And it was Lucifer who, after a lifetime of denial, needed to care about someone with utter impunity.
How that must have terrified him—the man known for his callousness and cunning, who'd become a loner for the sake of dead.
He'd been wandering the depths of hell in a self-imposed prison for millions of years, his only relief coming in small spurts of interaction—a little Maze here, a little Makima there—but never anything that offered him real respite from life's harsher aspects.
It struck her then how self-aware and honest he'd been from the start.
Veiled in a bundle of flowers, he'd sent a coded message from behind the reinforced walls of his mental-bunker after she finished teaching Harry.
That sprig of Queen Anne's lace stood out in her mind, its unassuming simplicity hidden amidst a cluster of colorful competition.
While the other blossoms screamed of beauty and pleasure, the quiet Queen Anne's lace, much like Lucifer, silently made its plea for sanctuary with little fanfare or ornamentation.
Sanctuary.
She hadn't grasped the full meaning of that word when she'd first heard it, but now that she'd had a glimpse of the emotional refugee he'd been harboring within, she understood.
Lucifer needed someone to be his protection from the world, his haven of acceptance.
His retreat. And he thought no one would ever want the job.
Just as Hermione had thought Lucifer would not ever understand her convoluted and contradictory sexual appetites.
But look how wrong she'd been.
And Lucifer had been wrong too, because being his sanctuary wasn't a burden—it was a privilege.
"You're being very quiet," Lucifer commented, his hand on her back. "Are you all right?"
"Yes, Daddy."
"You've taken about half the bag. Are you getting too full?"
"No, I'm okay."
"That's my brave girl. Just a little bit longer."
His fingers wandered up and down her spine, petting her into a groggy stupor.
Hermione's eyes drifted closed, and she, once again, took Lucifer's hand and settled herself between his legs, burying her nose in his crotch, inhaling deeply.
'Mmmm, he smells too good.'
The corners of her mouth curled with delight.
Hermione's inner child wanted to get the Daddy Dom it craved, and would get a fucked-up father figure who wanted to shag her as much as hug him.
Christ, they were probably some psychoanalyst's wet dream.
She knew their love was strong, but until they stopped hating the parts of themselves they saw reflected in the other, they would keep picking at each other's heart until one of them bled to death.
Hermione refused to let that happen.
She'd known the darkness of a time without her father, and she didn't wish that kind of loneliness on anyone.
"You took it all, baby." Lucifer's voice floated through her consciousness. "The bag's empty. I'm going to take out the nozzle now."
What she did know well about enemas by now was that nozzle coming out would turn her on just as much as the nozzle going in.
The tip slipped free, and a few drops of water dribbled down to her pussy.
She knew it was just the last dregs draining from the end, but paranoid about leaking, she clenched her cheeks to make sure that's all it was.
"There," he said, his touch ghosting over her labia. "In ten minutes you'll be squeaky clean. You want me to put your nappy back on, don't you?"
Her face almost set Colonel Brandon on fire. "You're not gonna stuff me full of toys again, are you?"
"No, baby, you're full enough. Just the nappy."
Wait, wait, wait! She didn't say NO toys. "You're not going to use the sparkly plug?"
"Not this time. I want you to show me how tight you can keep this sweet little bottom hole. And if you can't keep it all in. . . well, that's what nappies are for."
Hermione's eyes popped open. Was he serious! While she might enjoy the mild shame involved in this game, she didn't actually want to make a mess.
She did have limits.
"Why don't you turn over for me," he said coaxingly. "Be careful. Take your time."
Lowering herself to the tabletop, Hermione rested on her hip and started to roll over. Oh gods!—gravity was not her friend.
Choking her bear in a death grip, she eased onto her back and stared down at her rounded abdomen in horrified amazement.
"That's it," he said, guiding her thighs open with his fingertips. "Keep hugging Colonel Brandon while I get you changed."
Hermione tried to focus on her furry sidekick, but when that proved ineffectual, she turned her attention to Lucifer.
His aura, which was brighter than she'd ever seen before, danced with several vibrant new colors, and like a child with a kaleidoscope, she was enamored by the dazzling display.
Around his head and face were bright blues and purples, suggesting his confession had not only set him free but had profoundly integrated his heart and mind.
She could only assume that meant something about being her daddy filled an intrinsic need in his soul.
Was it his need to love and nurture?
That glittery patch centered over his chest seemed to indicate it was.
His heart had opened before her eyes, his willingness to feel and share coloring his aura with a compassionate glow.
Reaching out, she touched the swatch and smiled when it pulsed beneath her fingers.
Lucifer paused in his ministrations to give her a searching smirk, probably wondering what the hell she was doing.
When Hermione smiled back, he chuckled under his breath and went about his business.
Taking care not to jostle her too much, Lucifer slid the nappy under her bum and then checked to make sure she was okay.
Her heavy panting must have conveyed excitement rather than panic, because he cupped her pussy in one huge hand and slipped his middle finger between her lips, tracing the engorged tissue of her opening.
When she whimpered, the corner of his mouth lifted in a sly grin, but he provided no further vaginal assistance.
Hermione wasn't too proud to beg. "Please, will you finger my pussy, Daddy?"
"This little pussy?" he asked, lightly tickling her folds. "This little pussy that's soaking my hand . . . and your nappy . . . and the table?"
"Yes, Daddy. Don't you like it when I'm wet?"
"Daddy loves it when you're wet. Good little girls are always juicy."
She burst out laughing. "Then I must be the best little girl in the world. And don't good girls get fingers in their pussies?"
Smiling, he pulled up the cotton crotch between her legs, tugging it rhythmically so it rode against her clit. "They get whatever Daddy thinks they need. And I don't think my finger is what you really need right now."
"Oh yes it is," she assured him.
"No. It isn't," he countered. "Daddy knows what's best for you, and I can tell by how fussy you're getting that it's time for your feeding."
'My feeding ? Mm! Daddy is all kinds of dirty, isn't he?' "I could go for a snack. Is it candy?"
He snickered as he held the crinkly plastic to her distended belly, preparing to seal her up. "It's more salty than sweet—but you can suck on it like a lollipop."
'Gee, I wonder what it could be.' "Can I have it right now?"
"Juuuuust a second," he said, pressing the adhesive tape into place over her hipbones. "Let's make sure you're all set here."
Resting his hand on her mound, he rubbed her through the padding, forcing her to acknowledge what she was wearing—and her lubricious reaction to it.
Her clit flared to life, and Hermione's breathy giggling stuttered to a gasp.
"Looks like you're ready," he said teasingly. "Let me help you down from there, love. I don't want you to fall and pop yourself like a water balloon."
She knew he was joking, but the possibility felt all too real.
xxxxxxx
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