Page 14 of Daddy's Girl

I apply pressure onto the slick spit where I'm already aching. A smalleepsound escapes me—need, sure, and surprise at how good even this feels.

"That's it, baby girl." His voice drops an octave, the tempo of his breathing changing. Some of the hardness in his face shifts to something that looks almost like pride. "Show me you feel it too."

My hips move without permission, rocking against my palm as I pull my other hand out, bracing the heel of my palm on the edge of the chair, pushing myself upward, tensing and hitting that spot in a circular motion. His rhythm matches mine, like we're already connected.

The nub moves over the hard bone underneath, and each time it sort of slips to the side, I nearly come apart. I press harder, harder, until my vision starts to blur, holding my eyes open only because I get to see him.

"I shouldn't be doing this," I whisper, but I don't stop. Can't stop.

"But you are." His gaze burns into me. "Because you know who you belong to now."

"Jack—"

"No." His free hand comes up, fingers gripping my chin in a betrayal of his promise not to touch me. My whole body ignites at the contact. "Say it right."

The word rises from somewhere deep, primal, buried, erupting out of me like magma from my core. "Daddy."

His pupils dilate until his eyes are nearly black. A sound tears from his throat—half growl, half groan.

"Again," he demands.

"Daddy," I stutter, the pleasure starting to pulse, making words hard to form. "Please."

That breaks him, I see it. A shift, a grimace, a hardening of every muscle in his chest.

His strokes become harder, faster, more desperate. His breathing is ragged. I mirror him, pressing harder, moving faster against my own hand.

"Look at me," he commands on a deep, breathy pant. "Don't you dare look away."

I don't. I can't. Our gazes lock as tension builds in me, in him, between us like something living.

"You're safe with me," he growls, the words strained. "Daddy won’t hurt you, ever."

"I know, Daddy." And I do. Somehow, I do.

"Mine," he says, the word a prayer and a promise. “My good girl. My best girl.”

He comes with a sound that's barely human, eyes never leaving mine, his release spurting hot across his fist, his stomach. He roars through bared teeth.

The sight of it—of him completely undone because of me—pushes me over. My orgasm crashes through me, unexpected and overwhelming, wringing a cry from my lips that sounds like his name.

Like "Daddy."

I slap my thighs together, doubling over as the spasms take hold, my other hand gripping the chair to keep me from going over face first onto the floor between his boots.

That floaty feeling is back as I force myself upright, riding out the last remnants of the orgasm, mouth wide, shoulders tight, sounds tearing from my throat like an animal.

When it's over, when we're both panting and staring at each other in stunned silence, his eyes soften and there’s a nearly imperceptible shake of his head.

“You make me do things I shouldn’t,” he growls, reaching for a box of tissues, popping a few from the top and cleaning himself as I draw my fingers from my own messy heat.

My fingers glisten in the bright shop lights and my cheeks warm at the sudden realization this could have been just a moment of bad judgment for Jack. A lonely man in the mountains with a girl barely dressed, and he lost control.

Who could blame him? How long has he lived out here like this, with no one?

Reaching for the tissues for myself, my fingers quiver and my heart lodges in my throat. Jack drops his tissues in a bucket next to the chair, his hand darting to my wrist and locking around it like a vice.

His grip is solid as a new rush of heat flows through me.

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