Page 35 of Hero Daddy

My fingers brushed against the front of his pants, confirming what I'd seen—he was fully, powerfully erect, the hard length of him pressing insistently against the confining fabric. Thecontact, even through clothing, sent electricity racing up my arm. I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the momentary freeze of his posture.

Before he could react further, I pressed more firmly, my palm curving around the impressive girth of him. Even constrained by fabric, he felt massive—thick and long and intimidatingly hard.

"Daliah," he warned, the single word loaded with tension.

I ignored the warning, emboldened by the evidence of his desire. My fingers traced the outline of him through the fabric, measuring his length, testing his reaction.

"Daddy," I whispered, the word deliberate in its childish formality, a stark contrast to my decidedly adult actions, "that spanking made me feel really naughty."

I felt him jerk against my palm, his body betraying him even as he maintained his outward control. My hand closed more firmly around his clothed erection, stroking upward from base to tip, then down again with more pressure.

"Little One," he growled, low and dangerous, "you are crossing into very dangerous territory."

I continued my exploration, my fingers finding the defined ridge of his head through the material, circling it teasingly. My position was awkward, twisted at the waist with my bottom still bare and glowing from his discipline, but the power I felt in that moment—the ability to affect him so strongly—was intoxicating.

"But I like dangerous territory, Daddy," I replied, my voice taking on a honeyed quality I barely recognized. My hand moved with more confidence now, stroking him with firmer, more deliberate pressure. "Especially when it feels this good."

Chad's restraint snapped like a taut wire. His hand shot out, fingers encircling my wrist in a grip that wasn't painful but was absolutely immovable. He pulled my hand away from his erection, holding it firmly in the air between us.

"Daliah." His voice was strained, deep and roughened with barely contained desire. "Little One. Be careful. You're playing with absolute fire."

I twisted further, looking back over my shoulder to meet his eyes. The sight of him stole my breath—his normally controlled features tight with tension, a flush spread across his cheekbones, his eyes dark and wild with hunger. His composure, always so perfect, was cracking before me, and I had caused it.

"Maybe I want to get burned," I whispered, not breaking eye contact.

His grip on my wrist tightened fractionally, his jaw clenched. "You don't know what you're asking for," he said, each word precise despite the roughness of his tone.

A strange courage possessed me—perhaps from the endorphins of the spanking, perhaps from discovering this new power, or perhaps simply from finally embracing a part of myself I'd denied for too long. I tugged against his grip, not to free myself but to remind him of his control over me, and watched his pupils dilate further at the gesture.

"But I do know, Daddy," I said, my voice dropping lower, taking on a quality I'd never heard from myself before—part challenge, part submission, wholly sexual. "I know exactly what I'm asking for."

His control visibly wavered, his chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. He still held my wrist captive, his other hand still resting on my punished skin, both points of contact burning like brands.

"And what if you can't handle what you're asking for?" he countered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through me. "What if it's too much?"

The question should have given me pause, should have triggered caution, but in that moment, caution felt like a distant concept from another life. I was awash in sensation—thelingering sting of my spanking, the throbbing arousal between my legs, the heady power of affecting this controlled, powerful man so profoundly.

"Then you'll just have to teach me to handle it," I replied, a tremor of real need breaking through my newfound boldness. "Isn't that what Daddies do? Teach their little ones what they need to know?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes darkening to storm clouds. I could almost see the battle within him—the disciplined instructor fighting against the primal male, the committed Dominant struggling against raw desire.

My wrist still captured in his unyielding grip, I let my gaze deliberately drop to the prominent bulge straining his pants, then raised my eyes back to his face with a small, knowing smile.

Chad moved with a sudden, fluid grace that stole my breath. His hands gripped my upper arms firmly as he lifted me from the bench in one smooth motion, setting me on my feet to face him. My leggings and panties still tangled around my thighs, I wobbled slightly, but his hold kept me steady. His eyes burned into mine, no longer controlled or patient but blazing with a ferocious lust that both terrified and thrilled me.

"You want to see naughty, Little One?" he growled, his voice a dangerous rumble that vibrated through my chest. "Then you watch your Daddy very carefully."

He released his grip on my arms, stepping back to create space between us. The loss of his steadying hands left me feeling untethered, vulnerable with my clothing in disarray. Before I could move to adjust myself, his command froze me in place.

"Don't. Touch. Anything," he ordered, each word precise and unyielding. "You stand exactly as you are. You watch every move I make. You don't look away. Not once. Understand?"

I nodded, then quickly added, "Yes, Daddy," when his eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Good girl," he said, the praise automatic even in his aroused state.

With deliberate slowness, Chad reached for the hem of his Henley. His movements were unhurried, controlled despite the tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. He pulled the shirt upward, revealing his abdomen inch by inch—first the cut lines of his lower abs, then the defined ridges of his six-pack, then the broader expanse of his chest with its dusting of dark hair.

The sight of his bare torso shouldn't have been shocking—I'd seen men without shirts before—but something about the deliberate nature of his revelation, the controlled striptease performed with such masculine intensity, made it different. This wasn't casual or clinical. This was display, challenge, dominance.

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