Page 44 of Bratva Daddy
"I've only . . ." She paused, swallowed hard, tried again. "There were just two boys in college. They didn't—it wasn't—" Her voice trailed off, but I understood.
"I understand," I said. “Understand something, davochka—you are not being judged. There are no expectations. You will learn, but so will I. Doesn’t matter how many people you’ve been with—the learning never stops.”
She gave me a smile, held my gaze.
“Trust me,” I said, “and I swear you will not regret it.”
The sweater dropped to the floor without even a whisper. The whole world went silent, like it had stopped turning. She stood in black lace that had definitely been chosen with intention this morning, trembling like a leaf in a storm, and I'd never seen anything more perfect.
Mine, every cell in my body roared. Finally, completely, irrevocably mine.
"The panties stay," I commanded when Clara hooked her thumbs in the waistband, the slight desperation in her movement making my cock throb. She froze immediately, hands dropping to her sides, waiting for instruction like she'd been trained for this her whole life instead of just signing a contract twenty minutes ago.
"You'll earn the right to be fully naked," I said, standing with deliberate slowness. The way her eyes tracked my movement,like prey watching a predator, sent satisfaction through me dark as aged whiskey.
I moved behind her, taking my time, letting her feel my presence without my touch. Her breathing changed immediately—shorter, shallower, anticipatory. "Hands behind your back," I instructed, voice close to her ear but not quite touching. "Chest out. When I inspect what's mine, you display it properly."
She obeyed without hesitation, clasping her hands at the small of her back. The position forced her breasts forward, spine arching slightly, and I took a moment just to appreciate the picture she made. Black lace against pale skin. The faint tremble in her thighs. The way her nipples were clearly visible through the delicate fabric, hard and begging for attention.
I began my inspection with one finger, starting at the nape of her neck where baby-fine hair had escaped from her ponytail. She shivered at the contact, such a small touch drawing such a large reaction. I traced down her spine vertebra by vertebra, watching goosebumps rise across her shoulders, down her arms, everywhere my finger traveled like I was writing ownership on her skin.
"Your body tells me everything," I murmured, continuing my exploration across her shoulder blade, down the delicate wing of her scapula. "How wet you are—I can smell it from here. How your nipples are hard just from my voice. How you clench when I call you baby girl."
A small whimper escaped her at that, barely audible but I caught it. Filed it away with all the other tells I was cataloging. The way her breath hitched when I traced the edge of her bra. The involuntary flex of her fingers when I skimmed her ribs, her clavicle. The tiny sway toward my touch when I pulled away.
My hand cupped her breast, thumb circling her nipple through the lace with the lightest possible pressure. She arched into mytouch with a moan that made me impossibly hard, her whole body seeking more contact, more pressure, more anything.
"Ah,neposlushnaya, naughty, naughty," I said sharply, hand stilling immediately. "Did I say you could move?"
"No, Daddy," she gasped, the title falling from her lips like it had always belonged there. No more sarcasm, no more testing. Just submission so perfect it made my chest tight with something I refused to name.
"Then be still." I resumed my touch, even lighter than before, barely-there contact that I knew would drive her insane. "You move when I allow it. You make sounds when I permit them. Your responses belong to me now."
The effort it took her to remain still was beautiful to watch. Every muscle tense with the need to move, to seek more stimulation, but holding herself frozen because I'd commanded it. Her breathing became ragged as I continued my exploration—the curve of her waist, the sharp point of her hip bone, the sensitive skin of her inner thigh where it met the edge of her panties.
I could feel the heat radiating from her core, see the damp spot that had already formed on the black lace. But I didn't touch her there. Not yet. That particular pleasure would have to be earned through perfect obedience.
"Good girl," I praised when she managed to stay still despite my fingers tracing patterns on her inner thigh, so close to where she needed me but never quite there.
Her eyes fluttered closed at the praise, a soft exhale escaping like I'd just given her a gift. And maybe I had. Twenty-three years of being ignored by everyone important in her life, and here I was noticing every breath, every shiver, every minute response of her body.
I moved to face her again, drinking in the sight of her—face flushed, chest heaving with controlled breaths, hands stillclasped behind her back like a perfect little soldier. My perfect little girl, trying so hard to be good for me.
"Now," I said, voice dropping to that commanding tone that brooked no argument. "On your knees."
She dropped immediately, no hesitation, no question. The trust in that action—the immediate obedience—made my heart race. She looked up at me with those huge hazel eyes, lips parted slightly, waiting. Just waiting for whatever I would give her.
Christ, she was perfect. On her knees in nothing but black lace, looking up at me like I was her whole world.
I traced her lips with my thumb, feeling them part further at my touch. "Do you know what you look like? Kneeling for me in nothing but panties I'm going to ruin?"
Her tongue darted out, barely grazing my thumb, and I had to fight not to groan. Such a small rebellion, but even that needed correction.
"Did I say you could taste me?" I asked, pulling my hand away.
"No, Daddy," she whispered, looking genuinely contrite. "I'm sorry."
"You will be," I promised, and watched her shiver at the implicit threat.
