Make Me Moan, Daddy-Chapter 93

REINA

I stayed seated, pretending I was calm, pretending my pulse wasn’t still doing strange things just because he’d looked at me like that.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Full. Like the kitchen itself was holding its breath.

Domenico turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, like I hadn’t just called him daddy in my apartment and felt my entire body react to it and he hadn’t just winked at me. He stirred the pan slowly, deliberately, wrist rolling with practiced ease, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me and was enjoying every second of it.

"You stare a lot," he said casually.

"I’m not staring."

He glanced at me. One brow lifted. "You are."

"I’m observing," I corrected. "There’s a difference."

"Mm," he murmured. "That’s what predators say."

I scoffed. "You’re the predator here."

He smiled, pleased. "Good. You’re learning."

I shifted in my chair, crossing my legs, then uncrossing them a second later. Sitting still around him felt impossible. Every movement he made pulled at my attention. The way his shoulders flexed when he reached for salt. The quiet confidence in how he tasted the sauce, adjusted it, tasted again.

It annoyed me how natural he looked in my kitchen. Like he’d memorized the space in minutes. Like he belonged anywhere he decided to stand.

I took a sip of the wine. "You’re too comfortable."

He didn’t turn this time. "I’m not comfortable," he said calmly. "I’m focused."

"On what?"

"Feeding you."

That shouldn’t have made my stomach flip. But God, it sure did.

He plated the food carefully, not rushed, not careless. When he finally turned and set the plate in front of me, I stared at it longer than necessary.

It looked... unreal.

Golden ribbons of fresh pasta, glossy with sauce. The smell hit me immediately—rich, warm, familiar in a way that made my chest tighten. There were thin slices of meat nestled between the folds, tender enough to cut with a fork, finished with shaved cheese and cracked pepper.

I frowned. "Okay. What is this?"

He leaned against the counter, clearly pleased. "Tagliatelle al ragù bianco."

I blinked. "White ragù?"

"Mm," he said with a small smile playing on his lips. "No tomatoes. Just veal and pork, slow-cooked with garlic, onion, white wine, milk. It takes patience. You don’t rush it."

"That explains why it smells like that," I muttered.

"Like home?" he asked.

I didn’t answer.

He gestured to the plate. "Eat."

I hesitated. "You poisoned it."

He laughed, low and warm. "Princess, if I wanted you dead, it wouldn’t be this intimate."

"Comforting."

"Eat."

I took a bite.

I shouldn’t have closed my eyes. That was my mistake.

The flavor hit me immediately—deep, layered, soft in a way that only came from time and care. Not flashy. Not loud. Just... right. My shoulders dropped before I could stop them, tension bleeding out of places I hadn’t realized were tight.

A quiet sound slipped out of me.

When I opened my eyes, he was watching me.

"Don’t," I said quickly.

"Don’t what?"

"Look so smug."

"I cooked for you," he replied. "I’m allowed."

I took another bite, slower this time, actually tasting it. "You did this on purpose."

"Fed you?"

"No. Made it this good."

He folded his arms. "Everything I do with you is on purpose, baby."

Heat crept up my neck, slightly moving back down to my pussy. Fuck! It felt so good.

I focused on my plate, clearing my throat. "You shouldn’t be here for long, though."

"I know."

"You shouldn’t have come to my school either." I swallowed down thickly.

"I know."

Fuck! Why was he agreeing to everything?

"You shouldn’t make it so hard for me to hate you." I gritted out, stabbing my fork into the food.

That one made him go still.

"I don’t want you to hate me," he said quietly. "I don’t want you to try to hate me at all. It will kill me."

"I need to." I huffed, glancing up at him. "I should hate you, Domenico. It is a must I hate you."

"For what?" he asked. "Distance? Control? Or because wanting me scares you?"

I slammed my fork down harder than necessary. "Stop pretending you know what I feel."

He stepped closer—not touching me, not crowding me—but close enough that his presence felt solid, unavoidable.

"I don’t pretend," he said. "I pay attention."

My heart was beating too fast. I hated that he was right. I hated that he saw me when I was trying so hard not to be seen.

I pushed my chair back and stood. "I’m done eating."

"You’re not," he said evenly. "You barely touched it."

"I said I’m done."

"And I said you’re not."

I glared at him. "You can’t tell me what to do."

He tilted his head. "No?"

"No."

A pause.

Then he reached out and took my wrist—not stopping me, not pulling—just grounding me. Anchoring me.

"Sit," he said softly. "Please."

That word again. It shouldn’t have worked.

But it did. God, it did.

I sat back down, furious with myself.

His mouth curved, but there was relief in his eyes too. "There," he murmured. "That wasn’t so hard."

"I hate you."

"You don’t," he argued. "You’re just tired of fighting what you feel."

I stabbed another piece of pasta. "You make everything sound simple."

"It is simple," he replied. "It’s just not easy."

I ate in silence after that. The tension didn’t disappear, but it softened. Like a blade sheathed, still there, just quieter.

"This is really good," I muttered.

"I know."

I looked up. "You’re not supposed to say that."

"I cooked it," he said. "I’m absolutely supposed to say that."

I rolled my eyes. My lips betrayed me again.

"You’re annoying."

"And you smile when you say it." 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

I froze.

He smiled wider.

When I finished, he took my plate without asking and moved to the sink.

"You don’t have to do that," I said.

"I want to."

That did something to my chest.

When he turned back to me, his expression softened. "You’re safe here, Reina. You’re safe with me."

I shook my head. "That’s the problem."

"No," he said gently. "That’s the solution."

I looked at him then. Really looked.

At the man who scared me. Who tempted me. Who loved me in a way that felt consuming and dangerous and impossible to outrun.

And for the first time that evening, I didn’t know how to push him away.

"You should leave after doing the dishes." I said, even though it took me a lot to let out those words.

I knew I was going to miss him. I knew I didn’t really want him to leave but I was just too afraid to admit it, and as if Domenico could read my thoughts, and ready to pull me out of my misery, he peered at me over his shoulder, smirking at me.

"I am not leaving until I massage you, baby. Your body needs it."

Immediately the words left his tongue, I felt a flutter in my stomach. He wasn’t going to leave, Domenico wasn’t going to leave me.

Fuck! Why does that have to make me so happy?

Am I really in love with this man?