That earns me a smile. Slow and knowing.
“Oh,” he says quietly, stepping in again, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without being touched. “A quick learner.”
His hand settles back on my hip. He pushes my jeans down slightly, his fingers splaying out on bare skin. I resist the urge to wiggle under his touch so he is forced to touch me where I want him to.
“Trouble isn’t the issue,” he continues, gaze dropping briefly to my mouth before lifting again. “It’s whether you know when to behave.”
My breath catches. My response does too.
He leans in, close enough that his words brush my ear. “And right now,” he adds softly, “you’re doing just fine.”
I melt.
It’s embarrassing how fast it happens—how praise hits me straight in the spine and turns my knees into suggestions of bones. If he keeps that up, I’ll fold completely. Roll over. Bare my throat. Let him see exactly how easy it is to undo me.
So. Yeah.
Do I have a kink? Absolutely.
Dominant men. Praise delivered without restriction. Confidence wrapped in an accent and a few extra years of experience are bonus points.
My brain helpfully supplies a word I absolutely do not say out loud. Yes, Daddy might make him stop. Right?
I bite it back, lips parting instead, breath shaky as I force myself to stay where he put me. Still. Waiting. Behaving.
“Quieto,” he says softly.
I still.
He nods once. Approval. “That meansstay still.”
The word settles into me as much as his touch does. I don’t move—not because I can’t, but because I want to see what he does next.
His fingers trail up my side, slow, deliberate. Not exploring. Teaching.
“Despacio,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “Slow.”
Like a demonstration, his hand moves exactly that way—unhurried, controlled, making every inch of contact feel intentional. I suck in a breath, fighting the urge to chase it.
He notices.
His fingers pause, pressure increasing just a fraction. “Bien,” he says quietly. “Good.”
The word hits hard. Maybe I should add praise whore to my profile on Prism.
He tips my chin up with two fingers until I’m looking at him again. “Mírame,” he adds.
I hold his gaze, unable to look away even if I wanted to.
“That one’s easy,” he says, eyes dark but steady. “Look at me.”
I do. I really do. And the way his mouth curves tells me that’s exactly what he wanted.
“Obedecer,” he continues, thumb brushing my jaw once before dropping away. “It meansto obey. But,” he adds, “it only works if you choose it, because I don't force anything.”
My pulse stutters.
He leans in just enough that his words brush my ear. “And you’re choosing very well tonight.”
