Page 59 of Santa Daddy
“Pretty,” he murmured. His thumb brushed my lower lip, swollen from his kisses. “All mine.”
The words lit up something deep and dark inside me, burning away what was left of my resistance.
There was no escape.
There was only this. Only him. Only tonight.
He picked me up like I weighed nothing and carried me to the bedroom. The door stayed open; the tree’s glow reached in, throwing fractured light over the bed like scattered snow.
He set me down on the mattress. The linens were ridiculously soft—Egyptian cotton that felt sinful against my bare back. Very aware of how naked I was, how completely exposed.
Then he was on top of me, all hard lines and heat and too much.
His hips pinned mine. One hand gathered my wrists above my head in a grip that would leave bruises. The other slid under my back, arching me up into him.
He could break me in half without breaking pace.
“Kon—” My breath stuttered. The outline of his cock pressed against me through the wool of his pants. Every rational part of my brain screamed about how insane this was. How I’d promised myself not to do this again so soon. How I was under his control in every way that counted.
Every other part of me—body, pulse, stupid, traitorous heart—just wanted more.
He looked down at me, expression unguarded for once. The intensity in his eyes made something in my chest try to crawl out.
I didn’t just want this.
I wanted him.
That was the worst part.
Then his mouth was on mine again and thought stopped being an option.
Hands. Teeth. Tongue. The world closed down to silk and sheets and the way he moved like he’d done this a thousand times and somehow still acted like he’d never had anything as good as me under him.
“Can you feel what you do to me?” he rasped at my ear between kisses, hips grinding down so I felt every thick inch of him trapped by fabric. “Feel what you make me become?”
Yes. Whatever it is, yes.
I didn’t manage words. Just arched into him, chasing the friction, whining a sound I didn’t know I could make.
His grip tightened on my wrists. The other hand slid from my side to my throat, fingers curving there. Not choking. Reminding.
“You’re mine,” he said, breath hot against my skin. Certainty in every syllable. “From the moment I saw you. From the moment I tasted you. Mine.”
“Yes,” I panted. “Yours.”
Ownership should have made me furious.
It didn’t.
It made me hungry.
“Say it,” he ordered. “Say it, and I’ll make you forget the world exists outside this bed. Outside these walls. Outside my hands.”
“I’m yours,” I whispered. “I’m yours.”
His hand at my throat tightened just enough that my next breath had to be pulled in, not fallen into. It sharpened every nerve, focused everything on him—his weight, his heat, his hands.
“My good girl,” he said, and the praise did something unspeakable to me.
