Page 29 of Daddy Next Door

"Why me?" His fingers traced the indentations where the ropes pressed into my skin.

"Because . . ." I struggled to articulate something I barely understood myself. "Because you make me feel safe enough to be vulnerable. I love it when you call me Little One."

His eyes darkened at that. "Tell me more about that feeling. What happens when I call you that?"

I closed my eyes, finding it easier to explain without watching his reaction. "It's like . . . like everything gets quieter. Simpler. Like I don't have to be in control or have all the answers. I can just be."

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

I opened my eyes.

"That's my good Little One," he said, his voice deeper, richer with meaning.

The words sent a ripple of pleasure through me that was almost as physical as his touch. I felt myself getting wetter, my body responding to the dynamic between us as much as to the physical contact.

His hand drifted lower, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thighs. He was so close to where I needed him most, yet made no move to touch me there.

"Please," I whispered, unable to stop myself.

"Please what, Lily?" he asked, all innocence despite the knowing look in his eyes.

"Touch me," I breathed. "Where I need it."

"Here?" His fingers moved closer but still avoided my center.

"You know where," I said, a hint of frustration bleeding into my voice.

He chuckled, the sound low and full of promise. "I do know. But I want to hear you say it."

"Between my legs," I said, heat flooding my cheeks. "I want you to touch my pussy." The explicit word felt foreign on my tongue, but right for this moment.

"Good girl," he praised, but instead of giving me what I'd asked for, he withdrew his hand entirely. "But not yet."

I made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a look.

"This is about evening the scales," he reminded me. "You got to look at all of me. Now I get to look at all of you. The touching is just a bonus."

His hands returned to safer territory—my arms, my shoulders, my face. Every time I thought he might finally touch me where I needed it most, he would pull back, redirect, create new tension. It was maddening and thrilling at once.

"Do you remember my body?" he asked suddenly, his fingers tracing my lips again.

"Yes," I answered without hesitation. "Every detail."

"Describe it to me." His eyes were intent on mine, gauging my reaction.

It was a challenge – to admit fully what I'd seen, what I'd memorized. But tied up like this, I found a strange freedom in having no choice but to be honest.

"You're solid," I began. "Not bulky like you spend hours at the gym, but strong. Your shoulders are broad, your chest defined. You have just enough hair there to be masculine without being overwhelming." I paused, gathering courage. "Your stomach is flat, with muscle definition that makes me want to trace it with my fingers. Your hips are narrow, your thighs strong. And your cock . . ." I faltered slightly but pushed on. "Your cock is thick and long, even before it's hard. I've thought about how it would feel in my hand. In my mouth. Inside me."

I heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the way his control wavered for a moment.

"Ethan," I whispered, "please kiss me."

He studied me for a long moment, then shook his head slightly. "Not yet. First, I'm going to count to three. And with each number, I want you to take a deep breath and feel yourself getting more relaxed, more open."

I nodded, understanding that even this – our first kiss – would happen on his terms.

"One," he said, his voice commanding and gentle at once.

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