Page 37 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"I shouldn't want this," she whispers, even as her body arches against mine.
"Shouldn't is a word people use when they're afraid of what they really want." I trace her lower lip with my thumb, feeling her tremble. "The only question that matters is: do you trust me to know what's best for you?"
The phrasing is deliberate—not do you want this, but do you trust me to decide. The subtle shift toward surrendering choice to my judgment.
"I've never felt anything like this," she admits quietly.
"That's because you've never been with a real man before." I make no effort to hide the possessive satisfaction in my voice. "You've been wasting yourself on a boy who couldn't possibly understand what to do with a woman like you."
Her eyes widen at the blatant reference to my son, at the line we're crossing, at the taboo we're embracing. "Victor, I don't know if I'm ready for—"
"You don't need to know," I interrupt, my tone gentle but unyielding. "That's what I'm here for. To know what you need, to guide you, to take care of everything so you can just feel." I stroke her cheek with my knuckles. "Can you do that for me, beautiful girl? Can you stop thinking and let me take control?"
I phrase it carefully, making surrender sound like a gift she's giving me rather than something I'm taking. Her breathing becomes uneven as she processes my words.
"I want to," she whispers. "But I'm scared."
"Of course you are. This is new territory for you." I gather her closer, letting her feel my strength, my certainty. "But that's exactly why you need someone experienced to guide you. Someone who knows exactly how to handle a woman like you."
I lift her easily, settling her in my lap so she's straddling my thighs. The position is intimate, dominant, giving me accessto every expression while making her feel both cherished and controlled.
"Tell me what you're afraid of," I command softly.
"I'm afraid I won't know how to please you." Her voice is small, vulnerable in ways that make something dark and possessive roar to life in my chest. "I'm afraid I'll disappoint you."
"Sweet girl," I murmur, my hands spanning her waist, feeling how small she is compared to me. "You could never disappoint me. Do you know why?"
She shakes her head, eyes wide and uncertain.
"Because I'm not going to ask you to do anything. I'm going to worship you exactly as you are, and all you have to do is accept it." I lean closer, my voice dropping to that hypnotic register I know she can't resist. "All you have to do is trust me to know what you need."
"Just trust you?"
"Just trust me." I begin tracing patterns on her arms, noting how she shivers under my touch. "Let me show you how a real man treats the woman he desires."
I spend long minutes just touching her face, her neck, her shoulders, building the tension until she's practically vibrating with need. Every caress is deliberate, methodical, designed to heighten her sensitivity to my touch.
"You're trembling," I observe, my hands stilling on her shoulders.
"I can't help it," she confesses. "You make me feel things I don't understand."
"Good." I let my satisfaction show. "That means you're learning to surrender control to someone who knows how to use it properly." I brush my lips against her temple. "Someone who will never hurt you, never take more than you're ready to give."
The promise is both sincere and calculating—positioning my dominance as protection rather than control.
"What do you want from me?" she asks, her voice breathless.
"I want you to stop questioning every feeling, every response. I want you to trust that what's happening between us is exactly what should be happening." My hands frame her face again. "Can you do that for me?"
She nods, and I can see the moment she makes the conscious choice to surrender her uncertainty to my guidance.
"Good girl," I praise, noting how the words make her shiver. "Such a good girl, learning to trust me."
I continue my slow exploration, my hands skimming along her arms, her back, carefully avoiding the places she most wants to be touched. Teaching her body to respond to my approval, to crave my attention.
"Please," she whispers after long minutes of patient torment.
"Please what, sweetheart? Tell me what you need." I want to hear her ask for it, want her to acknowledge her submission explicitly.
