Page 74 of Ruthless Daddy
I lifted her hand to my mouth. I pressed my lips to the inside of her wrist, exactly where the pulse beat the hardest. Her skin was clean, smelled faintly of soap and that sharp winter air from earlier. I didn’t just kiss it. I let my mouth rest there, inhaled, and then exhaled slow, so the heat of my breath would leave something behind. I felt her go tense, then shiver, not from cold. She was watching my mouth.
I said, “You have no idea how much I want you. More than anyone has ever wanted anything.”
She didn’t answer, just pulled in a tight breath and let it out. Her free hand balled up, then relaxed. She didn’t step back. She didn’t break.
I lowered her hand but didn’t let go. I brought her with me, every step, down the short hallway. The apartment was all shadows now, the only light from the kitchen lamp, yellow and low, and the windows reflecting more of us than the city outside. Our footsteps sounded louder than they should. The carpet was rough under my feet, but I could feel the heat of her through the air, every inch of her that wasn’t touching me was a problem I meant to solve.
I didn’t kiss her, not yet. I wanted the walk to be a prelude. I wanted her thinking about every place my mouth could go, before it ever got there.
When we reached the bedroom, I let go of her hand only to open the door. She waited on the threshold, watching me, her eyes darker than usual. I gestured her in. She obeyed.
I closed the door behind us. There was no sound at all, not even from the street. Just the soft drag of her breath.
She turned, stood in the middle of the room and looked at me with her face open, every wall down. I’d never seen a woman look at me like that, like she already knew what came next and wanted every second of it.
I stepped in, slow, letting the tension stay.
I said, “I’m going to take care of you now.”
The words came out quiet, but they filled the room. My voice was low, a deep register, a commanding tone. She nodded, just once, like she was ready for anything.
I took a step closer.
She stood in the middle of the room, waiting for my cue. She didn’t fidget, not the way some women did when they wanted to play at shyness. She just watched me, her mouth slightly parted, eyes flat and shining.
I reached out and caught the hem of her sweater with both hands. Pulled it up slow, bunching the fabric at her ribs, exposing the white T-shirt underneath. I didn’t rush. I wanted her to feel every inch of it—how careful I was, how this was about attention, not just need.
But I felt a pounding inside me—impatience. Some part of me knew how important this was, as though I would never forget what was about to unfold.
The sweater caught at her elbows. She raised her arms for me, let me peel it up and over, let her hair go wild with static. She blinked, then ran her hands through the mess, like she didn’t care how it looked. I stood with the sweater in my fists, breathing in her heat, her smell, the faintest ghost of her shampoo.
Underneath, she wore a bralette—pale blue, thin, nothing like the armor most women layered up for men. The lines of her body showed through, the edge of her breast soft under the mesh, her nipples already hard. She didn’t look away.
I said, “You are so beautiful, Angela.”
She snorted, not mocking, just surprised. “You have to say that. It’s in the contract.”
I shook my head. “No. I don’t have to say anything I don’t want to. It’s true. I mean it.”
She smiled, but it barely moved her face. It was in her eyes. She let me unbutton her jeans, slow, thumb sliding under the topbutton, then the zip, then the slide of denim down her hips. She didn’t move to help, just let me work her clothes down her legs, bending one knee and then the other to step out of them.
She stood there in the bralette and underwear, socks still on, hair a wild mess. She looked at me like she was waiting for the next instruction, not nervous, just tuned to the moment.
I cupped her cheek with my palm, thumb at the hinge of her jaw. I wanted to taste her, but I waited. Instead I hooked a finger under the band of her bra, traced the line from sternum to shoulder, then slipped the strap off. It fell down her arm, useless. I took the other side, did the same. Then I reached around and unhooked it, careful, both hands at the clasp. The bra sagged, then fell, exposing her completely.
She didn’t flinch. She just let me look at her, let me catalog every inch of skin, every change in her breathing.
I traced my thumb over her nipple, slow, barely touching. It peaked under the pad of my finger. She sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for me to do it again. I did, this time pinching, rolling, testing the line between pleasure and pain.
She leaned in to me, just a little. I took her by the hips and walked her backwards, inch by inch, until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sat, then let herself fall back, one arm up over her head, the other bracing her weight.
I knelt at the edge of the bed, both hands on her thighs. Her skin was pale, blue veins showing at the insides, a faint scar near her left knee. I pressed my mouth there, and her leg jerked, involuntary.
“Ticklish?” I said.
“Only when you do that,” she said, and she laughed—a real one, bright and sharp. I liked it more than I should have.
I dragged my hands up, over the curve of her hips, over her belly, up her sides. I watched her watch me. She didn’t blink.
