Page 17 of Obsessed Bratva Daddy
I set the spoon back down in the bowl. I set the bowl on the side table on top of the tray. I turned on the mattress so I was facing her, knees angled in toward her knees, and I took both herhands inside both of mine. They were small and warm and the pulse in her wrist was up against my thumb.
"You don't have to do that to know what I am doing. You can just ask me, Daniil. You can talk to me."
She did not raise her voice. She did not have to. It cut me cleaner than anything raised would have.
"I am sorry."
It is not a word that lives easily in my mouth. My father trained it out of me before I was old enough to write my own name. I put it in the air anyway. I put it down between us the way a man puts down a weapon on a table to show that his hands are empty.
She watched me put it down. She watched me leave it there.
"If you mean it, kiss me."
I leaned in. I gave her the small one she had asked for. Light. Closed mouth. The kind of kiss a man uses to sign his name to a promise he is still in the middle of making. She closed her eyes through it. She opened them again on the other side of it and the color in her face was higher than it had been a second before and her gaze had gone soft at the edges.
"Teach me a different way, Daniil."
She said it almost under her breath. The blush had climbed all the way to her hairline now.
"Are you sure?"
She nodded. She did not speak. She did not have to.
I took one beat. I let myself want it openly for the length of that beat, and I let the want show on my face so she would see it before I touched her. Her eyes stayed on mine. The pulse at the side of her throat was already faster than it had been a minute ago. Her lips parted on a breath she did not let go.
I brought my hand up under her jaw. The heel of it at the angle of the bone, my thumb at the hinge where it met her ear, my fingers sliding into the warm place at the nape of her neckwhere her hair started. I tilted her face up. I did not rush it. I had been thinking about how I would do this for three months and a handful of weeks, and I had earned the right to take my time.
I lowered my mouth to hers.
The first contact was light. Closed. The dry warmth of her bottom lip catching against mine, the smallest brush of skin to skin. I held it there. I let her decide whether to move toward me or away. She moved toward me. A short forward press. An answer in her body before her mouth gave me one. That was when I let it open.
My lips parted against hers. Hers parted back. Her breath came out warm and a little quick, and I caught it, and I gave her mine. The first slow slide of my tongue against hers undid something in her shoulders. They dropped. She made the smallest sound, barely there, a soft catch at the back of her throat, and I felt it land in my own chest like she had set a finger there.
I went deeper. I tilted her head a degree with the hand at her jaw so I could fit my mouth more completely against hers, and she let me move her, which broke loose something I had been holding shut all morning. Her taste was clean and a little sweet. Her mouth was hot. I took her bottom lip between mine, slow, and the small noise she made against my mouth that time was not small.
Her hand came up. It found my ribs through the t-shirt and her fingers spread wide there, splayed flat, pressed firm, the way a hand presses when the body it belongs to is reaching for something to hold on to. The heat of her palm came through the cotton like she had set a coal against me. I felt every finger. I felt my own ribs lift against her hand on the inhale.
My other hand went around to the small of her back. I drew her in. She came. She came with the kind of soft willingness that broke something in me at the same time it lit something else.Her body lined up against mine without thinking about it, her knee lifting onto the bed beside my hip, her chest fitting against the side of mine through one thin layer of cotton.
I kissed her deeper. The teaching kiss was gone. This was a kiss that had been kept in a cellar for a long time and was getting its first daylight. My mouth on hers, hers giving back to mine beat for beat, the slow building rhythm a body finds when the other body is meeting it. Her fingers curled against my ribs. The nails caught through the shirt, small and blunt and real. My pulse was loud enough to drown the bowl on the side table.
I let some of my weight onto her then, slow, careful, enough that she would feel it was there and could push it off if she wanted to.
She did not push it off.
She leaned in under it. Her free hand came up and found the back of my neck and she pulled me down to her with the kind of grip a woman uses when she has stopped pretending she is not doing what she is doing. Her fingers slid up into my hair. The pads of them dragged across my scalp. A heat I had not been ready for went down my spine and broke somewhere low.
The sound I made was new.
I felt her smile against my mouth. She had felt the sound land.
I gave her one more deep kiss because I would not have been able to stop without it. I let it stretch. I let her feel me. I let her feel exactly how much of me was wanting her right now, and exactly how much of me was holding it back so she would not have to ask me to.
I pulled my mouth back from hers by half an inch. I left my forehead against hers. My breath was not steady and I knew she could feel it on her lips, and I let her, because I was not going to lie to her about what she had just done to me. I waited one beat. I made sure of my voice before I used it.
"We will stop here. Or I will end up doing something you are not ready for."
"Yeah. I got carried away too. Sorry."
