Page 42 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
I blink, genuinely confused until understanding dawns. "Christmas," I say, the word feeling strange in my mouth. With everything that's happened—Aaron's breakup, my apartment situation, the funding crisis, and now... whatever this is with Victor—I'd completely lost track of the date. "It's almost Christmas."
"Three days until Christmas Eve," Victor confirms, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "And this cabin is woefully underprepared for the occasion."
The normalcy of his statement, the idea of Christmas decorations and traditions, creates a jarring contrast with what just transpired between us. How do we go from what we just did to hanging ornaments and stringing lights?
"I hadn't really thought about it," I admit, suddenly self-conscious of my nakedness. I pull the sheet higher, covering myself. "Christmas, I mean."
Victor notices the gesture, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Don't," he says softly, reaching out to tug the sheet from my grasp. "Don't hide from me. Not now. Not after what we've shared."
Reluctantly, I let the sheet fall away, fighting the urge to cover myself. Victor's gaze moves over me with deliberate appreciation.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, then rises from the bed with easy confidence. "Shower, then we'll have a late lunch. After that, I have a surprise for you."
I watch as he strips and walks naked to the en-suite bathroom, admiring the lean strength of his body. For a man in his fifties, Victor is remarkably fit—not with the showy muscles of younger men like Aaron, but with the honed power of someone who takes exceptional care of himself. The tattoos I glimpsed earlier are fully visible now, intricate designs covering his left arm and portions of his chest—religious imagery mixed with symbols I don't recognize, telling a story I can't yet read.
He showers with the door open.
The shower turns on, and after a moment's hesitation, I follow him. Whatever line we crossed earlier, there's no going back now. Might as well embrace the strange new reality I've entered.
Victor's shower is like everything else in the cabin—luxurious, oversized, with multiple showerheads that create a steamy sanctuary. He's already beneath the spray, water sluicing down his body, when I step in. His eyes darken at the sight of me, and for a moment I think he might pull me against him, might take me right there.
Instead, he reaches for expensive-looking shampoo and gestures for me to turn around. "Let me," he says.
I comply, oddly moved by the intimacy of the gesture. His fingers work through my hair with surprising gentleness, massaging my scalp with firm, circular motions that draw an involuntary sigh from my lips.
"You like being taken care of," he observes, his voice close to my ear. "Even though you won't admit it."
I don't argue. Can't argue, when my body's response proves his point so effectively. There's something profoundly soothing about surrendering to his care, about letting someone else handle even this simple task.
After rinsing my hair, he continues with body wash, his hands moving over my skin with both care and sensuality.
When he's finished, I expect him to turn the tables, to demand I wash him in return. Instead, he denies me and quickly washes himself while I watch, then turns off the water and reaches for plush towels.
"I'll have lunch ready in twenty minutes," he says, wrapping one towel around his waist and using another to gently dry my hair. "There are clothes for you in the guest room closet. Wear something comfortable."
The casual command reminds me of our new dynamic. Not just mentor and mentee, not just lover and beloved, but something more structured. A relationship with rules I'm still learning.
"Yes, Victor," I say, testing the boundaries. His eyes flash, one eyebrow arching in silent reprimand. I feel my cheeks heat as I correct myself. "Yes,Daddy."
The smile that spreads across his face is worth the momentary embarrassment. "Good girl," he praises, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Twenty minutes."
In the guest room, I select a deep green sweater that feels like cashmere against my skin, pairing it with jeans that fit perfectly. The matching underwear is simple but elegant—black lace that makes me feel desirable in a way my practical cotton never did. I leave my hair loose to dry naturally, applying only minimal makeup from the supplies I find in the en-suite bathroom.
When I descend to the kitchen, Victor is at the stove. He's prepared what appears to be a simple pasta dish, the aroma of garlic and herbs filling the space.
"Perfect timing," he says, glancing up from the stove. His eyes darken as they take in my appearance, and I feel a flutter of pleasure at his obvious appreciation. "The sweater suits you. I knew it would bring out your eyes."
"Thank you," I say, unsure how to navigate this new territory between us. What's the protocol after spending the morning calling a man 'Daddy' while he brings you to the most intense orgasms of your life? The etiquette expert Emily Post never covered that particular social scenario.
"Sit," he directs, nodding toward the island where he's set two places. "Wine?"
"Please." I settle onto the stool.
He places a glass of wine before me, then serves the pasta—angel hair with a light sauce, topped with grilled chicken and fresh herbs. It's the kind of meal that looks effortless but requires considerable skill to execute properly.
"This looks amazing," I say honestly.
"Eat," he encourages, taking the seat beside me rather than across, his thigh brushing mine. "You'll need your strength for this afternoon."
