Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 115

DOMENICO

The water had gone tepid.

Not cold enough to shock, not warm enough to comfort, just sitting there, heavy against my skin, clinging to Reina’s body like it didn’t want to let her go either. The jets had long since died down. The steam thinned. The room felt too quiet now, like it was holding its breath.

Reina was still pressed to my chest, her cheek right over my heart, her hand splayed flat against my ribs.

She was listening to me without meaning to.

Every beat. Every hitch. Every stutter I couldn’t control.

When she breathed in, I felt it expand under my sternum. When she exhaled, it was slow, measured, like she was bracing herself for something she already knew would hurt.

Then she asked.

"Tell me about them." 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

Four words.

Soft. Careful. Not an accusation. Not a demand.

Still, it felt like a blade slid clean between my ribs.

My heart kicked once, hard and violent, like it was trying to escape before I could stop it. Shame rose fast and ugly, burning the back of my throat, crawling up my spine. I closed my eyes and swallowed, but it didn’t go away. It never did.

I didn’t want to talk about them.

About Rose.

About Ruby.

About the children who carried my name but not my protection.

About the choices I had made when I was younger, colder, convinced that control meant survival and attachment was a weakness you amputated before it spread. I used to believe that love was leverage. That anyone who loved you owned a blade to your throat.

I had buried that part of my life under contracts and silence and money and the lie that I was untouchable. I told myself I had done what men like me had to do. Build power first. Feel later. Or never.

But she asked.

And I had never, never, been able to say no to Reina.

Not when she looked at me like that.

Not when her voice shook just enough to tell me this mattered.

Not when the thing she was asking for was not reassurance, but truth.

Even if it gutted me.

I exhaled slowly and tightened my arms around her once, brief and controlled, like I needed the reminder that she was real, that she was here, that this was not already slipping through my fingers.

"Alright," I said quietly. My voice sounded rough to my own ears. "But let’s get out first. You’re cold."

She did not argue.

That alone told me how serious this was. Normally she would have rolled her eyes, accused me of deflecting, called me dramatic. Instead she simply nodded and let me move her.

I lifted her out of the tub carefully, one arm under her thighs, the other around her back. She came willingly, arms looped loosely around my neck, her head resting against my shoulder. She felt smaller like this. Fragile in a way that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with how open she had made herself.

I set her down on the bath mat and reached for the thick towel, drying her slowly, legs first, then her arms, then her back. My movements were careful, deliberate. Not stalling. Not yet. I traced the curve of her calf with the towel longer than necessary, aware of how tense she had gone.

"Don’t," she muttered.

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t try to distract me with that gentle lover bullshit act."

Her tone was sharp but there was something fragile beneath it.

"I’m only drying you."

"You’re buying time."

She was right. I was calculating every word before it left my mouth.

I wrapped the robe around her shoulders and tied it, then knelt to dry her feet, rubbing my thumbs into her arches until she sighed despite herself. Her body betrayed her even when her pride would not.

"See," I murmured.

Her eyes snapped down to me. "Stop being smug."

There it was. The edge. The jealousy simmering under her skin, looking for somewhere to land. She was not just angry. She was threatened. And that made something inside me twist, because I had done that to her.

She watched me the whole time. Not like before. Not soft. Not melting.

This was different.

When I finally looked up, her eyes were sharp, bright with unshed emotion, anger and jealousy tangled together so tightly I could not tell where one ended and the other began.

"You’re thinking," she said.

"Yes."

"You’re avoiding."

I nodded once. "Also yes."

She stood abruptly and stepped away, the robe swaying around her legs as she moved toward the bedroom. "Then stop."

I followed her in silence.

The bed was still wrecked, sheets twisted, pillows shoved aside, the evidence of what we had done everywhere. She glanced at it this time, jaw tightening. I saw it in her eyes. She imagined other women beneath me. Other bodies in my hands. The same mattress, the same rhythm, the same low words in the dark.

Her jealousy was not quiet now. It was vivid.

She went straight for the couch near the window and sat, crossing her legs tightly like she was building a barrier out of her own body. She tugged the robe higher on her thighs, then lower again, restless and agitated.

"Order a drink," she said. "Room service. Right now. Heaven knows I can’t do this sober."

Her tone was not a request.

I picked up the phone and ordered without asking what she wanted. I already knew. The strongest they had. She always reached for fire when she felt threatened.

When I turned back, she was glaring at me.

"Stop touching your hair," she snapped. "You do that when you’re trying to avoid shit."

I dropped my hand immediately.

She tilted her head slightly, studying me like I was the one on trial. "Look at you. Calm. Collected. Like we’re discussing the weather."

"I am not calm."

"Really?" she shot back. "Because it feels like I’m the only one bleeding in this conversation."

That landed harder than she knew.

I pulled on my pants and sat on the couch across from her, elbows resting on my knees. The distance felt wrong, too wide, too exposed, but she had put it there on purpose. Punishment.

The knock came sooner than expected.

She stood, took the bottle from the tray, did not bother with a glass. Twisted the cap off and took a long swallow straight from it. Some of it spilled down her chin. She did not wipe it.

I smiled before I could stop myself.

She caught it instantly. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because you’re drinking like you’re about to interrogate me."

"Maybe I am," she said, stepping closer. "Maybe I want to know exactly what kind of man I’m sleeping next to."

"Tell me about your wives."

"They were never my wives."

She scoffed loudly. "Right. That makes it better. You just had children with women you refused to claim."

I let the insult pass.

"How did they have your children, then?" she pressed. "Did you just what, knock them up and walk away?"

Her voice cracked on the last word. Walk away.

"I do not walk away from my responsibilities."

"Except emotionally," she snapped. "You seem very good at that."

"It was contractual."

That made her laugh, short and humorless. "Of course it was. You and your contracts. Did you schedule ovulation too?"

"Yes."

Her eyes widened in disbelief, then fury. "You’re disgusting."

"It was efficient."

She stared at me like I had confessed to murder. "You talk about creating children like you were drafting a business deal."

"That is what it was."