"Please," I begged, the word breaking on a sob. "Daddy, please, I need—I can't—please let me come."
He lifted his head to look at me, and his face was wet with my arousal, his gray eyes dark with hunger and something else. Pride, maybe. Satisfaction at reducing me to this—bound and begging and completely his.
"You need what I give you," he said, repeating his earlier words. Then his voice softened slightly. "You're being so good for me, kitten. So patient. Just a little more."
A little more turned out to be torture of the most exquisite kind. He brought me to the edge over and over, learning exactly how far he could push before pulling back. Three more times. Four. I lost count, lost everything except the desperate need for release.
"Please," I sobbed, past pride, past everything. "Please, Daddy, please. I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please let me come. I can't—I need—please."
He moved up my body just enough to kiss my stomach, my ribs, reaching my face to kiss my tears. Actually kissed them from my cheeks, tasting my desperation, drinking it in like wine.
"My perfect girl," he murmured against my cheek. "So beautiful when you beg."
Then he was back between my thighs, and this time his fingers joined his mouth. Two of them, sliding into me with no resistance because I was so wet I could feel it on my thighs. They curled forward, finding that spot inside that made everything go white at the edges, and his mouth sealed over my clit with renewed purpose.
The combination was devastating. His fingers moving in steady thrusts, hitting that perfect spot every time. His tongue circling with the exact pressure he'd learned I needed. His free hand still gripping my hip, holding me in place while he took me apart piece by piece.
The orgasm built different this time. Deeper. Starting from somewhere in my core and spreading outward like wildfire. My whole body went tight, muscles locking, breath catching. This was going to destroy me. I could feel it. This wasn't going to be a normal orgasm—this was going to be the kind that rewired your nervous system, that left you different after than you were before.
"Daddy," I gasped, barely able to form words. "I'm—it's—please, can I—"
His eyes lifted to lock on mine, watching my face while his mouth and fingers never stopped their perfect rhythm.
"Come for me," he commanded against my clit. "Now."
The permission hit me like a physical force. Everything that had been building, all that denied pleasure, all that desperate need, crashed over me at once. I came so hard my vision went white. Not metaphorically—literally white, like someone had shone a light directly into my brain.
My back arched off the bed as far as the restraints would allow. Every muscle in my body locked tight, then released in waves of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain. I heard someone screaming and dimly realized it was me, crying out with each pulse of the orgasm that seemed to go on forever.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow down. Worked me through it with the same methodical precision, drawing it out, making it last until I thought I might actually die from pleasure. His fingers stayed buried inside me, feeling every clench and flutter. His tongue gentled but didn't stop, easing me through the aftershocks.
When it finally ended, I collapsed against the mattress like someone had cut my strings. Every muscle limp, every bone liquid. I couldn't have moved if the building had been on fire. Could barely remember my own name.
He pressed one final, gentle kiss to my oversensitive clit that made me whimper, then pulled back. His fingers slipped free carefully, and I clenched around the emptiness they left behind.
"Look at me," he said softly.
It took effort to open my eyes, to focus on his face. He was watching me with an expression I'd never seen before—satisfaction mixed with awe mixed with something deeper I didn't have words for.
"Beautiful," he said, and meant it. "So fucking beautiful when you let go."
I wanted to respond, to say something coherent, but my brain hadn't come back online yet. All I could do was lie there, bound and trembling and completely destroyed in the best possible way, while he looked at me like I was a masterpiece he'd created.
Which maybe I was. Remade by his patience, his control, his devastating ability to give me exactly what I needed even when—especially when—it wasn't what I thought I wanted.
He stood up from between my thighs, and I watched through heavy-lidded eyes as he finally—finally—began to strip. There was nothing slow or teasing about it. Just efficient movements of a man who'd reached the end of his control. The black henley came off in one pull, revealing the expanse of his chest that I'd only seen glimpses of before.
My breath caught. I'd known he was big, had felt the strength in his arms when he held me, had seen his body when I’d worked on his wounds, but seeing him like this was different. His chest was a map of violence—scars crosshatching the muscle, bratva tattoos telling stories in ink and symbolism I didn't fully understand. A bullet wound near his ribs, starred and pink.What looked like a knife scar along his obliques. His body was a testament to survival, to being the one who walked away when others didn't.
His hands went to his jeans, and my mouth went dry. The button, the zipper, then he was pushing them down along with his boxers, and—
Oh.
He was proportional everywhere. Thick and hard and intimidating in the best way. My body clenched at the sight, some primal part of me recognizing that this was going to be intense. That the stretch would border on too much. That he was going to fill me completely, leave no space inside me that wasn't his.
I must have made some sound because his eyes found mine, and there was a question there alongside the hunger.
"I won't hurt you," he said, moving back onto the bed, positioning himself between my bound legs. "Not in any way you don't want."
