Page 58 of Santa Daddy
Any pretense of control I’d been clinging to slipped through my fingers like snowmelt.
You’re supposed to hate him. You’re supposed to be scheming escape routes, not begging his tongue to stay in your mouth a little longer.
His mouth left mine long enough to drag along my throat, teeth grazing the skin he’d already bruised before. Every pass of his lips laid a trail of heat and shame and something that felt suspiciously like worship.
His hands left my face and mapped down. Over my neck, my shoulders, the swell of my breasts under the red silk, the dip of my waist. Touch after touch like he was memorizing a language he already spoke fluently and still couldn’t get enough of.
“Mine,” he growled against my neck.
The word vibrated through my skin, straight down my spine, pooling low and fierce.
His. When had that happened?
“Yours,” I heard myself say.
The second the word left my mouth, it felt like a lock turning somewhere deep inside.
Oh, holy shit. I’d actually given up.
He kissed me again, slower this time. Deep, lazy drags of his tongue, like he was taking his time now that he knew I wasn’t running. Like he had every intention of savoring this before he destroyed us both.
Later, I’d hate myself. Later, I’d pick apart every second and call myself every name in the book.
Right then, with his hands on my body and his mouth on mine and Christmas lights blinking in my peripheral vision, I couldn’t make myself care.
“Come on, kotyonok,” he murmured against my lips. His breath was warm and smelled faintly of whiskey and winter. “Let’s get you out of this dress.”
Stupid sentence. Should’ve been harmless. It detonated anyway.
My brain scattered like someone had knocked all the pieces off the board.
“Now, Dani,” he said, voice low and insistent, hauling me back from the spiral with nothing but tone. “Enough waiting.”
Enough waiting. Enough circling and snapping and pretending we weren’t headed here from the moment I watched him kill a man in the snow.
My tongue wouldn’t form words, so I gave him the only answer I had: I didn’t move when his hand reached for the zipper.
The sound of metal teeth parting was louder than the music. Louder than the snow hissing against the windows. Louder than the little voice left in my head telling me I was making the worst decision of my life.
The red silk slid over my skin like spilled wine, pooling around my ankles in a puddle of color. He stepped back just enough to look at me.
His necklace came off next, his fingers careful at the clasp. Then the earrings. Then the heels with their fucking torture-device straps.
Soon I was just stockings, garters, and the lace underwear I’d put on knowing exactly who I’d be seeing tonight.
I should’ve been terrified.
I was. Somewhere under the adrenaline, terror lived. But it was drowned in want.
“My favorite part,” he said, fingertips tracing along the edge of the lace at my hips. “I want to see the rest. It’s time I officially mark you.”
Mark.
Brand.
Make sure anyone who saw me naked afterward would know exactly who I belonged to.
He hooked his thumbs in the lace and stripped it down without ceremony. Cold air kissed my skin. His hands followed, smoothing up my thighs, over my hips, along my sides, until one palm cupped my breast, the other circled my throat in a collar that wasn’t choking yet.
