Page 40 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
Her hands fly to my hair, gripping tightly.
I pull back immediately, though it costs me physically to deny myself the taste of her. "What's rule number one?"
She blinks down at me, dazed with pleasure and confusion. The sight of her like this—cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, lips parted—is worth every moment of the wait.
"No touching unless I give permission," I remind her, gently but firmly removing her hands and placing them back at hersides. My voice remains steady despite the racing of my pulse, the ache of restraint. "Try again."
Her frustration is visible, but she obediently grips the sheets instead of me. "I'm sorry, Daddy."
"Good girl." I resume where I left off, using my mouth and fingers to build her pleasure systematically. Each response I draw from her body feels like a victory, each moan like a surrender of another piece of her to me. My cock strains painfully against my pants, demanding attention I refuse to give it. This moment isn't about my release—it's about establishing ownership, about imprinting myself on her body and mind so thoroughly she'll never forget who she belongs to.
I can feel her getting close—her thighs trembling, her breathing becoming erratic, her soft moans turning desperate. The power of holding her pleasure in my hands, of controlling her most intimate responses, is a high unlike anything I've experienced before. This is what I've wanted since I first saw her—to possess her so completely that even her pleasure belongs to me.
And then I stop completely, sitting back on my heels, exerting every ounce of my control not to continue. My body screams at me to finish her, to take her, to claim her completely—but I resist. The denial of her release costs me almost as much as it costs her, but the payoff will be worth it.
"Victor!" she protests, lifting her head to look at me with wide, frustrated eyes.
"Strike two," I say calmly. "What did you call me?"
She swallows hard. "Daddy. I'm sorry, Daddy."
"And what's rule number two?"
"I don't... I don't come until you say I can?" she recites, her voice shaking.
"Exactly. And you were about to break that rule, weren't you?"
She nods, biting her lower lip.
"Use your words, beautiful."
"Yes, Daddy. I was close."
"I know." I trace lazy patterns on her inner thigh, just far enough away to keep her on edge without pushing her over. "That's why I stopped. You'll come when I decide you're ready, not before."
I begin again, more slowly this time, building her up with deliberate care. Each time she approaches the edge, I recognize the signs—the flush spreading across her chest, the tension in her thighs, the change in her breathing—and back off just enough to keep her suspended in pleasure without release.
By the third time, she's practically sobbing with need, and I'm barely hanging onto my control. Sweat beads on my forehead from the effort of restraint. Every fiber of my being wants to strip off my remaining clothes and drive into her, claiming her completely. The primitive part of my brain demands that I mark her, fill her, ruin her for any other man. My hands nearly shake with the effort it takes to hold back.
But I've spent a lifetime mastering my impulses, bending circumstances to my will rather than being ruled by momentary desire. I won't surrender that control now, not when I'm so close to having everything I've wanted.
"Please," she begs, her hips lifting desperately toward my touch. "Please, Daddy, I can't take anymore."
Hearing that word from her lips again sends a jolt of pure, animalistic satisfaction through me. My son's ex-girlfriend, the brilliant scientist, the composed professional—reduced to begging me, calling me Daddy, spread open and desperate for my touch. The forbidden nature of it, the complete reversal of appropriate roles, makes the victory all the sweeter.
"Yes, you can," I murmur against her inner thigh, my breath hot against her skin. "One more time. Show me how good you can be."
I build her up again, more intensely this time, watching her face as she struggles to maintain control. Morning light plays across her features, illuminating every reaction, hiding nothing from my gaze. Her knuckles are white where she grips the sheets, her head thrown back, her body a perfect arch of tension. The sight of her completely undone, completely at my mercy, is almost enough to break my own control. My body throbs with unsatisfied need, but I embrace the ache. There will be time for my pleasure later—this morning is about ensuring she knows exactly who owns her now.
"Look at me," I command, needing to see her eyes when she finally breaks.
Her eyes flutter open, finding mine with effort. This is what I've wanted from the first moment I saw her—not just her body, but her complete capitulation. Her acknowledgment that she belongs to me in ways she's never belonged to anyone else, including my son.
"Now," I tell her, maintaining eye contact as I increase the pressure and speed of my fingers. "Come for me now."
Her release is explosive, her entire body shuddering as waves of pleasure crash through her. She cries out —"Daddy!"—as her back arches off the bed, her thighs clamping around my hand. The sight of her completely undone, coming apart because of me, because of what I've done to her, sends a surge of pure satisfaction through me that rivals any physical pleasure I could experience.
A gush of warmth escapes her, more and more until she’s spent. She quivers as she squirts for me, her eyes rolling back.
