I learned the rhythm.
His hand on my breast, warm and sure. My words earning the pressure, the circling, the attention I craved. When I asked him to touch the other one, he did—immediately, perfectly, like my voice was a key that unlocked his body. When I fell silent, lost in the sensation, he stilled. And I learned to push through the fog.
"Your mouth," I managed.
The words felt like stones in my throat. Heavy. Difficult. But I forced them out anyway, because the alternative was the stillness, and I couldn't bear the stillness.
"I want your mouth on my neck."
He moved without hesitation. His lips found the curve where my shoulder met my throat—not the side with the collar, the other side, the vulnerable stretch of skin that made me shiver when anyone touched it. His breath was warm. His mouth was warmer.
And his teeth.
He grazed them across my pulse point, and I gasped—sharp, involuntary, my whole body arching off the bed. The scrape of enamel against sensitive skin sent electricity straight to my core.
"Perfect," he whispered against my neck. The word vibrated through my flesh, sank into my blood.
I wanted more.
The wanting was building, coiling tighter with every touch, every whispered praise. My brain was fogging, the particular overwhelm of too much sensation crowding out rational thought. But buried under the static was a new sensation—boldness. The particular courage that came from being rewarded for speaking.
"Harder." The word surprised me. Rougher than I'd intended, more demanding. "Bite me harder."
He pulled back slightly. I felt his smile against my skin.
Then his teeth sank in.
The sting was immediate—bright, sharp, exactly what I'd asked for. It bloomed outward from the point of contact, spreading into something that wasn't quite pain and wasn't quite pleasure but existed in the territory between them. My hips jerked involuntarily, seeking friction, finding nothing.
"So brave," he murmured against my marked skin. "So good. My perfect girl."
The praise landed somewhere deep. Somewhere that had been empty before he'd started filling it, word by word, with evidence that I was enough. That I could do this. That my voice wasn't broken or wrong, just different, and he would wait for it.
He pulled back far enough to look at me.
His eyes were dark. Hungry. The controlled patience was still there, but underneath it I could see something more raw—the particular want of a man who was restraining himself with visible effort. He wasn't unaffected. Every word I gave him, every demand I made, was doing something to him too.
The knowledge was heady.
His hand began to move. Down, across my ribs, over the soft curve of my stomach. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me time to understand where he was heading.
My breath caught.
Lower. His palm skimming the jut of my hip, fingers trailing across the sensitive crease where my thigh began. Close. So close to where I needed him.
He stopped.
Looked at me. Waited.
The words jammed in my throat. This was different than before—more explicit, more vulnerable, the particular kind of asking that felt impossible even as my body screamed for it. I could feel how wet I was. Could feel the ache, the emptiness, the desperate need to be touched.
But saying it out loud—
"Take your time, baby girl," he said softly. No pressure. No demand. Just patience, endless patience, while his hand rested centimeters from where I was dripping for him.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Drew a shaking breath. Found the words.
"Touch me there, Daddy." My voice cracked on the title. "Please. I need your fingers."
