Page 123 of Dark King Daddy

“Yes, Daddy.”

The word settled between us. I had chosen it. Not from the headspace of the lavender pajamas and the coloring book — from the full, deliberate, adult awareness of a woman who knew exactly what she was offering and to whom.

His eyes found mine. The ice-blue was nearly gone, swallowed by something darker, something that looked at me from behind the composure and recognized what I had given him.

“Good girl,” he said.

The praise moved through me. My hand tightened around him.

“Lie back,” he said.

I did as he asked.

The bed was warm beneath me. The amber light from the lamp fell across my body, and I was aware of every inch of skin he could see—my breasts, my stomach, my hips, the dark fabric of my underwear, my bare thighs. I did not cover myself. I lay where he had told me to lie and I waited.

Daniil crossed to the closet. He opened it with the same unhurried precision he brought to everything, and I heard him move hangers, search. He returned with a silk scarf I had forgotten I owned—a long, narrow strip of deep green that had been a gift from Anton years ago, shoved to the back of the closet and never worn.

He sat on the edge of the bed. He took my right wrist and raised it above my head. He wrapped the silk around it—twice, three times—and secured it to the iron bar of the headboard. The knot was firm. Not tight enough to cut off circulation. Not loose enough to slip free. He took my left wrist and did the same.

“Too tight?” he asked.

“No.” I tested the bindings. My arms pulled. The silk held. “Perfect.”

He looked down at me. My arms above my head, my body stretched across the bed, the last of my clothing still in place. His eyes moved over me with focused attention, and his attention was not polite.

He started at my collarbones.

His mouth traced the line of them—left to right, then back, his tongue dipping into the hollow of my throat. His hands followed—palms flat against my ribs, fingers spread, mapping the architecture of my body. He kissed the swell of my left breast above the bra line. Then the right. His thumb found my nipple through the fabric and pressed.

I arched. The sensation went through me—sharp, electric, connected directly to the place between my legs where the ache had been building since the dream.

He pulled the bra down. Not off—down, the cups pushed beneath my breasts, the fabric tight beneath them, lifting. He put his mouth on my left nipple. Warm. Wet. His tongue circled, then he bit.

The sting was immediate. I gasped. My wrists pulled against the silk. The sharpness of the bite mixed with the warmth of his mouth and the combination was—I didn’t have a word. My back arched off the bed.

He moved to the right breast. Same treatment—tongue, warmth, then the bite, harder this time. I moaned. The sound filled the room.

His hands moved down. My stomach. My hips. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and drew them down—slowly, over my hips, past my thighs, off. He dropped them on the floor.

I was naked. Tied. Spread beneath him. And I was wet—wet enough that I could feel it on my thighs, the slick evidence of arousal that had been accumulating since the dream, since the dress, since the restaurant, since his hand in my hair on the promenade.

He looked at me. All of me. His eyes moved from my face to my bound wrists to my breasts to my stomach to the wetness between my legs. He did not speak. He looked, and the looking was its own act—possessive, thorough, unhurried.

Then he moved up the bed.

He straddled my chest. His knees on either side of my ribs. His cock—thick, hard, the length of him jutting forward—was inches from my face. He had pushed his pants down and I hadn’t noticed, too lost in his mouth and his hands, and now he was above me and the sight of him—the size of him, the heat, the bead of moisture at the tip—made my mouth water.

“Open,” he said.

I opened my mouth.

He pushed inside. Slowly. The head of his cock passed my lips and I closed around him, my tongue pressing flat against the underside, and he groaned—a deep, rough sound that came from his chest. His hands found the headboard on either side of my bound wrists and he began to move.

He fucked my mouth. Slowly at first, each thrust measured, controlled. Then faster. Deeper. I took him—each stroke, each withdrawal, the taste of him salt and skin and heat. My jaw ached. My wrists pulled against the silk. I was being used, and the word—used—should have frightened me, should have triggered every instinct that said receiving is owing, need is weakness.

It didn’t. It made me wetter. So wet I could feel it on the sheets beneath me, the slick heat spreading, and the wetness was its own admission—my body saying what my mouth couldn’t, that being held and commanded and taken was exactly what I wanted, and the wanting was not a debt.

He pulled out. My lips were swollen. I could taste him on my tongue.