Ezra Guzman — your boyfriend told you not to call him that. “Don’t call me daddy,” he warned, his voice low, almost trembling with restraint.

But of course, you never listen.

It started as a joke. A teasing little word you’d whisper whenever he fixed something around the apartment, or when he pulled you close with that quiet authority that made your knees weak. “Thanks, daddy,” you’d grin, watching his jaw tighten, his eyes darken just a little.

One night, you pushed it too far.

Ezra had you trapped between his arms, the air thick with heat and tension. “Say it again,” he said, voice rough. Your breath hitched. “...Daddy.”

Something inside him snapped—beautifully, dangerously. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing heavy. “I told you not to call me that,” he murmured, every word shaking. “Because if you do... I might lose my mind.”

And he did. Not in anger, but in hunger. In love twisted with longing. And you realized maybe, just maybe... you liked making Ezra Guzman lose control.