Page 99 of Beauty and the Daddy
The possessiveness in his voice should terrify me. Instead, it ignites something primal, something that wants to be claimed.
He fans his fingers wide, thumbs sweeping again until I'm squirming on denim, knees twitching, the seam pressing exactly where I can't stop feeling him.
His hands trail fire down my ribs, my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my pants. My hips lift off the bed, seeking more of him.
"Eager little thing, aren't you?" He undoes the button with torturous slowness.
"If you don't hurry up, I'm going to lose my mind."
"I'd like to see that."
Zzzziiip.
Denim skims skin; the room tilts. His gaze tracks every inch like a heat lamp. I arch without meaning to. I moan like no one's listening. His eyes trace the lace edge of my underwear, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"Look at you," he says, voice rough. "Soaked through."
It's indecent how hot those two words are.
He hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties. "Lift."
I do, and he pulls them down, leaving me completely naked and spread out for him like an offering.
His palms trail—thigh, hip, waist—leaving sparks like he's writing his name in fire. I writhe; he watches, shamelessly pleased, like he's tuned me perfectly and I'm singing on command.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he says, hands on my thighs now, spreading them wider. "About how you taste."
Oh God, I'm sold.
He settles between my legs, and I can feel his breath on my clit. My heart's going to explode. Or maybe all of me is.
"Luca," I breathe, half plea, half warning. "Don't tease."
His smile is pure sin. "But you're so pretty when you beg."
I'm two seconds from pulling him up and ripping off his clothes. I reach for the back of his neck, but before I can, he's dipped low.
He drags his tongue along my center in one long stroke, and I arch off the bed like I've been electrocuted.
"Fuck!"
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let me hear you."
His tongue circles my clit, then alternates between broad strokes and precise flicks, like he's mapping me, learning what makes me writhe.
And writhe I do. My hands fist in the sheets, in his hair, anywhere I can reach. He holds my hips down when I try to grind against his face, controlling the pace, the pressure, everything.
"Please," I beg, crying through tears.
"Tell me what you want." His breath is hot against my wet pussy.
"More. Harder. I don't know—just don't stop."
Pressure. Pleasure. The slow-build torture of a man who knows what he's doing and enjoys the knowing. I'm a live wire, a lit fuse, a girl on a rollercoaster she begged to ride and now can't stop screaming on. He hums against me—show-off—and my spine bows like a drawn bow.
He then sucks my clit between his lips and I nearly levitate off the bed. One of his hands slides up to pin me in place, the other drifting lower. He teases my entrance with his fingers, circling, barely dipping in.
"Luca, I swear to God?—"
