I melted into him. My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. His other arm wrapped around my waist, pulled me flush against his body. I could feel him hard against my body. Could feel how much he wanted this, wanted me.
A small sound escaped my throat. Not quite a whimper. Not quite a moan. Something desperate that said please and yes and finally.
He groaned against my mouth. The sound vibrated through me, made heat spike between my legs. His tongue swept inside when my lips parted, claiming, exploring, tasting. I'd never been kissed like this. Like I was air and he was drowning. Like he'd been starving and I was the first meal he'd seen in weeks.
His hand in my hair tightened. Not painful. Just firm. Controlling. Holding me exactly where he wanted me. The sensation made my brain go fuzzy, made coherent thought nearly impossible.
I needed more. Needed his hands on my skin, his mouth on my neck, his body over mine in that bed just a few feet away behind the door we were pressed against.
My hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair. The strands were thick and soft between my fingers. I pulled slightly and he made a sound deep in his chest that went straight to my core.
We were pressed together so tightly I could feel every line of his body. Could feel the way his breathing had gone ragged. Could feel his heart slamming against his ribs in rhythm with mine.
His mouth left mine, trailed along my jaw, down to my neck. His teeth scraped against my pulse point and I gasped. My head fell back, giving him access. His lips were hot against my throat, tongue tasting my skin like he couldn't get enough.
"Nikolai." His name came out breathy. Needy. I didn't recognize my own voice.
His hand slid from my hair down my back, curved over my hip, squeezed. The possessiveness in the gesture made me dizzy. Like he was claiming me. Marking me as his.
"Say it again," he murmured against my neck. His voice was rough, wrecked. "Ask me again."
My brain was fuzzy. Too much sensation. Too much wanting. I struggled to form words. "Be my Daddy. Please. I need—I need you to—"
I couldn't articulate it. Couldn't explain the depth of what I needed. Rules and structure and someone to hold me when I fell apart. Someone to make the world make sense.
His mouth found mine again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like he was trying to memorize the taste of me. Like this kiss was a promise.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. My lips felt swollen. My body was singing with want. I could feel how wet I was, could feel the ache between my legs that demanded attention.
He pressed his forehead against mine. Closed his eyes. His hands were shaking where they held me.
"Tomorrow," he said roughly. "We'll discuss the contract tomorrow. When we're both thinking clearly."
The words felt like ice water. Tomorrow. Not now. Not tonight when we were both desperate and wanting and finally honest about it.
"But—" I started.
"Tomorrow, devotchka." His voice was firm. Not harsh. Just certain. The Daddy Dom voice that expected obedience. "I promise. We'll sit down, we'll go through everything, we'll negotiate properly. But not tonight. Not when you're emotional and I'm—"
He stopped. Swallowed hard. "Not when I want to take you to bed and make you forget everything but my name."
The confession made my core clench. Made heat flood my face and chest and everywhere. He wanted that too. Wanted me with the same desperate intensity I wanted him.
But he was maintaining control. Being responsible. Making sure we did this right.
It should have been frustrating. Should have made me want to argue, to push, to break down that control until he gave me what we both wanted.
Instead it made me feel safer. Like he was strong enough to hold the boundaries I couldn't hold myself. Like he'd protect me even from my own impulsiveness.
"And the punishment?" My voice came out smaller. Younger. Little Sophie peeking through. "For breaking the rule?"
His eyes darkened again. His hand came up, cupped my face. Thumb stroking over my cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"Tomorrow, malyshka," he said quietly. "We'll discuss what you earned. I promise."
The word earned made something flutter low in my stomach. Not fear. Anticipation. The knowledge that consequences were coming, that he'd follow through, that the rules were real and so was the discipline when I broke them.
He stepped back. Put space between us even though I could see how much it cost him. His control was fracturing at the edges but holding. Barely.
