Page 31 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Victor," I whisper, the forbidden name escaping before I can stop it. Then I clap my free hand over my mouth in horror as waves of pleasure crash through me, my inner walls clenching around my fingers, my clit throbbing under my touch, my whole body convulsing with release.
I lie trembling in the aftermath, my fingers still buried inside me, my core pulsing with aftershocks, reality crashing back with humiliating force. What have I done? What kind of professional develops sexual fantasies about her mentor? What kind of woman fantasizes about her ex-boyfriend's father?
Post-orgasm clarity brings renewed mortification. What if Victor somehow senses what I've done, what I've thought? What if he notices something different in my eyes tomorrow, some evidence of my inappropriate desires?
"This was necessary," I tell myself, trying to reclaim clinical detachment. "Now I can focus on the academic opportunity."
Tomorrow I'll maintain the appropriate distance. I'll focus exclusively on research. I'll be the consummate professional Victor deserves as a mentee.
"Just one night of weakness," I whisper as I settle back against the pillows. "If he knew what I just imagined, he'd withdraw his mentorship immediately."
I close my eyes, determined to control these inappropriate feelings. I've always prided myself on my self-discipline, my ability to compartmentalize. This attraction is just another problem to solve, another variable to control.
I'm drifting toward sleep, exhaustion pulling me under, when a sound jerks me fully awake—a soft knock at my bedroom door.
"Kyra?" Victor's voice, concern evident even through the wood. "Are you alright? I thought I heard you call out."
My heart stops, then races with panic. Did he hear me? Did he hear his name on my lips as I climaxed?
Before I can respond, the door opens slightly, and Victor's silhouette appears in the gap, backlit by the dim hallway light.
"I thought you might be having a nightmare," he says softly.
I clutch the sheets to my chest, mortified beyond words, as he steps into the room.
Chapter nine
Victor
The surveillance system in my study glows with soft blue light, the only illumination in the darkness. On the central monitor, Kyra sleeps—or pretends to. Her breathing isn't quite even enough for true unconsciousness. She's thinking, analyzing, that brilliant mind turning over the day's events.
I watch, patient as always, one hand absently tracing the edge of the tattoo visible beneath the sleeve of my worn t-shirt. Even at home, few see me this way—gray sweatpants and a simple black tee that reveals the ink marking my past. Patience has carried me from street enforcer to empire builder. It's brought me wealth beyond measure, power that makes federal judges tremble, and respect that borders on fear from everyone who knows my name.
And soon, it will bring me Kyra Sinclair.
On screen, she stirs, her body restless beneath silk sheets. The hidden camera in the antique clock on her nightstand captures every detail—the furrow between her brows, the way she bitesher lower lip, the slight flush spreading across her chest. Signs I've learned to read with precision.
She's aroused. Fighting it, but aroused nonetheless.
The realization sends satisfaction coursing through me. My careful seduction is working, despite her attempts to maintain professional boundaries. The seeds I've planted in her mind are taking root.
Her misinterpretation of my interest as purely academic is particularly delicious. She believes she's the one with inappropriate thoughts—the struggling student developing feelings for her generous mentor. The belief torments her, creating the psychological vulnerability I need.
When she shifts again, tossing aside covers as if too warm, I lean closer to the screen. The silk nightgown I provided rides up her thighs, revealing smooth skin I've yet to touch. My cock stiffens immediately at the sight of her bare legs, the hint of lace at the edge of her panties. I adjust myself, the pressure becoming uncomfortable as I continue to watch.
On screen, her breathing changes. Deeper, quicker. Her hand moves beneath the sheets and I know exactly what she's doing. The knowledge that she's touching herself in my home, surrounded by the luxury I've provided, triggers something deep and possessive in me.
Mine. Already mine, even if she doesn't recognize it yet.
I could join her. Could walk down the hall, open her door, and show her exactly what she's been fantasizing about. But that would be premature. The trap isn't fully set, the prey not completely lured. She needs to come to me willingly, needs to believe the choice is hers.
Only then will the victory be complete.
Instead, I watch as her movements become more purposeful beneath the sheets. Her free hand grips the pillow, her backarches slightly, her lips part on silent gasps. She's beautiful in her surrender to physical need.
My hand moves to my belt, unfastening it with practiced efficiency. I free my cock, already rock-hard and throbbing. I grip myself firmly, the sensation almost painful after being confined in my slacks. I stroke once from base to tip, feeling the vein pulsing under my palm, spreading the bead of wetness that's gathered at the head.
This is a private indulgence I rarely allow myself—a momentary surrender of control I permit only when the payoff justifies it. And watching Kyra touch herself while thinking of me absolutely justifies it.
