Page 21 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
A shiver races down my spine. His hands slide to my hips, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against the solid heat of him. My breath stutters.
“Brett—”
“Say it,” he orders quietly.
I swallow, my pulse frantic. “I need you.” The words are a surrender.
His eyes darken. “Good girl.”
Then his mouth claims mine.
The kiss is nothing like the sharp crack of his hand earlier. This is slow at first, deliberate, his lips coaxing mine to open. When I do, his tongue slides against mine, and I melt into him, clutching at his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. He tastes like cider and heat and everything I didn’t know I was starving for.
When he pulls back, I’m gasping. “Brett…”
“Shh,” he soothes, brushing my hair back. “I’ve got you.”
Before I can think, he scoops me up, carrying me as if I weigh nothing. My squeal echoes in the barn. “Put me down!”
“Not a chance.” His grin flashes, wicked and sure. “You’re not running from me this time.”
He sets me on the hayloft ladder, urging me up ahead of him. I climb, shaky but buzzing, aware of his presence at my back, his hand occasionally brushing my thigh as if to remind me who’s in control.
He lays me back on a thick blanket I’d left behind after reading my book. Now it feels like a stage set for something far less innocent.
“Take off your sweater,” he says, voice quiet but brooking no argument.
My instinct to resist rises, but the look in his eyes pins me. I peel it off, my hands shaking.
“Good girl.” His approval is a caress. He kneels, unbuttoning my jeans with steady hands. “Lift for me.”
I do. God help me, I do.
When the denim slides down, the cool air hits my still-tender backside. He notices, of course. His hand skims over the faint warmth, and a low growl escapes him. “Nice and pink. A reminder for my stubborn girl.”
The words make me ache. “Brett…”
“Hush.” He presses a kiss to my hipbone. “Daddy’s busy.”
The word slams into me like lightning. My body clenches, my breath stutters. He glances up, reading every flicker across my face. “Oh,” he murmurs, satisfaction curling through the syllable. “So that’s the word that undoes you.”
I should protest. Deny. But I can’t. My body answers for me, arching into his touch.
His smile is devastating. “Say it.”
The silence stretches, thick and heavy. My pride strains, but the need is stronger. My whisper breaks. “Daddy.”
His groan is rough, primal, as he lowers his mouth to my skin.
Everything else blurs. His lips trace down my belly, his teeth graze the sensitive flesh of my thigh, his tongue sweeps closer and closer until?—
“Please,” I gasp, squirming.
“Patience,” he chides, giving my ass a light, stinging swat. My cry echoes in the loft, half-shock, half-desire.
Then his mouth is on me and thought ceases altogether. His tongue dances in my mouth, tasting me. Then, he’s on me again. He takes his time, teasing, coaxing, devouring until I’m writhing beneath him, clutching at the hay and begging incoherently. He lowers his mouth to my clit and my hips thrust forward. He devours me like a hungry man at a buffet. Every flick of his tongue, every rumble of his voice against me drives me higher, tighter, until the orgasm crashes over me in waves that leave me trembling, sobbing, undone.
He doesn’t let go. Not yet. He kisses his way back up my body, stripping his shirt in one smooth motion, his chest bronzed in the fading light. I reach for him, desperate, but he catches my wrists, pinning them above my head.
