Her eyes lit up. The particular brightness of someone who'd been given permission to want something and was still processing that it was real.
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Tonight, I want—"
I stopped. The sentence wouldn't complete itself, because what I wanted was too much. Her in my arms, her mouth against mine, the particular sound she made when I said "good girl." I wanted everything, all at once, with an intensity that scared me.
She must have seen it in my face. The wanting.
Because she moved.
One moment she was on the couch across from me. The next she was in my lap, her knees bracketing my thighs, her hands finding my shoulders. The sudden closeness was overwhelming—her weight, her warmth, the particular scent of her that had nothing to do with my soap and everything to do with her.
"Auralia—"
"Kiss me."
Not a question. Not a request. A demand wrapped in desperation.
I kissed her.
My hands found her hips, pulling her closer. My mouth opened against hers, tasting coffee and something sweeter, something that was just her. She made a sound—high and wanting—and pressed her body against mine, eliminating every inch of space between us.
The kiss deepened. Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling, demanding. My hands slid up her back, feeling the warmth of her through the sweater, mapping the architecture of her spine. She was so small against me. So perfectly fitted, like she'd been designed to be held by these particular hands.
Her hips shifted. Ground against me.
I groaned.
The sound came from somewhere primal, somewhere I didn't control. She felt it—must have felt the evidence of how much I wanted her, hard and aching beneath my jeans. Instead of pulling back, she pressed closer. Her hand slid between us, finding the shape of me through the denim.
My whole body went rigid.
Her fingers traced the outline of my cock. Curious. Deliberate. The particular touch of someone cataloging, learning, memorizing.
"I can feel you," she whispered against my mouth. "How much you want me."
"Auralia—"
"I want to touch you. Properly. I want—"
"Patience."
The word came out low. Commanding. The Daddy voice, surfacing without permission.
Her hand stilled.
She looked at me—flushed and wanting, her lips swollen from kissing, her eyes dark with desire. But something else was there too. Something that recognized the authority in my voice and responded to it.
"We have time," I said. I pressed my forehead against hers, forcing myself to breathe. "All the time in the world. And I want to do this right. Not rushed. Not desperate. I want to take you apart slowly, Ptichka. Learn every piece of you before I put you back together."
Her breathing was ragged. So was mine.
"I want—"
"I know what you want." My thumb traced her lower lip—swollen, perfect. "And you'll have it. Good things are coming toyou. But not tonight. Tonight, we stop. We slow down. We let the anticipation build until it breaks us both."
She made a sound. Frustration and submission combined, the particular whimper of someone who wanted to argue but couldn't.
