Page 55 of Off-Limits Daddy
“You wore this,” I said, voice low, “without even knowing I was coming by for you?”
His smirk wavered—just a fraction. “I like how it feels.”
Jesus Christ.
“I need to see you,” I murmured.
He lifted himself without argument, rising to his knees. I slid out from under him, gently guiding him down onto his back across my jacket.
Ari let me move him—legs bent, one arm tucked beneath his head like a makeshift pillow, the other trailing down his stomach like he was presenting himself to be worshipped.
And God, I would.
I knelt beside him, and for a moment I just looked.
The joggers hung low on his hips, the lace peeking over the edge—black, delicate, barely there. When I eased the waistband down, my breath caught.
Lace in front, soft and sheer, clinging to him in the most sinful way. And the back?
Goddammit.
Curving perfectly between his cheeks, the fabric disappearing where I wanted to bury my mouth.
“You’re trying to kill me,” I whispered.
His lashes fluttered. “You gonna just stare or?—”
I hooked a finger into the waistband and peeled it down, slow. His cock sprang free—flushed, thick, already wet at the tip. My mouth watered.
“You like it?” he asked, quieter now. A hint of nerves beneath the tease.
“Like it?” I leaned in, brushed my lips over his hip bone, then lower, dragging in the scent of him—clean sweat, salt, that faint trace of sweetness I was starting to associate only with him. “You’re a fucking masterpiece.”
My own cock throbbed hard against my zipper, insistent and aching. It’d been that way since he climbed into my lap. Since he straddled me in lace like a goddamn fever dream. I shifted my hips subtly, trying to relieve the pressure. Didn’t help. Nothing would until I was inside him—or at least got my hands on myself—but this? This was about him.
Ari sucked in a breath as I mouthed along the length of him—teasing first, dragging my tongue up his shaft through the sheen of arousal. He twitched, gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the bed.
“Daddy Reid—” My name hit the air like a broken plea. “Please...”
That voice. That fucking voice. I could just come from that.
I looked at him—flushed, spread out beneath me in lace with the sky going gold—and felt my chest go tight with something fierce. He was so much. Too much. Everything.
“You’re so perfect like this,” I murmured. “Spread out. Blushing. Begging.”
He squirmed, and I pinned his hips gently, holding him still.
“Good boy,” I breathed. “I knew you’d be perfect like this. Knew it.”
I didn’t rush. I kissed the inside of his thigh, right where it was soft. His skin quivered under my lips. His cock twitched. He let out a high, shivery sound.
My own cock kicked again, trapped and throbbing behind denim. God, I was hard—so hard I was shaking. But I wouldn’t touch myself. Not when I had him here, undone and gorgeous.
I let my breath trail over him. Watched his cock twitch. Watched his hands curl tight in the sheet of metal beneath us, white-knuckled and trembling.
Then I licked him.
Slow. Deliberate. From base to tip, savoring the taste of him, the weight and heat and salt. His hips jerked.
