"Yes," I managed. Then: "Yes, Daddy."
His pupils dilated at the title. His jaw clenched. For a moment, I thought his control might crack, that he'd give in to the want I could see burning in his eyes.
But he didn't.
Instead, his hands came up, massive and surprisingly gentle, to the top button of my cardigan.
He undid the first button. Then the second. Taking his time, watching my face as each small freedom increased my desperation. When all five buttons were free, he pushed the cardigan off my shoulders, let it pool on the floor behind me.
Then he walked around me, pressed a kiss to the nape of my neck where the cardigan had hidden it. Just lips against skin, barely there, but I gasped like he'd bitten me.
"Beautiful," he murmured in Russian. "Krasivaya."
My hands twitched, wanting to reach back, to pull his mouth harder against my skin. But I kept them at my sides, fingers curling into my palms.
He came back around to face me, hands going to the hem of my t-shirt. The one I'd stolen from his dresser this morning, oversized and soft from too many washes. He lifted it slowly, the cotton dragging against my sensitized skin. I had to raise my arms to let him pull it over my head, and the brief movement felt like rebellion against the stillness he'd commanded.
"Good girl," he said, and those two words lit up every reward center in my brain.
He traced a single finger along the edge of my bra, practical white cotton. But the way he looked at me, like I was wearing the finest lace, like I was art he wanted to study—
"Patience," he said, apparently reading my mind. Or maybe just the way my body swayed toward him, desperate for more contact.
His hands went to my jeans. The button popped free. The zipper descended tooth by tooth, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. He knelt—Konstantin Besharov actually knelt—to work them down my legs, lifting each foot to free me from the denim.
From this angle, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands weren't quite as steady as they'd been. He was affected too, fighting for control just as hard as I was fighting to stay still.
He pressed a kiss to my hip bone, just above the waistband of my underwear. Then the other side. Taking his time, mapping my body with his mouth while his hands stayed maddeningly still on my thighs.
When he stood, I was shaking. Actually shaking, like I'd been standing in the cold, except I was burning from the inside out.
"Turn around," he ordered.
I did, grateful for the movement even if it was commanded. He unhooked my bra with practiced ease, but instead of letting it fall, he slid the straps down my shoulders slowly, his fingers following the path, leaving trails of fire on my skin.
The bra hit the floor. His hands came around to cup my breasts from behind, just holding, feeling their weight. His thumbs brushed over my nipples, already hard and aching, and I couldn't suppress the whimper that escaped.
"So responsive," he murmured against my ear. "So perfect."
Then his hands were gone, and I wanted to cry from the loss. But he was moving again, coming around to face me, and thelook in his eyes—hungry and reverent and possessive—made me forget everything except the need building in my core.
Only my underwear remained. Plain white cotton, nothing special, except for the visible evidence of how affected I was. His eyes tracked down, took in the damp spot, and his control finally cracked enough for a growl to escape.
He hooked his fingers in the waistband, dragged them down with less finesse than he'd shown with everything else. Like he couldn't maintain the slow torture for one more second.
I stepped out of them, and then I was naked. Completely exposed while he remained fully dressed in his dark jeans and black henley. The power imbalance should have made me feel vulnerable—did make me feel vulnerable—but also powerful. Because he was looking at me like I was everything. Like I was worth the wait, worth the patience, worth the control it was obviously costing him.
He circled me again. Slower this time. Taking in every inch of exposed skin, every freckle and scar and imperfection. His breathing had gone rough, controlled but barely.
"Moya," he said, stopping behind me. "Mine."
Then in front, gray eyes burning into mine: "Beautiful." His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "So fucking beautiful. And all mine."
The possession in his voice, the certainty, the promise—it broke something in me. A last wall, a final defense. I stood naked in his bedroom, trembling and desperate and his, completely his, and for the first time in six months—maybe longer—I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.
He left me standing there, naked and trembling, while he moved to his closet with the unhurried confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how long he could make me wait for it. The closet door opened with a soft whisper,and I watched his broad back as he reached for something on the top shelf.
When he turned back, he held lengths of black silk in his hands. Not rope—that would leave marks. Not leather—too harsh for a first time. Silk. Expensive, soft, strong enough to hold but gentle enough to show care.
