His gaze is intense, burning me up. Truthfully, I think I could come just from him looking at me like this. But that wouldn’t be as fun.
Nico leans down. Thank fuck he’s finally going to touch—oh. He picks up Amelia Bearhart from the sofa bed and sits her on the armchair, facing away from us, muttering something that sounds a lot like, “She doesn’t need to see this.”
Then he looks up at the ceiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was praying or asking for forgiveness for what he wants to do to me.
He doesn’t say it, but I see the moment he decides “fuck it.” He stands up straighter and takes a deep breath before focusing his blinding attention back on me.
“Show me.”
“Show you?”
Nico nods, stripping me bare with his gaze. “Show Daddy where it hurts, angel.”
Holy shit.
I’m no stranger to dirty talk, but not everyone can pull it off. Nico’s mouth was made for this.
I can’t wait to see what else it was made for.
The room is a million degrees, or maybe it’s me, but I’m panting as I lift my hips and push my shorts down my thighs. Nico doesn’t bother with that thing so many men do, where they force themselves not to look and stare into your eyes instead. He watches every second of me taking my shorts off with a look of utmost concentration.
I take a deep breath and part my legs, tugging my sweater up ever so slightly, exposing my underwear to him.
And Nico quite literally falls to his knees at the sight.
I’m going to be riding that high for a while.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, his eyes glassy. “Look at you. You’re so messy, baby. Is this for me?”
“Yes, Daddy.” It slips out so easily, it’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without saying it. “All for you.”
Nico runs his fingers up my legs, like he’s tracing lines between my freckles. His touch is tender, but his hands are rough. I can feel every callus, evidence of years of chopping and sanding and carving wood into beautiful things. This cabin, his furniture, hell, even flour and water, everythingNico touches, he makes better. And already, I feel more beautiful than I ever have under his touch.
But that might have something to do with the way he’s staring at me like I’m the second coming.
His hands stop mid-thigh, and I’m considering begging when he finally takes pity on me and drags a single finger over my underwear. My head falls back, a whimper crawling up my throat. He strokes me lightly, sitting close enough that I can feel his breath against me. It’s the best kind of torture.
“Take off your sweater.”
At this point, I think my body is just automatically doing what he tells me to. It’s not easy, though, to sit up and concentrate enough to take off my sweater over my head while he’s drawing circles over my underwear.
I’m wearing a baby blue cami, because this sweater has been washed so many times that the inside is no longer soft, and no one wants scratchy fabric against their nipples. As I pull the sweater off, the straps slip down my shoulders, and Nico looks up at me, licking his lips.
I toy with the edge of the fabric. “Do you want me to take this off t—oh.” Nico tugs the cami, and it slips down my body, pooling around my waist.
“Jesus Christ,” he practically growls, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
I reach for him, cupping his jaw until he opens his eyes and looks at me. His hands are shaking.
“Okay?”
“This is… I’m… Fuck.”
I can’t pretend I don’t like watching him comecompletely undone for me. But I take pity on him, reaching for the buttons of his flannel and slowly undoing what I can. I have to sit up more to reach, but he helps me out with the last few, and I push it off his shoulders. He doesn’t bother asking if I want him to take his T-shirt off; he just pulls it over his head, and it’s my turn to be speechless.
The first thing I notice is his scars. Two curved lines across his chest, about two inches apart. A seatbelt’s width apart. There’s a bigger, more jagged scar on his upper arm, and a tattoo—some kind of blue flowers.
Nico must notice my gaze, because he tenses. Shit. When I look up, his face is a little closed off again.
