Page 51 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Indeed." I let my fingers trace the edge of the page, watching how her eyes follow the movement. "Raskolnikov believed himself superior, above conventional morality. He thought his intellect exempted him from the rules that govern ordinary men."
"But he was wrong," she points out, a challenge flickering in her eyes.
"Was he?" I turn a page. "He confessed because he couldn't bear the weight of his secret. His mistake wasn't the crime itself, but his inability to live with the knowledge of what he'd done."
I let the words hang between us, heavy with implication. Does she understand what I'm really saying? That I have no such weakness, no such limitation?
"Some would say his confession was strength, not weakness," she counters, her chin lifting slightly. "The ability to recognize one's transgressions."
Clever girl. Even now, even knowing what she knows, she pushes back. It makes what comes next all the sweeter.
"Perhaps." I set the book aside, my eyes never leaving hers. "But tonight I find myself more interested in actions than philosophy."
Her pulse visibly quickens at the base of her throat. She knows what's coming—some version of it, at least.
"Come closer," I command softly.
She obeys, shifting nearer to my chair, her eyes wary but her movements confident. Still playing her part perfectly.
"Closer," I repeat, spreading my legs slightly, making my intention unmistakable.
Now the hesitation is more pronounced. I can see the calculation in her eyes—how far to take this performance? What happens if she refuses? What happens if she doesn't?
"I want your mouth on my cock, Kyra," I say. "While I continue reading. I want to feel you surrender while I expand my mind."
The deliberate juxtaposition of intellectual and carnal, of her submission and my elevation. The symbolism isn't subtle, but it doesn't need to be. This is about power, about her choice to submit despite knowing exactly what I am.
Her eyes widen. Fear. Arousal. "Here? Now?"
"Here. Now." I unbutton my slacks, the sound of the zipper unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Unless you'd prefer to stop our game."
Our game. The phrasing is deliberate, a test to see if she catches the implication that I know she's performing. But her focus is on my hand, on what I'm revealing, and the subtle trap passes unnoticed.
"No," she says softly, and I can see the moment she makes her decision. The moment she chooses to continue the charade, to maintain the illusion that she's falling under my spell. "I want to please you."
Victory surges through me, dark and potent as the scotch still warming my veins. She's choosing this. She is choosing submission with open eyes, believing it's temporary, a means to an end. Not understanding that every such choice binds her more tightly to me, makes her complicit in her own capture.
I free myself, cock already hard with anticipation. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight—whether from genuine appreciation or well-feigned surprise, it hardly matters. What matters is what comes next.
"Show me how much you want to please me," I say, picking up my book again, the picture of casual dominance. "Show me what a good girl you can be."
She moves between my legs, hesitantly at first, then with more purpose. When her fingers wrap around me, I suppress a groan. The physical sensation is exquisite, but it's the psychological dimension that truly intoxicates me. She knows what I've done, knows what I'm capable of, and still she's here, on her knees, about to take me in her mouth.
Her lips part, warm breath ghosting across my sensitive skin. I force myself to look at the book, to maintain the illusion that this is routine, expected, nothing that requires my full attention. Butwhen her tongue darts out for a tentative taste, I can't help the sharp intake of breath.
"Eyes on your book, Daddy," she murmurs, and the unexpected boldness, the deliberate echo of my own controlling behavior, sends a jolt of pleasure through me so intense it borders on pain.
She's playing me even as I play her. The knowledge should infuriate me, but instead it heightens my arousal. My clever, defiant Kyra, thinking she can beat me at my own game.
When her mouth finally envelops me, hot and wet and perfect, I grip the book hard enough that the spine creaks in protest. The physical pleasure is intense, but it's the sight of her that truly undoes me—on her knees in the green dress I selected, her lips stretched around my cock, performing submission while thinking herself clever, thinking herself still free.
The Christmas tree glows in the background, casting colored lights across her face—red, green, gold reflecting on her glistening lips as they move over me. The festive glow creates a perverse halo effect, holiday cheer juxtaposed with the profane act. Christmas Eve is just two days away, and her on her knees before me is the perfect prelude to the gift I've been waiting three years to unwrap.
I reach down with my free hand, tangling my fingers in her hair, guiding her movements. Not roughly, but with unmistakable control. "That's it," I murmur, finally allowing my voice to reveal a fraction of what I'm feeling. "Take me deeper."
She complies, her rhythm steady, her technique surprisingly skilled. Another reminder of her time with my son—a thought that should enrage me but instead fuels a possessive satisfaction. Aaron had her body, but he never had her mind. Never understood the brilliance that makes her truly exceptional.
I will have both. Already do, though she doesn't realize it yet.
