Page 48 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, mouth close to my ear.
“I know.” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His hands found my waist, fingers splaying over my hips. “You can stop me anytime. Just say the word.”
I wasn’t going to. Not even if my legs gave out. The thought of him stopping was worse than the nerves.
He lifted me before I could even think to protest, just scooped me up like I weighed nothing. My arms locked around his neck. I could feel the muscles in his arms, the heat of his chest through his shirt. He carried me to the bedroom and set me down on the edge of the bed, then knelt right in front of me.
“Look at me,” he said. When I did, he smiled, real and soft. “You’re beautiful.”
My face burned. I didn’t believe him, but I wanted to.
He traced his finger along the edge of the teddy, just barely touching skin. Every place his finger found made me shiver. “If you want to stop, you tell me.”
“I don’t want to stop,” I said. It came out shaky, but true.
He got up and sat next to me, strong arm curling around my waist. His hand skimmed my thigh, careful, not pushing, just letting me get used to the idea. He kissed my shoulder, then my collarbone, then the hollow at the base of my throat. I felt every single one all the way down.
He let me set the pace. I didn’t even know how to start, but he made it easy. He didn’t take my clothes off right away, just let his hands learn the shape of my body, slow and careful, like he was memorizing every inch. I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t want to. If I did, I’d lose the feeling of his hands on my skin.
He kissed me again, deep and hot, and I could taste the want on him. My whole body went tight. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I clung to his arm, fingers digging into his shirt. He didn’t mind. If anything, it made him bolder. He traced the straps, then the line of my shoulder, then down my spine, just barely touching.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered against my neck.
“It’s not,” I gasped. “Please don’t stop.”
He groaned, low and rough, and his hands went to my waist, then lower, cupping my hips so gently. It was so gentle it made me want to cry, but he just held me like I was precious, like every curve was something he’d waited his whole life for.
He didn’t tear the teddy. He peeled it off, slow, like unwrapping a present he’d wanted for years. I was shaking, but it wasn’t fear. It was relief, and hope, and so much wanting I thought I’d burst open.
When I was bare in front of him, I tried to cover myself, but he stopped me with a touch. “Don’t,” he said, voice ragged. “Let me look.”
I almost sobbed. No one had ever wanted to look. Not really. But he did. He looked at every inch, every scar, every patch of skin I’d always hidden.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “I want you more than I want to breathe.”
I couldn’t speak. I just let him touch me, his hands gentle at first, then hungry, then gentle again. He didn’t push. He didn’t rush. When he kissed my breast, my whole body went tight and I made a noise I’d never made before.
He smiled, then did it again, like he was learning what made me melt. He touched everywhere. My stomach. My thighs. My arms. He kissed the inside of my wrist and the spot behind my ear, and every time I made a sound he held me tighter. In another second he was naked.
When he finally moved over me, I wasn’t scared. I was nervous, sure. I was shaking so bad I thought I might fall apart. But I wanted this. I wanted him.
He paused, forehead pressed to mine. “You’re sure?” His voice was wrecked.
I nodded. My voice didn’t work, but I nodded again, and that was enough.
I watched in awe at him putting on a condom. There was no way it would fit, but when he kissed me some more I didn't care.
He entered me careful, slow, stopping the second I tensed. “Easy, baby-girl. We go at your pace.”
I clung to him, nails digging into his back. At first it hurt—a sharp, burning stretch—but he didn’t move until I said okay. He kissed me, soft and slow, until the pain faded, and then it was just heat. Pressure. Fullness so sweet I wanted to sob.
He went slow. So slow. Every inch was a question, and every time he eased deeper, he watched my face like the world might end if I said stop. It hurt, but not in a bad way. I knew he’d go slow forever if that’s what I needed. My hands were shaking so hard I had to clutch his arms just to stay grounded, and every time his hips rocked forward I made a noise I’d never heard before in my life.
He stroked my hair, murmured things I barely understood. “Breathe for me, baby-girl. Just like that. You’re doing so good.” I felt the burn turn to heat, and then it was just pressure, and the ache inside me that never seemed to go away when he looked at me like that.
I couldn’t believe I was here. With him. Wanted. Not perfect, not even close, but he wanted me anyway.
