Page 52 of Ruthless Daddy
She said, “Don’t stop.”
So I didn’t.
I gathered her up, the blanket and all, and carried her through the apartment like a fireman bringing out the only thing worth saving. She didn’t weigh enough to matter. She didn’t struggle, didn’t laugh or squirm—she just buried her face against my neck and wrapped her arms around my shoulders.
I took her to the living room and sat down on the couch with her still in my lap, cradled against me. She was loose in my arms, legs tucked up, blanket pooling over both of us. For a while she just breathed, cheek pressed to my chest, listening to my heart trip and stutter.
It was dark outside. The only light came from the TV, which played the news with the sound off, and a single floor lamp in the corner. We could have been the only people left in the city.
She looked up. Her face was flushed, hair a wild mess over her eyes, lips pink and bitten from the last round of kissing.
She said, “I want you.”
I made her say it again. “What do you want, Angela?”
She hesitated, just long enough to make me think she was going to hedge. But she didn’t. She looked right at me and said, “I need you to fuck me, Daddy.”
I lost my goddamn mind.
I ran my hand up under the hem of her sweater, slow enough to test her patience, slow enough to hear her breathe. The skin on her side was warm, smooth, and tight over the muscle; I traced the ridge of her ribs and felt her shiver. My palm was rough as sandpaper, callused from a decade of fighting and fixing and breaking the world open, but she didn’t flinch. When my fingers grazed the edge of her bra, she gasped, soft and high in her throat, and arched her back like she was starving for it.
I watched her face go slack, watched her eyes get heavy-lidded. She made a sound, a whimper, when I circled her nipple through the fabric—breathed in and out like she could barely get enough air. I kept going, dragging it out, watching every inch of herskin for a reaction. When I pinched her, just a little, she made a desperate little noise that shot straight to my cock.
She said, “Please,” and her voice was so raw I almost lost it.
The way she said it—like there was no possible world where I would say no. Like I was the only thing that could make her feel better. It did something to me. Something dangerous.
I moved my mouth to her throat and kissed her there, slow and claiming, then bit down hard enough to leave a mark. She clung to my arm, nails digging in, and didn’t make a sound except for the little panting noises every time I moved. I worked my hand under the bra, thumb and forefinger finding her nipple, rolling it, tugging it. She went rigid, hips jerking forward, head back to bare her neck to me.
God, she was perfect.
I said, right in her ear, “Is this what you want?”
She nodded, frantic. “More.”
I shifted, pulled her higher into my lap, until she straddled my thigh. The blanket that had been wrapped around us slid down, pooling at her hips, and she was bare from the waist up except for the sports bra, straps hanging off one shoulder. I grabbed a fistful of her ass and ground her against me. Even through the leggings, I could feel how wet she was, the heat of her pressed down on my thigh.
I slid my other hand over her hip, down her stomach, then inside the waistband of her leggings. She sucked in a breath, every muscle tensing, and she bucked her hips up like she was trying to help me. The inside of her thigh was soft and slick, and when I touched her, really touched her, she went boneless in my arms.
She whined, low, shameless.
“Tell me,” I said, my fingers just barely grazing the line of her pussy. “Tell me what you want, Angela.”
She turned her face away, like she was embarrassed, but the need was bigger than the shame. She said, voice shaking, “I want your hand on my pussy.”
I should have teased her, made her say it again, but I was dying. I slipped my fingers in, felt the heat, the slick, the way her clit jumped under my thumb. She was so fucking wet it made my head spin. I worked her slow, barely moving, just enough to make her want it. Her whole body shuddered every time I touched her, and she buried her face in my neck, biting down on my shoulder to keep from screaming.
I ground her down on my thigh and fingered her slow, one finger inside, then two, then none for a second just to make her crazy. She rutted against my hand like she couldn’t help it, chasing every tiny movement. When I circled her clit, she made that noise again, desperate.
“That’s it,” I said, mouth at her ear. “Ride it. My good girl. Take what you need from me.”
She was gone—nothing but instinct, nothing but the build and the rush and the want. Every muscle in her legs locked up, her thighs shaking, her jaw tight from how hard she was holding back. I could tell she was close, so close, but I didn’t give it to her. Not yet.
I slowed down, just enough for her to notice. She started to beg, whispering, “Please, please, please—”
I pulled my hand back, wiped it on the inside of her thigh. She whimpered like I’d cut her off mid-breath.
“You come when I say,” I told her. I used my free hand to hold her head against my chest, fingers in her hair, tight but not painful. She relaxed into it, like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to just tell her what to do, and I felt her body get soft and loose and trusting.
