Page 42 of Demon Daddy's Hidden Daughter
I nod, and we begin the slow ritual of undressing. He works the buttons of my simple blue dress while I push his shirt from his shoulders, revealing the bronze expanse of his chest marked with old battle scars. Each piece of clothing that falls away feels like shedding armor, leaving us both vulnerable in the golden firelight.
When I'm down to just my underwear, Rhyen pauses, his gaze traveling over me with something close to worship. The intensity of it should make me want to hide, to cover myself the way I learned to do in those dark years. Instead, I find myself standing straighter, letting him look.
"You're beautiful," he breathes, and the raw honesty in his voice makes me believe it might actually be true.
His own body is a masterpiece of controlled strength—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, powerful thighs that speak of years in the saddle and on the training fields. The war brands along his upper arms catch the light, intricate patterns that mark him as nobility among his people. But it's the reverence in his gaze that undoes me completely.
He lifts me onto the bed with infinite care, settling beside me rather than over me. His fingers trace the line of my collarbone, and my skin heats beneath his touch.
"There's something I want tonight," he says quietly, his thumb brushing along my jaw. "Just one thing to make this day better."
The admission makes my pulse skip. In my limited experience, when men said they wanted something, it was always for their own pleasure, their own satisfaction. But the way Rhyen's looking at me suggests something different entirely.
"What?" I ask, the word coming out barely above a whisper.
A smile curves his lips—wicked but soft, full of promise and heat that makes my core clench with anticipation.
"I want to taste you," he murmurs, his voice dropping to that low rasp that does things to my insides. "I want to put my mouth on you until you fall apart, until you know what it feels like to be worshipped properly."
The words hit me like a physical shock. No one has ever—not once in my entire life has anyone offered to give me pleasure without expecting something in return. The very idea terrifies and thrills me in equal measure.
"I..." I start, then stop, heat flooding my cheeks. "No one's ever... I mean, he never..."
Understanding flashes in Rhyen's eyes, followed by such fierce tenderness that it makes my chest ache. "Then let me be your first," he says simply. "Let me show you how good it can feel when someone wants to please you."
The vulnerability in his request undoes me completely. This powerful man, this decorated warrior, is asking permission to give me pleasure. Not demanding, not taking—asking.
"Yes," I breathe, and the word feels like a benediction.
When he kisses me again, all my lingering nerves dissolve in the heat of it. His mouth moves against mine with careful passion, hands framing my face like I'm something precious. The kiss deepens slowly, and I lose myself in the slide of our tongues, the way he tastes like mint and sin and safety all at once.
His hands roam my body with infinite patience, tracing patterns across my ribs, mapping the curve of my waist. When he finally pulls the last scraps of clothing off of me, I don't feel exposed—I feel cherished.
"Perfect," he murmurs against my throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of my neck. "So fucking perfect."
His hands continue their reverent exploration, calloused palms rough against the soft skin of my breasts. When his thumbbrushes across one peaked nipple, I arch into the touch with a gasp that makes him groan low in his throat.
"That's it," he encourages, mouth trailing lower. "Let me hear you. Tell me what feels good."
The concept is so foreign—being asked to voice what I want, what brings me pleasure—that I can barely process it. But when his lips close around my nipple, the spike of sensation pulls a moan from my throat before I can stop it.
"Good girl," he rumbles against my skin, the praise sending heat spiraling straight to my core. "So responsive. So beautiful."
He takes his time with my breasts, learning what makes me gasp and what makes me arch beneath him. By the time he starts kissing his way down my belly, I'm trembling with need and something deeper—trust, maybe, or the shocking realization that I don't have to perform or pretend or endure.
I get to feel.
When he settles between my thighs, the sight of him there—silver hair gleaming in the firelight, those powerful shoulders caging me in—nearly overwhelms me. He presses gentle kisses to my inner thighs, hands stroking soothingly along my legs.
"Still with me?" he asks, and the check-in is so thoughtful, so caring, that emotion clogs my throat.
"Yes," I manage, voice already gone breathless.
The first touch of his mouth against my center nearly has me coming off the bed. The sensation is unlike anything I've ever felt—not the clinical emptiness I learned to cultivate during the worst times, but pure golden heat that radiates outward from where his tongue traces careful patterns.
"Oh," I gasp, hands tangling in his hair without conscious thought. "Oh, that's?—"
He hums against me, the vibration making my hips jerk involuntarily. "Tell me," he encourages between long, slow licks. "Tell me how it feels."
