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“Poorly.”

A giggle broke out of her, bright and startled, and turned into a moan when I closed my lips around her clit.

I worked her slowly.

The dance continued below us. A fiddle line. Boots striking boards. Laughter rising and fading. Up here, her breath got louder, each gasp stripped of the control she wore through the day.

I slid one finger into her.

She clenched around it.

“More.”

“Who decides?”

“You do.”

“Good.”

I gave her a second finger.

Her heels dug into the blanket. Her hand tightened in my hair. I curved my fingers, found the place that made her cry out, and held the rhythm there while my tongue stroked her clit.

She climbed fast.

I knew the signs now. The shake in her thighs. The way her breath caught high in her throat. The grip of her body around my fingers.

“Please.”

“You close?”

“Yes.”

“Ask nicely.”

“Please, Daddy. Please let me come.”

I lifted my head just enough to look at her.

Her hair spread over the flannel. Her face was open, eyes dark, mouth wet from her own teeth. No concealer. No professional smile. No room left between what she felt and what she showed me.

“Come for me, little one.”

I put my mouth back on her.

She broke.

Her cry went into the rafters. Her thighs clamped around me, hips lifting despite my hand, body pulsing around my fingers. I kept the pressure steady until the first hard wave eased and she sagged into the blankets.

Then I crawled up her body.

She grabbed my face and kissed me with no hesitation, tasting herself on my mouth.

“Clothes,” she said. “Off.”

“I thought I was in charge.”

“You’re slow.”