All Chapters of Wanting His Father; Daddy Dom/ LG Forbidden Romance: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

THOMASShe wears my shirt as though it were meant for her. That's the first thing that I notice – not the curves of her thighs just above the hem, not the way the cuffs swallow her delicate hands, but the way her body has already adjusted to the permission of wearing it. I'm focused on the way that she holds herself differently inside fabric that doesn't belong to her, as though ownership itself has altered the way she breathes.The shirt is too large, it should look absolutely ridiculous. It doesn't, though. Not at all.Iris stands at the bottom of the stairs, her incredible hair damp, her incredible eyes lowered. There's no artifice in her posture, no performance. Just a quiet, unmistakable readiness to be directed, as though the removal of choice has given her something steadier to stand on.She's already waiting. For my words, my commands. For me.I gesture to the chair closest to the fireplace. “Sit down.”She obeys immediately. The movement is careful, contained, her knees press

THOMASIt's just past seven p.m. now. Papers have been gathered up, chairs pushed back into their proper places, water glasses and coffee cups abandoned half-full on the table. The house exhales into silence, and for the first time since ten o'clock this morning, Iris and I are alone again – not in shock, not in motion, not buffered by witnesses or procedure.Iris hasn’t moved. She sits exactly where she was left, the office light overhead making her fiery-red curls shine bright. She looks very young and exhausted; not fragile, not helpless, but compressed, as though she's folded herself down to fit inside circumstances that have refused to expand for her.I walk past her, around the edge of the room, giving her time to really feel the shift in those circumstances. My protection as a legal formality ended the second that I shut the office door, and what remains now will not be governed by anything written down or signed. From now on, I decide what our relationship becomes, I choose to

THOMASThe scream reaches me through my broken sleep, and there's no confusion, no lag between sound and action. I'm out of my bed and moving before I'm fully awake, the dark house orienting itself around me as I follow the sound down the long hallway.It's not a frightened noise, and it's not a startled one. It's the sound of someone being dragged back into something they thought they had escaped.I open her bedroom door without knocking.Iris is upright in the bed, sheets tangled around her legs, her hands pressed to her chest as though she's trying to hold her heart in place. Her breathing is sharp and uneven, her body still half-held by whatever pulled her under. Her eyes are unfocused... she's not entirely here.I move toward her without even a second of hesitation and gather her in, one hand clasping the back of her head, the other at her lower back, firm and grounding. She stiffens for half a second – a reflex, sharp and automatic – then collapses against me with a soft, broken

THOMASThe funny thing is, I don’t intend to kiss her.That's the truth of it, even as my hand remains in her hair, even as her body has shifted toward mine with that quiet, devastating permission that's far more dangerous than invitation. I've lived long enough to recognize moments that alter the shape of things, and this – this morning light, this bed, this sweet breath uneven against my palm – has the unmistakable weight of one.I should move back, move to the edge of the bed, get to my feet, leave her. I do none of those things.Instead, my hand tightens fractionally at her jaw, not rough, not careless, just enough to fix her in place, to make it clear that whatever happens next will not be accidental. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and cool green, pulse visible at her throat. She doesn't look away, or pull away. She waits.That waiting is everything.I lean in slowly, giving her time to stop me, time to flinch, time to remember everything that should stand between us. She does none

THOMASI hear her before she knocks.Not the sound itself, but the hesitation before it: the way the house seems to quiet in anticipation, as though it recognizes a threshold moment and braces for what crossing it will mean. When the knock comes, it's not tentative or apologetic. It is measured. Intentional. A decision made and carried through.I open the door without asking who it is.Iris stands in the hallway wrapped in my shirt, barefoot against the dark wood, her hair loose around her shoulders, her posture neither defensive nor yielding. There's resolve in her small body now, something sharpened and unmistakable. She hasn't come here to be persuaded or rescued.... she's come to be met.That alone changes everything.I step aside and let her in. The room closes around us quietly. Lamps lit low, the air warm, contained. She looks at the bed first – of course she does – then back at me, waiting for direction she doesn't yet realize she's already seeking.“Sit,” I say, nodding toward