Page 91 of Bratva Daddy
My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it. Between my legs, I throbbed with an arousal so intense it bordered on pain. Every careful press of his fingers sent sparks through me, building something wild and desperate in my core.
"Stand up straight for me," he commanded, still on his knees, and I obeyed even though my legs felt like jelly.
He rose with fluid grace, towering over me again, and his hands went to the zipper of my gown. The sound it made coming down was obscene in the quiet room—a long, slow descent that made me shiver. The silk pooled at my feet in a puddle of midnight blue, leaving me in just my lingerie.
"This skin," he said, running one finger down my arm so lightly I might have imagined it, "belongs to me."
The stockings came next, his fingers finding the clips of my garter belt with practiced ease. He rolled each one down with excruciating slowness, his palms following the silk down my thighs, my calves, making me step out of them one at a time.
"These legs that shake when I touch them," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of my knee that made me gasp, "mine."
The garter belt itself, unclipped and discarded. My bra, reached behind to unhook with one hand while the other steadied me at my waist. As it fell away, his eyes darkened to storm clouds.
"These breasts that ache for my touch," his thumb barely grazed my nipple, making me arch toward him desperately, "mine."
Each word was a claim, a promise, a prayer. He was mapping my body with ownership, but it didn't feel like possession. It felt like worship. Like recognition. Like coming home.
His hands skimmed down my sides, barely touching, raising goosebumps in their wake. When they reached my hips, he hooked his thumbs in the elastic of my panties, and I tensed, ready for him to remove this last barrier.
But he didn't.
His hands stilled, then withdrew, leaving me standing there in just black lace that was soaked through with my arousal. I whimpered at the loss of his touch, at the denial of that final unveiling.
"Not yet," he said, and his voice had gone rough again, dark with his own need. "TYou have to show Daddy how badly you want to be completely his."
I was shaking now, full-body tremors that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the man standing before me, fully in control while I stood nearly naked and desperate. The panties felt like both protection and torment, a barrier that keptme from what I wanted most while reminding me that even my surrender was something he controlled.
"Please," I whispered, not even sure what I was begging for.
"Soon, little one," he promised, guiding me backward toward the bed with hands that barely touched me but commanded my movement absolutely. "But first, Daddy wants to see you in the position you learned. The one you've been practicing."
Present. He wanted me in Present position, bound and displayed and begging. My knees nearly buckled at the thought, at the promise implicit in his words. We were nowhere near done. We were just beginning, and I was already so wound up I might shatter at the first real touch.
"Yes, Daddy," I managed, my voice barely sound, already moving toward the bed where the next part of our scene would unfold.
My knees found the mattress with practiced ease, muscle memory from weeks of training taking over even as my mind spun with anticipation. Present position—knees spread to shoulder width, hands behind my lower back with fingers laced, shoulders back, chest out, chin up. The position that displayed everything while giving nothing, that made me vulnerable while keeping me strong.
"Beautiful," Alexei murmured, circling the bed to observe from every angle. "My perfect little one, presenting herself so prettily."
The praise washed over me like warm honey, making me arch slightly, seeking more. But I held the position, knowing that breaking it would mean starting over, would mean proving I could be good before he'd continue.
He moved to the toy chest I'd carefully stocked, his movements deliberate and unhurried. When he turned back, rose-gold silk ropes dangled from his fingers, catching the softlight like liquid metal. The same color as the walls, as the overall aesthetic I'd chosen. Everything coordinated, even my bondage.
"You thought of everything," he said, approaching with the ropes coiled loosely in his hands. "Even made sure your restraints would match your décor. Such an organized little girl."
He guided my arms up, positioning my wrists against the disguised restraint points in the headboard's scrollwork. The silk whispered against my skin as he wound it around, not tight enough to hurt but secure enough that I couldn't pull free. The decorative ironwork I'd chosen specifically for this purpose now served its true function, holding me open and available for whatever he decided I deserved.
"Test them," he commanded, and I pulled against the bonds, feeling how they held firm but didn't bite. Perfect tension, perfect control. "Good. Now you're exactly where Daddy wants you."
He returned to the toy chest, and when he turned back, my breath caught. In one hand, a bottle of lube. In the other, a plug—rose gold like everything else, sized to stretch but not punish, with a jeweled base that would nestle between my cheeks like decoration.
"Have you ever?" he asked, though from the way he studied my face, he already knew the answer.
"No, Daddy," I whispered, fear and arousal tangling in my belly. "Never."
"Then we'll go slow," he promised, settling on the bed beside me. "So slow you'll be begging for it by the time I'm done preparing you."
His hand skimmed down my spine, making me shiver and pull against the restraints. When he reached my panties, he finally—finally—slid them down, leaving me completely exposed. The air felt cool against my soaked flesh, and I knew he could see everything—how wet I was, how swollen, how desperately ready.
