Arms braced on either side of me, he drops his forehead to mine. “You are perfect, Camilla Joy. My beautiful Little girl. Can you give me one more, baby? I’ve dreamed about feeling your pussy milk my cock when you come around me.”
I can’t. It’s too much, more than I can possibly be expected to bear.
But there’s such a sweet earnestness to him. It’s in his voice, his eyes, his very being. And in that moment, I know there is nothing I wouldn’t do to please him.
“I’ll t-try, Daddy.”
I’m rewarded with the curving of his lips as he moves inside me. “My sweet Little girl. What did I ever do to deserve you?”
My heart trembles in my chest at the question. It’s the kind of thing a man who truly loves you would say, and despite everything that’s transpired between us, I find myself hoping that maybe, possibly, he might actually care for me. Not just care for me, but love me, the deep, passionate kind of love I’ve always dreamed of.
Because putting that thought into words terrifies me down to the deepest parts of my soul, I focus on pleasing him. On keeping my hands where they are as I roll my hips to meet his thrusts. Taking him as deep inside me as I can possibly manage.
And when the pleasure begins to build again, an impossible ache I’d be powerless to stop even if I tried, I surrender to it. Tohim. I allow myself to be dragged under by it, sobbing as I drown once more in that pleasure-turned-pain.
The harder I cry, the more frenzied his thrusts become. Until he’s fucking me with an intensity far beyond just the physical act of mating. Everything inside me fractures, then shatters, and I once again scream out my pleasure as he buries himself deep in my pussy one final time, filling me with his cum.
Branding me as his, from the inside out.
He collapses beside me, pulling me into his arms and brushing his lips over my cheeks, kissing away my tears. “My beautiful, beautiful Little girl.”
Sniffling, I bury my face in his chest. “I’m a mess.”
But he doesn’t allow me to hide from him. Pulling away, he grips my chin, forcing me to look up into his dark, serious gaze. “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now, Camilla. Your tears are simply proof that you trusted me to take you to your breaking point, and past it. I love each and every one of them.”
Again, my heart trembles, and as I snuggle against him I know I’ve lost the battle.
Like it or not, I’ve fallen head over heels in love with Doctor D.
Chapter Eighteen
Donovan
An hour after taking my Little girl for the first time, we’re both forced from my bed by a text from Maxwell letting us know he’s on his way over with Victoria so she can apologize.
“I don’t wanna see her.” Pouting something fierce, Camilla sits on the bench in the middle of her closet, her arms crossed as I gather fresh clothes for her. Gone is the siren I had in my bed just a few minutes ago, and despite her clear upset, I’m amused by how quickly she shifts back into her Little space. “She was mean.”
We've been having the same argument for the past fifteen minutes, and my patience is wearing thin. But I know my Little girl is hurting, so I force my own annoyance back as I scan the row of neatly folded onesies in front of me. “I know, baby. But Victoria is coming to apologize, and you need to at least give her that opportunity.”
“Why? She didn’t give me a chance.”
It’s a fair point. And honestly, if we didn’t live in such a closed community I might be willing to let her snub Victoria and the rest of the Littles.
But the fact of the matter is, we do live in a very small community, and we can’t afford to alienate anyone. Not when my Little girl is such a social creature at heart. She might be hurting now, but in a week, two weeks, a month, she’ll be sad that she’s missing out on all the fun things her friends are doing.
So for her own good, I’ll force her to meet with Victoria and at least hear out her apology. But perhaps I can make things a little easier.
Turning away from the dresser, I pluck Camilla up from the bench and settle her on my hip. “Maybe wearing something pretty will help you feel better. Would you prefer a onesie or a dress?”
Suspicion fills her eyes. “I can pick?”
“This once, yes.”
“Dress,” she says decisively, pointing at the row of custom satin and tulle. “The yellow one with the pink roses.”
“Yellow and pink it is, then.”
Grabbing the requested dress from the hanger, I help her into it and run a brush through her tangled hair before pulling it up into matching pigtails on either side of her head.
