Page 39 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
When she speaks, it's barely audible. "I need you... Daddy."
The word sends a jolt of pure possession through me. I reward her immediately, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss as my hands finally give her the firm touch she's been begging for.
"Good girl," I praise against her lips. "Say it again. Louder this time."
"Please don't make me wait, daddy," she whispers, her body trembling with need.
"You want what you think you want. But I know what you actually need." I pull back to look at her, noting the frustration and desire warring in her expression. "And what you need is to learn that I decide when you're ready. Not you."
The statement should probably alarm her, but instead she shivers and presses closer. My sweet girl likes the idea of surrendering control. Perfect.
"Tell me what you need," I command, my voice firm. "Beg for it properly."
Her eyes widen, but there's no resistance in them. Only heat. "Please... I need you to touch me. I need more."
"You can do better than that," I encourage, my hands still on her body but not moving. "Tell me exactly what you want and who you want it from. Use the name you just called me."
She swallows hard, and I can see her wrestling with her pride, with the last shreds of her resistance. Then something breaks free in her expression.
"Please, Daddy," she whispers, the forbidden word now coming easier. "I need you to make me yours. Please touch me, Daddy."
Hearing her beg with that word on her lips is more intoxicating than I imagined. The perfect acknowledgment of what we both know—that she needs guidance, control, protection. That she's giving herself to me completely.
"That's exactly what I'm going to do," I promise, gathering her closer. "I'm going to teach you everything, beautiful girl. How to trust me, how to surrender to me, how to accept that I know what's best for you."
I lift her easily in my arms and carry her to my bedroom. The master suite reflects me—dark woods, crisp linens, nothing frivolous or unnecessary. Sunlight filters through the partially closed blinds, casting golden stripes across the bed where I've imagined her countless times.
I place her gently on the bed, stepping back to look at her. She's already half-undressed from our earlier activities—topless, wearing only her jeans and the flush of desire on her skin. Her hair is tousled from my hands, her lips swollen from my kisses—she's a vision of everything I've waited for.
"Take those off," I command softly, nodding toward her jeans. I watch as she complies, her fingers trembling slightly at the button and zipper. She slides them down her legs, revealing simple cotton panties that match the practical bra she'd been wearing. Nothing deliberately seductive, yet all the more arousing for their innocence. Even more so when I see the patch of wetness slowly spreading.
"Now those," I continue, my voice deepening as I nod toward her underwear.
She hesitates only a moment before hooking her thumbs in the waistband and sliding them down. Now completely bare before me, she instinctively moves to cover herself.
"Don't move," I command softly, maintaining eye contact as I begin to explore her body. I start at her collarbone, tracing the delicate line with my fingertips, then follow the curve down to the swell of her breast.
The sight of her laid out before me—vulnerable, willing, mine—sends a surge of possessive triumph through me so powerful it's almost dizzying.
Her breathing quickens, her back arching slightly to meet my touch. The responsiveness of her body to me, the way she can't hide her reactions, feeds something primal in me. This brilliant woman who's challenged me intellectually is now surrendering to me physically, and the combination is intoxicating.
"Patience," I murmur, deliberately slowing my movements though everything in me wants to claim her completely.
I take my time, mapping every inch of her skin. Her flesh is warm silk beneath my fingers, perfect in ways I couldn't haveanticipated. When my mouth replaces my hand, her fingers clutch at the sheets, her body tensing with anticipation. The taste of her skin, the subtle salt of her sweat, the faint vanilla scent that clings to her—all of it floods my senses, threatening my control.
Mine. Finally mine.
"Victor—" she gasps.
I pause, looking up at her with one eyebrow raised. Even now, as I'm about to possess her completely, I need her to acknowledge what she's giving me. "What did you call me?"
Her cheeks flush darker. "Daddy," she corrects herself. "Please, Daddy."
"Better." I reward her with exactly what she's been silently begging for, closing my lips around her nipple.
I work my way down her body with calculated slowness, learning her responses, cataloging every reaction. The way her breath hitches when I graze my teeth against her hip bone. The little whimper she makes when my hands spread her thighs wider. The way her hips lift instinctively when I move lower.
When I finally taste her, her whole body goes rigid, a strangled cry escaping her lips. The flavor of her arousal hits my tongue, and I have to suppress a groan. So sweet, so perfect—every part of her designed to addict me. The knowledge that I'm the first man to truly appreciate her this way, to worship her body with the expertise it deserves, makes her even more delicious.
