Because this was about desire.
This was about the particular shape of my wanting, the specific things that made my blood heat and my control fray. Things I'd never spoken aloud to anyone.
"There's something," I said slowly. "Something I want from you. Something I—" I stopped. Started again. "It feels vulnerable to ask."
"Tell me."
Her voice was gentle. The same tone I used when coaxing her through difficult moments. The care in it made something in my chest ease.
"I want to hear you," I said quietly. "When we're together. I want to hear you tell me exactly where to touch you. Explicitly. Using the words."
Her breath caught.
"I want you to say 'I need your fingers inside me, Daddy.'" I held her gaze, watching the flush deepen, watching her pupils dilate. My voice was low, quiet, just loud enough for her to feel. "I want you to say 'Please put your mouth on my clit.' I want to hear you ask for my cock—out loud, looking at me."
She was gripping her fork so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
"And if you stop talking—" I leaned forward slightly. Let my voice drop lower, into the register that made her shiver. "I stop touching. You have to keep telling me what you need, or I pull away and make you start again. No hiding in silence. No letting your body do the asking. Just your voice, your words, telling me exactly how to make you come."
The restaurant around us had gone distant. Just us now, in this candlelit booth, trading desires across white tablecloth and cooling dessert.
"I know words are hard for you when you're overwhelmed." I reached across the table, ran my thumb over her knuckles. Felt the tremor in her hand. "That's what makes it so—"
I paused. Searched for honesty.
"The thought of you trusting me enough to push through that. To say those things out loud, for me. That's what I want, Auralia. The vulnerability of it. The effort. The gift of hearing exactly what you need in your own voice."
She was squeezing my hand now. Her breathing had gone shallow, her chest rising and falling visibly even in the dim light.
"It's about—connection,” I continued. “Communication. Knowing that what I'm doing is exactly right because you're telling me, in words, in real time. No guessing. No wondering if I've missed something. Just you, trusting me with your desires."
Silence stretched between us.
The restaurant hummed with other conversations. The espresso cooled in our cups. The tiramisu sat forgotten, one bite missing.
And she looked at me with eyes that held something fierce and wanting.
"I want to try."
The words came out barely above a whisper. But certain. Absolute.
"I know it'll be hard. I know I'll stumble. But—" She turned her hand in mine, laced our fingers together. "Tonight. I want to try for you, Daddy."
The title landed like a physical touch.
Something hungry stirred in my chest. The particular anticipation of knowing what was coming, of having it promised, of counting the minutes until I could make it real.
"You're sure?"
"Yes." Her eyes held mine. No hesitation. No doubt. "I want to give you this. I want to—to show you I trust you enough to be that vulnerable."
I raised her hand to my lips.
Kissed her palm. Let my lips linger, feeling her pulse flutter against my mouth.
"Then finish your dessert, little bird." My voice came out rougher than I intended. Strained with the wanting I was barely containing. "And we'll go home."
She picked up her fork.
