Page 29 of Tame Me Daddy

His mouth replaced his fingers, warm even through the fabric. The gentle scrape of his teeth made me cry out, my hands flying to his shoulders to steady myself.

"I want to see all of you," Grant said against my skin. "Will you let me?"

The question—permission sought even now—made my heart swell. I nodded, then found my voice. "Yes. Please."

He helped me shrug out of my shirt, then reached behind to unhook my bra with practiced ease. As the straps slid down my arms, I fought the urge to cover myself. Grant's appreciative gaze made me brave.

"Perfect," he said simply, no artifice in his tone.

His hands resumed their exploration, skin against skin now. I marveled at the contrast—his tanned, work-roughened hands against my paler flesh. He touched me with reverence and hunger in equal measure.

My own hands, growing bolder, moved to the buttons of his shirt. He watched my face as I worked them free, his eyes never leaving mine. When I pushed the fabric off his broad shoulders, I couldn't help but admire the strength there—muscle built from years of physical work, not for show but for function.

"Can I touch you?" I asked, suddenly shy despite everything we'd already shared.

"You never need to ask that," he said, taking my hand and placing it over his heart. "What's mine is yours to touch. What's yours is yours to give or withhold as you choose."

The simple statement of boundaries—his openness, my agency—made me bolder. I explored the planes of his chest, the dusting of dark hair that narrowed down his stomach, the solid warmth of him everywhere I touched.

When my fingers reached his belt, he covered my hand with his. "Are you sure about this, Cherry? There's no rush."

I met his eyes steadily. "I'm sure. I want this. I want you."

He nodded once, decision made. In a smooth motion that spoke of his strength, he shifted our positions, laying me back against the leather couch and following me down. His weight above me should have felt confining after the vulnerability of the discipline, but instead it felt like an anchor—grounding me in the moment, in my body, in us.

"Tell me if anything doesn't feel right," he instructed, his voice a mix of Daddy Dom firmness and lover's tenderness.

"I will," I promised, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw.

His mouth found mine again, the kiss deeper and more urgent now. His hips settled between my thighs, the pressure both relief and torment. Even through our jeans, I could feel how much he wanted me. The evidence of his desire made mine flare higher.

Gradually, between kisses that grew more hungry by the moment, our remaining clothes were shed. Each new expanse of skin revealed was explored, appreciated, memorized by touch. Grant was patient despite his obvious arousal, taking time to discover what made me gasp, what made me arch toward him, what made me whisper his name like a prayer.

When his fingers finally slipped between my thighs, finding me wet and ready, the groan that escaped him was deeply satisfying. His touch was confident but gentle, circling and teasing until my hips moved restlessly against his hand.

"Please," I gasped, beyond pride or hesitation now. "I need you."

"Not yet," Grant murmured, his mouth trailing down my neck to my breast. "Want to make sure you're ready."

His fingers continued their skilled exploration while his mouth lavished attention on my breasts. The dual sensation made coherent thought impossible. I surrendered to it, to him, to the pleasure that built with each careful touch.

When the first wave crested, it caught me by surprise. I cried out, my body arching off the couch as Grant held me steady through it.

"That's it, Baby Girl," he encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let go for me."

As I floated back to earth, I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an expression of tender hunger. The vulnerability I'd felt during the discipline was nothing compared to this—being seen at my most unguarded, most honest moment.

"I want to feel you," I whispered, reaching for him.

Grant nodded, shifting to grab his discarded jeans. He pulled a foil packet from the wallet in his back pocket.

"You're prepared," I observed with a small smile.

"Boy Scout," he replied with a hint of that rare humor. "Always ready."

I watched as he protected us both, then settled back between my thighs. The head of his cock pressed against me, not entering yet, just a promise of what was to come.

"Look at me," Grant commanded softly.

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