Page 33 of Daddy's Christmas Obsession
"Shh." I place a finger against her lips, silencing her. The contact is electric, and I let my finger linger. Her lips are soft, slightly parted, and I can feel the warmth of her breathing against my skin. My cock throbs in response, and I shift slightly to accommodate the growing pressure. "You don't need to explain. I understand more than you might think."
The implication hangs between us. Does she hear the double meaning? Does she realize I'm acknowledging what she believes is her inappropriate attraction while maintaining my role as concerned mentor?
Her lips part beneath my finger, breathing warm and quick against my skin. For a moment, I consider taking what I want now—claiming her mouth, her body, breaking through the last of her resistance. I could have her beneath me in seconds, legs spread, back arched as I filled her completely.
But no. Not yet. Patience has brought me this far. Patience will deliver her completely.
I withdraw my finger slowly, letting it drag across her lower lip in a touch that can't be mistaken for anything but deliberate seduction. I watch her pupils dilate, her lips remaining parted even after I've removed my touch. Her gaze drifts down my body again, lingering on the now-prominent outline in my sweatpants before she catches herself and looks away, embarrassment and desire warring on her face.
"We should talk," I say, standing from the bed. "Tomorrow. When you've rested. There are things I think we both need to acknowledge."
The statement is perfectly calibrated—offering promise without commitment, suggesting understanding without revealing how much I truly know. It leaves her wondering, analyzing, that brilliant mind working to decipher exactly what I mean.
"Alright," she whispers, confusion and hope warring in her expression.
"Sleep well, Kyra." I move to the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. "And remember: there's nothing to be ashamed of. Not with me."
I close the door behind me, the front of my sweatpants tented obviously now. The cotton hides nothing, unlike my tailored suits. The need to return to her room, to strip away those sheets and take what's mine, is almost overwhelming. But that's not the plan. That's not how this game is played.
In my bedroom, I check the surveillance feed one last time before retiring. Kyra lies awake, her expression torn between confusion and longing.
Soon, she'll be mine.
And she'll thank me for it.
Chapter ten
Kyra
The unfamiliar room takes a moment to register—Victor's cabin. His guest room. The events of last night slam into me.
God, what did I do?
The sheets carry traces of my arousal, evidence of my shameful behavior. I touched myself thinking of my ex's father. Moaned his name. And he heard every breathless sound, no doubt.
I cover my face with both hands. The memories refuse to blur—they sharpen instead. Victor filling my doorway, those broad shoulders claiming the entire frame. Gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide his reaction to finding me flushed and panting. The tattoo coiling up his forearm, so unexpected on a man I'd only seen in thousand-dollar suits. A glimpse of something dangerous beneath all that polish.
His thumb tracing my lip.
My body doesn't care about propriety.
"Stop," I whisper to the empty room. "He's your mentor. Aaron's father. Twenty-six years older."
None of those facts matter to the ache between my thighs, to the way my skin still burns where he touched me.
We should talk tomorrow. When you've rested. There are things I think we both need to acknowledge.
Facing him after what he witnessed makes my stomach flip between dread and anticipation. What will he say? What does he think of me now?
Seven-thirty-eight AM. I can't hide forever, tempting as it sounds.
The bathroom mirror shows disaster—tangled hair, heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks stained pink with embarrassment. I take the longest shower possible, as if scalding water could wash away inappropriate desire. It doesn't work. Neither does the pep talk I give my reflection as I dress.
"Professional. Composed. Adult." The words echo hollowly in the small space. "It was just a dream. People have dreams. It doesn't mean anything."
Coffee scent draws me toward the kitchen, along with something that smells incredible. Victor stands at the stove, his back to me. Dark jeans that fit perfectly. Gray sweater with sleeves pushed up, revealing more of those intriguing tattoos.
I freeze in the doorway, forgetting how to breathe normally.
