other.
They lay like that for a long time, just breathing. The smell of sex and sleep was heavy in the air. Finally, he pressed a kiss to her damp hair. “Pancakes are gonna be late,” he said, his voice shot.
She smiled against his skin. “Worth it.”
He shifted, carefully rolling them to their sides without breaking the connection. He tucked her head under his chin. The earlier ease was gone, replaced by a solemn quiet. The real world was seeping back in, persistent as the daylight now bright behind the blinds.
His fingers traced idle patterns on her shoulder. “That phone,” he said quietly. “The one your sister has. We need to talk about what happens when it rings for real.” His voice held no playfulness now, only the steady, heavy tone of a man facing a problem that needed solving. “And what you’re going to say when you have to go back home.”