Page 26 of Bratva Daddy
He paused but didn't turn. "Yes?"
"The hour with the . . . with that thing in my mouth." I couldn't say pacifier, couldn't acknowledge what I'd submitted to. "I kept it in. The whole time."
"I know," he said softly. "I was watching."
Of course he was. Probably had cameras everywhere, had seen me standing in the living room for twenty minutes, had watched me carefully attempt to read with it in my mouth, had observed every moment of my humiliation and arousal.
"Was I . . ." I swallowed hard, throat clicking. "Was I good?"
The silence stretched so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, just before he left:
"You were perfect, little one."
The door closed with a soft click, and I was alone with chamomile tea and vanilla ice cream and praise that made my whole body burn with need. I touched my jaw where his fingers had been, trying to hate the tenderness but failing completely.
He was right. I didn't hate this. I hated how much I wanted it—wanted him to set more rules just so I could break them, wanted consequences that came with gentle fingers and soft praise, wanted to be his good girl in ways that had nothing to do with leverage and everything to do with the heat that pooled in my stomach whenever he called me little one.
Tomorrow I would probably break more rules. And he would punish me. And then he'd take care of me after, because somehow, impossibly, Alexei Volkov cared about the woman he'd kidnapped.
I'dbeenlyinginmandatory darkness for forty-seven minutes, every nerve in my body singing with need I couldn't ignore. I'd obediently gone to bed at ten o'clock like his rules demanded, turned off the lights, slipped under expensive sheets that felt like silk against my oversensitized skin. But sleep was impossible when my body burned like this, when every shift of fabric against my nipples sent sparks straight to my core.
The day replayed in torturous detail. His fingers on my jaw. The pacifier filling my mouth. "Good girl" in that dark velvet voice. The way he'd looked at me when I'd asked if I'd been good, like he was proud of me, like I'd pleased him. My thighs clenched involuntarily, and I bit my lip hard enough to hurt.
Rule number nine haunted me like a ghost: No touching yourself without permission.
Such a simple rule. Such an impossible rule when I was this wet, this desperate, this consumed by need I'd never felt before. My hand drifted to my breast without conscious decision, finding my nipple hard and sensitive through the silk nightgown. Just this, I told myself. Just innocent touching, not really breaking the rule.
But my other hand was already moving south, fingertips tracing the inside of my thigh with feather-light touches that made me shiver. The wetness between my legs had soaked through my panties hours ago, probably leaving marks on his expensive sheets. Evidence of what his control did to me, how my body betrayed every protest my mouth made.
"No touching without permission," I whispered into the darkness, but my fingers were already at the edge of my panties, already sliding beneath the fabric to find myself swollen and desperate.
What would he do if he caught me? The thought sent electricity through my entire body. Would he throw open the door, those gray eyes dark with disapproval and something else? Would he grab my wrist, pull my hand away, tell me exactly how naughty I'd been?
My fingers found my clit, circling slowly while my other hand pinched my nipple through the silk. In my mind, it was his hand between my legs, his fingers exploring what belonged to him, what I'd touched without permission.
"Such a naughty little girl," he'd say, and I'd nod, agree, apologize even as my hips rose to meet his touch. "Breaking my rules already. What am I going to do with you?"
I slipped two fingers inside myself, gasping at how easily they slid in, how ready I was. In the fantasy, these were his fingers, longer and thicker than mine, stretching me while I squirmed and pleaded. He'd know exactly how to touch me, exactly what I needed, but he'd make me wait, make me beg, make me admit what I really wanted.
"Please," I whispered to the empty room, to the phantom Alexei who existed only in my desperate imagination. "Please, Daddy."
The word sent lightning through me. Daddy. Not sarcastically this time, not thrown like a weapon, but whispered like a prayer. Someone who'd take care of me by taking control, who'd punish me when I was bad and praise me when I was good, who'd know exactly what I needed even when I didn't.
My fingers moved faster, my back arching off the bed as the fantasy evolved. He'd bend me over his knee for breaking this rule, spanking me until I cried, until I promised to be good, until my ass was red and my pussy dripped onto his expensive suit pants. Then he'd soothe the sting with those surprisingly gentle hands, tell me I was forgiven, that I was his good girl, his perfect little one.
"Daddy," I moaned into the pillow, muffling the sound even though the walls were probably soundproof. "Please, Daddy, I need—"
What did I need? To come? To be caught? To be owned so thoroughly that even my orgasms belonged to him?
All of it. I needed all of it.
I imagined him inside me, stretching me fuller than my fingers ever could, taking what was his while I surrendered everything. He'd hold me down, tell me exactly how to move, when to come, what to say. He'd make me call him Daddy while he fucked me, make me thank him for the privilege, make me beg for permission to come around his cock.
"Such a needy little girl," he'd growl in my ear. "My needy little girl. You're going to come for Daddy now, aren't you? Going to be my good girl and come all over my cock?"
"Yes, Daddy," I gasped, fingers working frantically. "Please, Daddy, please let me—"
The orgasm hit like a lightning strike, back bowing off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed through me. I bit the pillow to muffle my scream, but his name—his title—escaped anyway. "Daddy!" Muffled by cotton but still audible, still evidence of what I'd done, what I'd wanted, what I'd become.
