Page 46 of Second Chance Daddy
She’s fucking perfect. Swollen and pink and glistening in the dim kitchen light. I spread her wider with my thumbs, lean in, and breathe against her.
I make her wait for another heartbeat. Another breath. Until she’s moaning. Until she says it again: “Please.”
I bury my face between her thighs and lick her slit, groaning low—a sound that rumbles straight from the animal part of me. She tastes like sin and salvation tangled into one—a taste I’d bleed for. Sweet. Addictive. Mine.
I drag my tongue slowly, deliberately, learning every inch of her like a man memorizing the battleground before a war. I don’t rush. I savor. I claim.
Every time she gasps, my grip tightens. Every time her hips jerk, my jaw clenches. And when her hands twist in my hair, nails biting into my scalp, pulling like she wants to tear me apart?
Yeah—good luck, sweetheart.
I’m not stopping.
I circle her clit with my tongue, drag it around the track, and when I slide two fingers back inside her, she cries out—a sound so sweet I want to record it and play it on loop for the rest of my life.
“Shhh,” I remind her. “Aria’s down the hall.”
She nods, biting her lip again, but a moan escapes anyway when I curl my fingers and suck her clit between my lips.
I don’t let up—mouth and fingers working in a brutal and steady rhythm, tuned to every gasp, every twitch of her hips like I’ve mapped her body in my sleep. Her thighs start to tremble around my head. Her fingers twist in my hair, desperate, her spine arching clean off the counter like she’s coming undone from the inside out.
“Let go, baby,” I growl against her, voice rough with want. “Fall apart for me.”
And she does.
God—she shatters.
Her body seizes under my hands, thighs quaking, breath catching, those filthy, breathless curses slipping from her mouth like a prayer gone wrong. Her whole body bows, shakes, and clenches until I feel her come apart on my fingers—wrecked, ruined, beautiful.
But I don’t stop. I ride the aftershocks, dragging her higher, licking her through the unraveling until she’s pushing weakly at my shoulders, whimpering like she can’t take another second.
I lift my head, her taste still on my lips, her eyes glassy and wide.
“Yeah,” I rasp, voice low, dangerous. “We’re not done yet.”
Only then do I stand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, savoring the taste of her still clinging to my lips. She’s sprawled across my kitchen counter like the most dangerous woman in the world.
I’d sell my soul to please her.
I drag my gaze down the length of her parted legs, messy hair, and heaving chest—and my cock’s already pressing hard behind my zipper like it’s got a death wish.
“Take off your dress.”
She swallows, eyes darting to mine, pulse jumping at her throat. Her hands shake as she pushes herself upright, fingers fumbling at the hem.
Slow. She peels it up inch by inch, revealing smooth thighs, the curve of her hips, and soft, flushed skin that makes my palms itch. Her breathing’s uneven now, matching mine, like we’re both circling the edge of something dangerous.
The dress hits the floor.
Her bra follows—black lace, delicate as sin. I grip the strap, rough and impatient, and it tears like paper under my fingers. She gasps, but there’s no protest, only heat in those eyes, dark and heavy as they lock onto mine.
“Good girl,” I murmur.
She’s naked for me now—completely, sinfully, maddeningly naked. Her skin flushed, breasts rising and falling with every jagged breath, soft curves all laid out across my counter like she’s some goddamn sculpture built to ruin men.
And hell, I’m already ruined.
My eyes drag over every inch of her—the swell of her lips, the peaks of those perfect breasts, the way her thighs shift just slightly like she knows exactly how undone I am.
