Daphne’s POV
Morning light filters through the curtains in golden ribbons.
I surface from sleep to the sensation of Xander's mouth tracing down my spine—soft, deliberate, reverent. Each kiss lands like a whispered promise against my skin.
I hum contentment into the pillow, not quite awake, not quite ready to leave the warm cocoon of half-dreams.
"Good morning," I murmur, my voice still rough with sleep.
"Mm." His lips find the dip at the base of my spine. "Very good morning."
He takes his time, mapping vertebrae with lips and tongue, his hands following paths they've memorized but never tire of traveling.
His fingers trace the curve of my waist, the swell of my hip, the sensitive hollow behind my knee.
I feel worshipped, discovered, like he's learning me all over again.
"Xander." His name comes out breathless. "The girls will be up soon."
"Maya has them. I checked." His teeth graze my shoulder blade. "We have time."
"How much time?"
"Enough." His hand slides beneath me, pulling my hips up, arranging me exactly where he wants me. "More than enough."
What starts out lazy becomes urgent. His mouth grows hungrier, his touches more demanding.
I arch into him, seeking friction, seeking more, and he gives it—rolling me onto my back, settling between my thighs, his eyes dark with the particular intensity he reserves for moments like this.
"Tell me what you want." His voice is rough.
"You. Just you."
"You have me. What else?"
What becomes urgent turns desperate. We roll across the mattress in a tangle of limbs and laughter, fighting for control neither of us really wants to win. The sheets twist around our legs, the pillows scatter. I end up on top, then beneath him, then—
We tumble off the bed entirely.
My back hits the plush carpet with a soft thump. The sheets are wrapped around us like a cocoon, ridiculous and wonderful. I should suggest we move back to the mattress. I should care about carpet burn and practical concerns.
I don't.
"Don't stop," I gasp instead.
He doesn't.
He takes me there on the floor—deep and relentless, his hands pinning my wrists above my head, his mouth swallowing every sound I make. I arch into him, meeting each thrust, feeling the pleasure build and build until it crashes over me in waves that leave me trembling.
He follows moments later, groaning my name like it's the only word he knows.
Afterward, breathless and ridiculous, still tangled in sheets that have absolutely no business being on the floor, I start to laugh.
"What?" He lifts his head from my shoulder, his hair disheveled, his expression adorably confused.
"We're a mess." I gesture at our surroundings—the carpet, the twisted bedding, the pillows scattered halfway across the room. "An absolute disaster."
"A very satisfied disaster." He grins, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. "No regrets."
"None." I run my fingers through his hair. "Though my back might file a complaint later."
"I'll massage it."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He shifts, settling beside me on the carpet, propping himself on one elbow. His free hand traces lazy patterns on my stomach. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"What do you think about? When we're together like this." His voice is curious, not demanding. "What goes through your mind?"
The question catches me off guard. I've never been asked before—not like this, not with genuine interest rather than performance or ego.
"Honestly?" I hesitate. "Lots of things. Sometimes I'm completely present—just sensation, just you, nothing else. But sometimes..."
"Sometimes?"
I take a breath. This feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to jump.
"Sometimes I have fantasies," I admit quietly. "Things I've never told anyone. Things I've kept locked away because they seemed... I don't know. Too much. Too strange."
Xander's hand stills on my stomach. His eyes meet mine—dark, intent, completely focused.
"Tell me." Not a demand, an invitation.
"You won't think differently of me?"
"Daphne." He cups my face, making sure I'm looking at him. "There is nothing you could tell me that would make me want you less. Nothing. I want to know every part of you—especially the parts you've been hiding."
So I tell him.
"Sometimes I imagine you taking control completely." My voice is barely above a whisper. "Not asking what I want. Just... knowing. Deciding. Pinning my hands so I can't move and making me take whatever you give me."
His breath catches, his hand resumes its movement on my stomach, slower now. Deliberate.
"What else?"
"I think about your hands around my throat." Heat floods my cheeks, but I push through. "Not hurting me, just holding. Feeling my pulse under your fingers while you're inside me. The way it would make everything more intense."
"Daphne." My name sounds like gravel in his mouth.
"And sometimes…" I close my eyes because this one is harder. "Sometimes I imagine you watching me. Making me touch myself while you just... observe. Telling me what to do, when to go faster, when to stop. Not letting me finish until you decide I've earned it."
The silence stretches. I risk opening my eyes.
Xander is staring at me like I've transformed into someone he's never seen before. But not with judgment. With hunger so raw it makes my stomach flip.
"Is that all?" he asks when I finally fall silent.
"Isn't that enough?"
"It's a start." His smile turns wicked. "We have time to discover more."
That night, after the children are asleep and the house falls quiet, he fulfills every one.
Every fantasy I whispered becomes reality in his hands. He pays attention to details I barely mentioned—the way I wanted to feel, the specific touches I described, the particular words I admitted I longed to hear.
He knows me. He was listening. And he uses that knowledge to take me apart completely.
By the time he lets me sleep, I feel worshipped and cherished and thoroughly claimed. I curl into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear, his arms wrapped around me like I'm precious.
But beneath the pleasure, something nags at the edges of my awareness.
The exhaustion that won't lift no matter how much I sleep. I've been tired before—raising twins alone taught me intimate familiarity with exhaustion—but this is different, deeper.
The kind of fatigue that seeps into bones and refuses to budge.
Stress, I tell myself. Fear. The weight of recent weeks.
And the coffee. My lifeblood for five years of single motherhood, the only thing that got me through dawn feedings and sleepless nights.
Yesterday morning, I lifted my cup and the smell hit me wrong—not unpleasant exactly, but nauseating in a way that made my stomach lurch.
Just stress. Everything tastes different when you're anxious.
And the tenderness in my breasts. I noticed it this morning, and dismissed it as hormonal.
My cycle has always been unpredictable, especially when I'm under pressure. Bodies do strange things when fear becomes a constant companion.
That's all it is. That's all any of it is.
I burrow deeper into Xander's warmth, letting his steady breathing lull me toward sleep. The symptoms are nothing. Coincidence. The aftermath of weeks spent living under siege, waiting for threats to materialize.
My body is already keeping secrets I don't yet understand.
But tonight, I'm too satisfied to question them.