Page 52 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Look at me," I command, needing to see her eyes, needing to watch her awareness as she services me.
She obeys, green eyes meeting mine as she continues sucking my cock. In them I see conflict—determination, fear, calculation, and beneath it all, something she'd probably deny: arousal. Her body responding to mine despite her mind's objections. Another victory.
"Perfect," I praise, the word carrying layers of meaning she can't possibly understand. Not just her physical performance, but the entire scenario—her on her knees despite knowing the truth, choosing submission as strategy, unaware that each such choice only binds her more tightly to me.
I continue the charade of reading, turning pages I don't see, while she works me with increasing confidence. Her hands join her mouth, creating a rhythm that builds pleasure with expert precision. For someone who presented herself as sexually inexperienced, she's remarkably adept. Another deception between us, another layer in our game.
My control begins to fray as pleasure builds, the book forgotten in my hand. I watch her now without pretense, captivated by the sight of her surrender. When she hollows her cheeks, taking me deeper, I groan openly, beyond the point of feigned indifference.
"You were made for this," I tell her, the words raw with truth she doesn't yet comprehend. "Made for me."
She increases her pace, clearly trying to bring this to completion, to end this test as quickly as possible. The thought amuses me even as pressure builds at the base of my spine.
"Not yet," I say, gripping her hair to slow her movements. "I decide when. Not you."
She makes a small sound of frustration but complies, slowing her pace to something torturous. The power in the moment is intoxicating—her mouth on me, her body responding to mycommands, all while she believes she's merely playing a part. Does she understand yet that the performance is becoming reality? That the line between pretense and truth blurs a little more with each submission?
My phone vibrates on the side table—once, twice, three times. The emergency signal from Patrick. Something that can't wait, something that requires immediate attention. But nothing is more important than this moment, this evidence of Kyra's capitulation despite her knowledge.
"Ignore it," I command when her eyes flicker toward the sound. "Focus on me."
She obeys, redoubling her efforts, and the pleasure spikes sharply. My fingers tighten in her hair, control slipping as release approaches. The phone buzzes again, insistent, but it's distant, unimportant compared to the sight of Kyra on her knees, her mouth working me with what appears to be genuine enthusiasm now.
Is it possible she's not entirely acting? That despite knowing what I am, what I've done, some part of her responds to my dominance, craves my control? The thought pushes me closer to the edge.
"Look at me," I demand again, needing to see her eyes in the moment of my release. "Don't look away."
She meets my gaze, those green eyes steady despite her vulnerable position. In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that she understands exactly what this represents: not just sexual submission, but a deeper surrender. A choice to continue our dance despite knowing the true stakes.
Then I come. The pleasure spikes through me with an intensity that borders on pain. I maintain eye contact through it all, watching her watch me come, making her witness the power she has granted me over her. Making her complicit.
She swallows without being told, another small submission that sends aftershocks of pleasure through me. When she finally sits back on her heels, lips swollen and cheeks flushed, I see triumph in her eyes—believing she's won this round, believing she's convinced me of her surrender.
If only she knew how thoroughly she's just proven my point.
I tuck myself away, composure returning as my racing heart calms. "Good girl," I praise, the words carrying genuine approval. "You continue to surprise me."
"In good ways, I hope," she says, her voice slightly hoarse from her exertions.
"The very best ways." I reach for my phone, checking the emergency message from Patrick while my other hand strokes her hair in possessive appreciation. A business issue with the Torrino family—urgent but not catastrophic. Something that can wait until morning.
"Is everything all right?" Kyra asks, noticing the shift in my attention.
"Just business," I reply smoothly, setting the phone aside. "Nothing that can't wait until morning."
Against the backdrop of twinkling Christmas lights, Kyra looks flushed and beautiful, her lips slightly swollen from her efforts. The colored lights cast patterns across her skin, reminding me of how I've planned every detail of our Christmas together. The tree. The decorations. The music. The ring hidden in my safe.
"It's getting late," I observe, helping her to her feet as a gentleman would. "And tomorrow promises to be another day of preparation for our Christmas celebration."
Her smile is convincing, her performance flawless. "I can hardly wait."
"Neither can I," I reply, the truth of it thrumming through me with dark anticipation. "Why don't you go up to bed? I have a few things to arrange for tomorrow."
She hesitates, clearly wondering what I'm planning, what "arrangements" might entail. But she maintains her role, nodding with feigned enthusiasm. "Don't stay up too late."
"I won't," I promise, watching as she moves toward the stairs, the green dress swaying with each step. Only when she's out of sight do I allow the mask to slip, cold calculation replacing the warm affection I'd projected.
I send a text to Patrick:Handle the Torrino situation. No disturbances until after Christmas. This week is sacrosanct.
