Page 44 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"It's beautiful," I say honestly. The tree is indeed perfect—like something from a magazine spread.
"Then it's ours." He pulls out his phone, sending a quick text. Within minutes, two workers appear to mark the tree for delivery. Victor watches them work with the calm satisfaction of a man accustomed to having his instructions carried out promptly and without question.
On the drive back to the cabin, I find myself studying Victor's profile. The strong line of his jaw, the silver at his temples, the confidence with which he navigates the winding mountain roads. What kind of man inspires such respect—or fear—in everyone he encounters?
And what kind of woman am I, to find that possession so thrilling?
By the time we return, the tree has already been delivered and set up in the great room, positioned perfectly before the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the valley. Victor tips the delivery men generously before dismissing them with a nod, leaving us alone once more.
"Now comes the enjoyable part," he says, removing his coat and helping me out of mine. "Decorations. They're in the storage room off the kitchen."
I follow him, curious about what kind of Christmas decorations would meet Victor Strickland's exacting standards. The storage room reveals multiple boxes of ornaments—not the plastic commercial variety, but hand-blown glass, delicate and clearly expensive. There are also lights, garlands, and what appears to be an antique star for the top of the tree.
"These are beautiful," I say, carefully examining a glass ornament that catches the light like a prism. "Have you had them long?"
"Some were my grandmother's," Victor admits, an unexpected vulnerability in his voice. "Others I've collected over the years. Christmas was... important to her. She ensured it remained important to me."
It's the first genuine glimpse he's offered into his past, into the forces that shaped him beyond business success and power. I want to ask more, to understand the boy who became this complex, dangerous man, but his expression warns against further questions.
"She had excellent taste," I say instead.
"She did," he agrees, something like approval warming his gaze. "Help me carry these to the great room?"
We spend the next two hours decorating the tree, and I discover yet another side of Victor. He's still methodical, still attentive to detail, but there's an almost playful quality to him now. He shares stories about certain ornaments—where he found them, why he selected them. He allows me input on placement, though I notice he subtly adjusts anything that disrupts his vision of perfect symmetry.
"Final touch," he says eventually, holding up the antique star. "Would you like to do the honors?"
"I can't reach the top," I point out.
Without warning, his hands circle my waist and he lifts me easily, holding me steady as I carefully place the star atop thetree. When he lowers me, he doesn't immediately let go, his hands lingering at my waist as I turn in his arms to face him.
"Perfect," he murmurs, though he's looking at me, not the tree. His eyes darken with that now-familiar heat, his intention clear even before he lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss is different from earlier—less desperate, more controlled, but no less intense. His hands slide lower, cupping my ass and pulling me against him so I can feel his growing arousal through our jeans.
"I think," he says between kisses, "we've earned a reward for our hard work."
"What kind of reward?" I ask, already knowing the answer as his hands slip beneath my sweater, finding bare skin.
"The kind that will make you call me Daddy again," he promises, his voice dark with intent. "The kind that will make you forget there was ever anyone before me."
He lifts me again, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the couch positioned perfectly for viewing both the tree and the fireplace. The symbolism isn't lost on me—our private Christmas, our twisted version of domestic bliss.
"I want you here," he says, laying me down on the soft leather. "With the tree lights reflecting on your skin while I make you come apart."
The image is so vividly erotic that I feel myself grow wet just from his words. How does he do this to me? How does he reduce me—brilliant researcher, dedicated scientist—to a creature of pure sensation with just his voice?
His hands make quick work of my jeans, sliding them down my legs along with the black lace underwear he'd provided. The cool air against my heated skin makes me shiver, but Victor's gaze—hungry, possessive, appreciative—makes me burn.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, positioning himself between my legs, still fully clothed while I'm exposed from the waist down. The power dynamic isn't subtle, but that only makes it more arousing. "So perfect for me."
When his mouth finds me, I arch off the couch with a cry that echoes through the cabin. He holds my hips firmly, controlling my movements as his tongue works its magic, bringing me to the edge of climax before pulling back, denying me release.
"Please, Daddy," I gasp, the forbidden word now coming easier, "please let me come."
His growl of approval vibrates against me as he resumes his attentions with renewed intensity. This time he doesn't stop, doesn't tease, just drives me relentlessly toward climax until I'm shattering beneath him.
As I slowly come back to myself, I feel his weight shift as he moves up my body. I expect him to take more, to claim me completely, but instead, he gathers me against him, arranging us so I'm half-draped across his chest. I can feel his arousal, hard and insistent against my hip, but he makes no move to seek his own release.
