Page 56 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard, the air between us charged with electricity. His jaw clenches, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief.
"Prove it," he says, voice low and dangerous. "Show me how much you want to be taken care of."
I know what he's asking. What he wants. What I want, too, though I've never been able to admit it to myself.
The weight of responsibility I've carried since my parents died—the constant struggle to be self-sufficient, to need no one, to prove I can handle everything alone—suddenly feels unbearable. Years of tension coil inside me, a spring wound too tight for too long.
And in this moment, on the precipice of complete surrender, I feel something unexpected:relief.
Relief at not having to be strong anymore. Relief at giving control to someone else. Relief at finally admitting what I've needed all along.
Without a word, I slowly sink to my knees before him, looking up to maintain eye contact as I settle on the plush carpet of his study. His breath catches, hands clenching at his sides as he watches me, nostrils flaring slightly.
"Please," I whisper, the word both surrender and request. "Let me show you."
My trembling fingers reach for his belt, the Italian leather smooth beneath my touch. The heavy silver buckle releases with a soft clink in the quiet of his study. I work the button of his slacks next, then the zipper, each small sound amplifying the tension between us.
Victor's breathing changes as I ease the fabric down his hips, becoming deeper, more controlled. He's restraining himself, I realize. Allowing me this moment of agency within my surrender.
When I finally free him from the confines of his boxer briefs, I can't help the small gasp that escapes me. He's magnificent—thick and hard, the head already glistening with evidence of his desire. For me. Because of me. The power of that knowledge sends a fresh wave of heat through my body.
I glance up to find him watching me with an intensity that should be frightening. His eyes, normally the color of winter storm clouds, have darkened to the shade of gunmetal. The lines of his face are taut with restraint, jaw clenched, lips slightly parted.
"Go on," he says, the command barely more than a whisper. "Show me who you belong to."
The words shatter the last fragile barrier between the woman I've pretended to be and the woman I truly am. For the first time since I entered his office—perhaps for the first time in years—my mind goes blissfully, perfectly quiet. No more analysis. No more resistance. No more pretending.
Just surrender. Complete and absolute.
I lean forward, hands braced against his powerful thighs, and take him into my mouth. The taste of him, salt and musk, floods my senses. Above me, Victor makes a sound I've never heard from him before, something between a groan and a growl. His hand comes to the back of my head, not forcing, just resting there, a heavy weight that grounds me.
"That's it," he murmurs, fingers threading through my hair with that perfect balance of gentleness and possession. "Take me deeper."
I obey without hesitation, relaxing my throat to accommodate more of him. The discomfort is secondary to the desperate need to please him, to prove my surrender is genuine. Tears spring to my eyes from the physical strain, but I don't stop, don't pull back. The fullness, the slight edge of pain, the restriction of my breathing—all of it feeds the strange euphoria building inside me.
"Good girl," Victor praises, his voice dropping to that register that seems to resonate directly in my core. "My perfect, beautiful girl."
The praise washes over me like a physical caress, more intoxicating than any drug. I hollow my cheeks, drawing a sharp hiss from him, his fingers tightening in my hair.
"Look at me," he commands.
I raise my eyes without slowing down, finding his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that steals what little breath I have left. The connection between us in this moment transcends the physical—it's primal, elemental, a claiming of souls.
"Do you feel it?" he asks, thumb brushing away a tear that spills down my cheek. "The relief of letting go? Of belonging to someone stronger than yourself?"
And I do. With every bob of my head, every stroke of my tongue, every moan that vibrates around his length, I'm shedding layers of the armor I've worn for so long. The brilliant scientist, the independent woman, the girl who needs no one—all those carefully constructed personas dissolving in the face of this fundamental truth: I need this. I need him.
Victor's breathing grows more ragged, his control slipping as I work him with increasing fervor. The physical act itself, something I've always approached with clinical detachment or performed as an obligation to Aaron, has become a salvation. Each slide of my lips brings me closer to some essential truth about myself I've been running from my entire adult life.
"Such a good girl for Daddy," he groans, hips beginning to move in shallow thrusts that I welcome, encourage. "Taking me so perfectly. Like you were made for this. Made for me."
His rhythm falters, muscles tensing beneath my hands. Without warning, he grips my hair tighter, holding me in place as the first pulse hits the back of my throat. I struggle momentarily against the unfamiliar sensation, then yield to it, accepting everything he gives me with a newfound sense of purpose.
When it's over, when I've dutifully swallowed every drop, he doesn't immediately release me. Instead, he holds me there for a moment longer, his softening length still between my lips, a final demonstration of his control.
"You're mine," he says softly, almost reverently, as he finally allows me to pull away.
I remain on my knees, looking up at him through a blur of tears that won't stop coming. They stream down my face unchecked, not from pain or humiliation, but from something deeper—a dam breaking inside me. Years of pent-up emotion pouring out in a flood I can't control. My shoulders shake with silent sobs, my throat aches, my jaw is sore, my knees hurt from the hard floor despite the carpet's plushness.
