Page 47 of Enforcer Daddy
The question hung between us, heavy with promise. If I said yes, I was agreeing to more than just not touching myself. I was agreeing to let him control this part of me, to hand over my pleasure like I'd been handing over everything else.
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, Daddy."
Something flashed in his eyes—triumph maybe, or possession. He stood, moving to the door with purpose that suggested he needed distance as much as I needed him closer.
"I'll be right down the hall," he said, hand on the door frame. "My door will be open. If you need anything—water, anotherblanket, anything except what we can't have yet—you call for me."
"Why can't you stay?" The question came out pathetically needy, but I was past caring.
"Because if I stay, I'll end up in that bed with you," he said bluntly. "And we both know what would happen then. The lust between us . . . it's too much right now. We need the structure first, or we'll burn everything down."
He left before I could respond, leaving me alone with an ache that felt like it might consume me and a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
Thedarknesspressedagainstme like a living thing, heavy with the promise I'd made and the need that threatened to break it. I'd been lying here for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, hands obediently above the blanket, body screaming for touch I wasn't allowed to give it.
I should have been proud of myself. For the first time in my life, I was actually following someone's rules—not because I had to, but because I wanted to be good for him. Dmitry had fed me, protected me, taught me to defend myself. He'd brushed my teeth like I was precious. Read me fairy tales in Russian like I deserved beautiful things.
The memory of his voice made my thighs clench. That low rumble as he'd translated, the way his accent had thickened with each page. The careful way he'd held that old book, like it mattered. Like I mattered.
My nipples were hard points against the thin t-shirt, sensitive enough that even the slight movement of fabric when I breathed sent shocks through me. The ache between my legs had evolved from want to need to desperate emptiness that demanded to befilled. My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat, swollen and needy.
Just a little touch, I thought. Just to ease the pressure. I wouldn't come. I'd just . . . relieve some of the tension so I could sleep.
My hand slipped under the blanket before I could talk myself out of it. The first brush of fingers against my inner thigh made me gasp. My skin was hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more. I traced higher, slower, teasing myself the way I imagined he would.
Would Dmitry be gentle? Or would those scarred hands be rough, demanding? Would he make me beg before he touched me, or would he take what was his without asking?
My fingers found the edge of my panties, already soaked through. The fabric clung to me, outlining every detail, and when I pressed against my clit through the wet cotton, my hips bucked off the bed.
"Fuck," I whispered into the darkness, then remembered I wasn't supposed to curse either. Bad girl on multiple levels now.
But I couldn't stop. My fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding myself swollen and dripping. The first direct touch to my clit made me bite my lip to keep from crying out. Dmitry had said his door was open—could he hear me? Was he lying in his bed, hard and aching, listening to me break my promise?
The thought made me wetter. I imagined him standing in my doorway, watching me touch myself in the dark. Would he be angry? Disappointed? Or would he be affected, that iron control cracking as he watched me pleasure myself?
I slipped two fingers inside, gasping at the stretch. In my mind, they were his fingers—thicker, longer, more skilled. He'd know exactly how to curve them, exactly where to press to make me fall apart. He'd work me open slowly, preparing me for his cock that I'd felt hard against me during training.
My other hand found my breast, pinching my nipple through the shirt the way I imagined he would—firm enough to hurt, gentle enough to make me want more. The dual sensation made my back arch, made my fingers move faster.
"Daddy," I breathed, so quiet even I could barely hear it. But saying it out loud made everything more intense. Made the fantasy feel real.
In my mind, he was over me now, those scarred hands holding my wrists above my head the way he had during training. But this time, we were both naked. This time, when I felt his cock against me, there was nothing between us. He'd tease me with it, sliding through my wetness without entering, making me beg.
"Please, Daddy," I whispered to my empty room, fingers working faster. "Please, I need—"
I was close. So close. My muscles were tightening, that familiar coil of pleasure building low in my belly. A few more strokes and I'd fall over the edge, come with his name on my lips, deal with the consequences tomorrow.
But something stopped me.
It was the look in his eyes when I'd said yes. When I'd promised to be good, to wait, to trust him with this. He'd looked at me like I was giving him something precious. Like my agreement meant everything.
I pulled my hand away, gasping at the loss. My body screamed in protest, clit throbbing, pussy clenching around nothing. I was so close that even the brush of my thighs together might push me over.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chanted, hands fisted in the sheets above the blanket where they should have stayed.
The need didn't fade. If anything, stopping made it worse. Now I was swollen and sensitive and empty, with Dmitry's taste still in my memory from the mountain, his scent still in my nose from when he'd read to me. I could go to him. Could pad downthe hallway to his open door, tell him I needed him, beg him to forget the contract and just take me.
But I didn't. Because for the first time in my life, I wanted to be good more than I wanted to feel good.
