That word…it drives me crazy for some reason. In response, my sex clenches around Draven and he chokes on a curse, the hand cradling the back of my head turning to a fist in my hair, pulling the strands in the most desperate fashion.
“How many thrusts can I have?” I trail my palms up and down his massive chest. “Will you make it more than one, Daddy, or am I too tight?”
A violent shudder wracks his powerful body, rattling the headboard against the wall. “Don’t call me Daddy right now. I’ll fucking pop.”
“You would deserve it,” I whisper, levering up slightly to lick his tattooed chest. “You’ve been so good to your little girl tonight.”
“Claire,” he pants, beginning to move, his hips jerking front to back as if he can’t help it. His body is moving of its own accord. “Please.”
He likes being praised, doesn’t he?
He is a chef, after all.
Or maybe he’s been blaming himself for the past so long, he needs this.
Needs me.
I slide my fingers up into his hair and urge him down on top of me, flush, his sweat-slicked body moving faster and faster, up and back, on top of mine. Muscle pressing and dragging over my younger, smoother curves, his urgency for pleasure swelling inside of me, stretching my walls. Making me a woman. His woman.
He pants wildly into my neck. “I have to be hurting you. I can’t…I don’t want to hurt my girl. But…oh God, you’re so fuckingtight…”
“I’ll forgive you if it hurts a little,” I whisper, lapping at his ear. “You can’t help how small I am, Daddy. It’s my fault, isn’t it?”
“No,” he barks into my neck. Then, “Yes.”
And with a snarl that must be ripped from the darkest parts of his soul, he starts to fuck me harder, the mattress springs groaning underneath us. I absorb his rabid drives and marvel over them. I open my thighs wider, wondering why I’m getting that ticklish feeling again so soon in my tummy, especially when I’m being taken now like a little toy.
Do I love this?
Yes.
Did I love it when he licked me and worshipped me?
Yes. Yes, I loved that, too.
“I think I’d love anything you did to me,” I hiccup, my words almost drowned out by the sound of flesh slapping. “Maybe the harder you ride me, the more you love me.” I press my heels into his thrusting backside and grind upward, clenching around him. Clenching as hard as I can. “You do love me, don’t you, Daddy?”
“Yes! I love you!” he bellows, his face a mask of pain. “Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Stop. Don’t stop. That feels so good. Fuck.I can’t fucking stand it.”
“You don’t like it?” I pout.
“I’m burning alive for it,” he hisses, wrapping a hand around my throat—and when his grip clamps down around my windpipe, a stream of arousal seeps from me, lubricating his path inside of me. “Son of a bitch. There’s no end to what you can do.”
Feeling exultant, I roll my hips in time with his drives, and I rake my nails down the full length of his sweaty back, making him groan. “Lucky Daddy.”
“Very lucky,” he chants, speeding up. In a frenzy. “Very, very, very lucky. Oh. Oh, I’m going to bust so hard. Oh, it’s going to fucking hurt.”
“I didn’t mean to make you hurt.”
“You were born to make me hurt, little girl. Get your fucking knees up.”
A sensual knob turns inside of me at being spoken to like that. Dominated and ordered around. Being admonished for having too tempting of a body. That powerful trifecta brings something to life inside of me. Something that loves being choked and used by my much older Daddy. And when he spits in my mouth and tightens his grip around my throat, a scream lets loose inside of my head, in my bones, in my sex. A sense of place. Of finding my foundation.
Home.
I’m home.
I was meant to find Draven.