Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
“No,” I say quickly. I’ve just never—”
“A Daddy virgin?”
That is so nasty, yet my insides throb.
“I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I get the sudden sense that the balance of the moment is slipping. I glance down, everything inside me drawing tight at his disapproval. Weird. He’s barely moved a muscle, yet I feel the weight of his disappointment like a spikey woolen jacket I want to throw off. Before my brain registers what I’m doing, my fingers are at the button on the back of my skirt.
“Not that way.” He makes an indolent motion with his finger that I take to mean I’m supposed to… lift it? My fingers move hesitantly to my thighs. “Yes, sweetheart. That’s right.”
He settles back as I begin to gather the fabric. His eyes burn through the shadows as I pull it higher and higher until—I can’t quite believe—it’s gathered at my waist. It feels dirty but somehow on the right side of wrong. And, oh my goodness, he called me sweetheart, and I really, really liked it.
I count the beats that pass between us in the throbbing between my legs before he moves forward, the light catching the blade of his cheekbones as his face comes into the light. He doesn’t glance up, seeming to examine my panties before he hooks a thumb into the elastic at my hip. Pleasure pulses through me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to melt before the navy-colored lace slides down my legs. But neither of those things happens as his thumb slides away. Not that my pleasure abates, his expression so serious as he trails a slow finger up between my legs.
His head lifts, his gaze catching mine as though daring me to stop him. I won’t of course. All I can think about is how I’ve never been this close to him before and how his eyes are so much more striking than I remember. Flecks of gold shine in the ambient light, amber striations around his dark pupil making his eyes seem tiger-like. A knife-straight nose and broad slashes for cheekbones. His mouth is full, and the divot above his finely carved bow makes me wonder what noise he’d make if I kissed it.
I stifle a sigh, my body jolting, suddenly chasing his touch as his index finger lightly brushes between my legs. One curling come-hither motion—it’s barely a brush, but God, how it makes me tremble. One brush becomes another, his touch so slow and methodical. So… “Oh God.” My eyes flutter closed as a familiar sensation begins to build.
“Open them, little fly,” he instructs softly. Something must flicker in my expression as he adds, “I’m following your lead.”
“Flies are—”
“Gossamer winged.” My body convulses as he increases the pressure, working the fabric of my panties where I’m suddenly wet. “‘Will you come into my parlor,’ said the Spider to the Fly. ‘’Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.’”
“The way into… my parlor is… up a winding stair.’” He smiles as I join in, my words halting and breathless.
“‘I have many curious things to show when you are there.’” He delivers the line with such wicked intent.
“Oh, I just bet you have.” My feathery laughter halts as he introduces his thumb. As he presses it to my clit, a mewl escapes my mouth.
“‘Will you rest upon my bed?’ said the Spider to the Fly. ‘There are pretty curtains drawn around and the sheets are fine and thin. If you like to rest a while, I’ll snugly tuck you in.’” His thumb and finger come together to pinch my clit, and I make the strangest noise, my body reacting as though struck by a live line. “I’m not sure we need a bed right now,” he asserts softly as his arm slides around me, banding my thighs. “Not when you’re doing so well.”
“No, don’t stop. I’ve never—” But I have no more words as he deepens the damp crease of my panties. Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I’m so pleased for the lack of light. My feminist membership card will absolutely be revoked once they discover that Daddy and the patriarchy own my ass.
“Oh, I’ve no intention of stopping,” he whispers. “Yes, that’s it. Such pretty fluttering.”
“Oh God!”
“Not quite, little fly.” His assertion is full of dark amusement. I must pull a face again. “Something more generic?” he purrs, his face half in shadow, half washed in the light. “Shall we stick with sweetheart, or how about baby girl?”
I’d like to assert I don’t like any of those options, but that would require at least basic verbal skills. He could call me Genghis Khan, and I wouldn’t protest as the mostly unused muscles in my thighs begin to flex and tense. I’ve never orgasmed standing before—or from a hand over my underwear rather than in. I’m beginning to think I might need stronger quads. Better coordination. Something to hold on to.