Page 528 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I nod toward an opening at the back of the loft.
“Got it. See you later,” Bravo says as he shuffles off on his hands and knees. The ceiling’s only five feet above our heads, too low for either of us to stand.
“Happy hunting,” I tell him.
Since I no longer have to use my free hand to fend off Sammi’s elbows—I’m going to file those damn things down before our next play session—I put it to good use. I run my fingertips down the underside of Cynnie’s arm, exposed as I keep her wrists pinned above her head. She shivers with the sensation. Her skin’s so soft. She’s sweating lightly from our struggle and the floral, salt-sweet notes of the lotion we’ve picked together fill my nose. Mmm.
“I love the smell of your skin, baby.” I rub my nose along her cheek, pushing her head to the side for access to her tender throat. I nip down the prominent tendon. “I love your taste.”
“I spray myself all over with skunk so you not like me,” she growls in her adorable little growl.
“That wouldn’t stop me. And I’d be able to track you down even faster if you were stinky.”
“You the stinky!”
I doubt I smell like much other than salt, between the trip across the bay and the minor exertion of the hunt, but I playalong. “It’s going to be a stinky fuck, then. I’m going to cover you in my stink.”
Cynnie kicks her legs, which only wedges our lower bodies together more tightly. I decide to take advantage. I reach down between us, undo the drawstring on my pants and push them down below my ass. I know better than to wear underwear on a hunt. Sometimes, you need to get a cock free and claim that prey fast.
“No-no-no,” Cynnie protests.
I freeze for a second. It still catches at me, a woman telling me no. Then the way I’ve retrained my brain since becoming Cynnie’s daddy kicks in. This is part of our game. Cynnie has two safe words: one to tell me that she’s having a physical problem, the other to call a complete halt to our play. Telling me “no” is just part of the game.
“Yes-yes-yes, my bumble. I caught you and now I’m claiming you.”
“No—”
Her protest is cut short when I line up and push my crown into her. I enjoy punching my cock into her, but only when I’ve gone down on her first or worked her up enough that there’s no risk of tearing. Although the hunt and struggle have wound us both up, she’s not wet enough for a forceful entry. Instead, I just breach her with my cock and enjoy the sweet kiss of her opening.
“That’s it,” I growl at her. “Give in to your Oppa.”
“Never give in,” she growls back, even as she winds her legs around my hips and tries to tug me deeper into her.
“I’ll never stop chasing you,” I promise. “I love you so much, Cynnie. I love the games we play. Merry Christmas, baby.”
“Oppa.” She melts. When she tugs at her wrists, I release her and let her wind her arms around my neck. “Loves you most.”
I flick my tongue across her tempting lips. Once I enter her fully, it’s hard to kiss her because of our height difference. Withjust my tip in her, if I arch my neck, I can enjoy the heat of her mouth, the tickling play of her tongue. Knowing we have time, given how early in the hunt I’ve caught her, I luxuriate in kisses. I seek the corners of her mouth with the tip of my tongue. I nip at the plush softness of each lip. Only when she’s squirming, making delicious, needy noises in her throat, do I lift onto my forearms and sink my cock fully into her.
“Ooo, Oppa,” Cynnie whimpers. “Yes, yes, like that.”
“I know you love to be filled by your Oppa.”
She nods, the spill of her dark hair scrunching under her head against the padding. I kiss her forehead and churn my hips. She moans, sweet and low, the noise I want to hear when I’m deep in her.
She lifts to each thrust, her body working with and against mine. The oldest, sweetest push and pull. I spread my knees for better leverage and pump against the drawing clench of her body. My growls match her moans. There’s nothing better than this: the moments when I claim my prey, when she gives herself to her loving captor, when roles and boundaries fall away and we’re one.
I know her orgasm’s building as her moans become breathy hisses and her golden rose flush spreads down her neck. I shift my weight to balance on my left forearm and collar her throat with my right hand, lacing my fingers through the links of the enamel and diamond daisy chain she wears. I don’t squeeze, just massage with my thumb and middle finger, applying the amount of pressure I’ve learned makes her head spin and her eyes roll back.
When they do, the whites flickering between banks of dark lashes, I give myself over to my own pleasure. I let it rise through me, tightening every muscle. Each squeeze of muscle—my belly and thighs and ass—pushes me up and up until I’m flying. My body jerks out of my control as hot, sweet releasepumps through me. It’s not the snap of a cord; it’s an endless unravelling bliss.
When the euphoria finally fades to marrow-deep contentment, I shift to my side, curling Cynnie against me, and exhale slowly against her lips so our fast breaths mingle.
“Oppa,” she sighs.
“My bumble. My best Christmas present.”
She hums. “Better than KFC?”
