Page 139 of Deacon

I creep down the hall and peer into his office. He’s at his desk, laptop open, a stack of folders next to it. I watch him silently. He has this habit of clicking his pen wildly, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I clear my throat. He looks up.

“Need something, sweetheart?”

The words catch in my throat. How can I tell him I’m addicted to him? I need to borrow his big body to bring me back down to Earth when I blow away.

“Just you,” I whisper.

He clears his throat. “Run upstairs, change, and bring me the strap for your belt.”

As I climb the stairs, I realize I’m starting to understand that nothing he does is by accident. It’s all by design.

I drift. He grounds me.

Upstairs, I change into one of his big shirts and take the strap from his bedside table. He’s back to typing on his laptop when I return. I knock on the doorway, and he beckons me without looking up. Heart pattering, I stand by his elbow and wait.

He takes his time. Then, eyes like hot coals rest on me.

“Lift your shirt,” he says.

Obediently, I raise the hem, exposing my pussy and the metal around my hips. He’s taken the strap on and off enough for me to know he needs me to shift my legs apart. When I do it without being told, he gives me an approving nod.

He sets the strap over my pussy and locks it.

“I’ve got to finish this up, sweetheart,” he says. “Then I’ll play with you for a while.”

He guides my hips to set me on his knee. Then, he goes back to whatever boring thing he has on his screen—some kind of spreadsheet. Occasionally, he rubs my thigh and waist absently.

He doesn’t have to tell me what this is for—his words were a deliberate choice. I’m his toy, locked up and obedient until he decides he wants to play with me.

I shift my hips. I’m soaked against the strap, and I’m anchored to him, no longer drifting into the dark parts of my mind. He keeps me there with his touch. Absent, lingering. Rough callouses, worn ink. Fingertips that dig into the soft swell of my hips around the harness.

After a while, he sits back.

“You wet for me?” he asks, closing his laptop.

“Yes,” I whisper, face warm.

He turns my face up. “Yes…what?”

My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl,” he says, lifting me from his lap. “You go on up to the attic and I’ll be there in a minute.”

My stomach flutters. How many times has he made it do that today? His eyes follow me as I leave the room and head up the attic stairs. I turn on the light and sink down on the reading chair and pull a blanket over me. Overhead, through the exposed skylights, I can see that the clouds have cleared.

The sky is breathtaking.

I’ve never seen the world the way I do from Ryder Ranch. It’s a little closer to heaven than the rest. Here, I can keep both feet on the ground but still be in the stars.

He comes up in a while, carrying a length of rolled up rope and the box he left in the bathroom. I sit up, my heartbeat increasing. There’s a familiar tingle between my legs.

“Get up and strip, sweetheart,” he says.

Obediently, I stand and remove my shirt. It falls to the floor, and I put it on the chair. He opens the box and takes out the lingerie. His hands are rough, firm, when he pulls the panties over the harness. Before he settles them, he unlocks the strap and bends in to kiss my wet pussy.

Right then, I realize something I can’t say aloud.

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