Page 59 of Obsessed Bratva Daddy
He looked at me. The pale skin under the lamp. His eyes moved down without hurry, the older eyes, the ones I knew. I let him look. I had not let anyone look at me in three months andthe only thing I wanted now was the weight of his eyes on me with his permission and mine.
He knelt for the sleep pants.
He was the kind of man who knelt for the small details. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband and he drew them down over my hips and down my thighs and to the floor and he paused on the way down with his hands at my hips. He looked up at me once. He did not need the permission. He had it. He was asking anyway because his body remembered that part too.
I nodded.
He took his time on the way back up. The flat of his hand traveled the outside of my thigh on the way to standing. The pad of his thumb caught the small soft place at the inside of my hip and his mouth followed his thumb for one slow second, a small kiss on the inside of my hip that put a small hot thing low in my stomach that had been asleep for three months and was awake now.
He stood.
I undressed him.
I found the hem of the black undershirt and I drew it up over the long flat of his stomach and over the harder flat of his ribs and over his shoulders and over his head. The bruise at his jaw caught the lamp on the way past. I set the shirt on the chair beside mine. I came back to him. I set my palm flat over his chest where his heart was running under the skin and I felt it, the steady fast give of him, the heart of a man who knew where the night was going even though he did not know whose night this had been before.
I drew the sleep pants down his hips.
I did not kneel for his. I knew he wanted me standing. I held his eyes while I drew them down to the floor and he stepped out of them and there was nothing between us now except the small inch of warm air the lamp was making in the room.
He moved me onto the bed gently.
He set the back of one hand at my shoulder and the other at my hip and he laid me down with the kind of care a man uses on a thing he has been told he is allowed to break, and is choosing not to. He followed me down on his elbows. The mattress took his weight beside me. He kissed my mouth. Then he kissed my throat. Then he kissed the small notch at the top of my collarbone, and he held the kiss there for half a second longer than the others.
He moved down my body.
I watched him go. I had been waiting to watch him do this exact thing with my permission again and I was not going to close my eyes for any of it. He took his time at my breasts. He set his mouth on me and his tongue moved with the patience of a man who had done this before in a body that knew which slow worked, and the small low sound in the back of his throat was the same sound from a small life ago, the one I had been carrying like a coin.
He went lower.
His mouth between my thighs was the same mouth as the one in the shower of my apartment in another life. I knew it on the first stroke. I knew it on the second. The flat of his tongue slow, then the slow drag, then the kind of careful pressure that made my hips lift off the mattress without my permission. His hands flattened up the insides of my thighs to keep me open for him and I let him because there had not been anywhere I had wanted to be in three months as much as I had wanted to be back here. He set the heel of his other hand flat on my belly and pressed me back down. The weight of his hand there was the only steady thing in the room.
My hand went into his hair.
He took his time. He found the rhythm and held it there. His fingers slid up and curled in a small clean way that knew theinside of me from before. One finger. Then two. The slow stretch I had not had since the last time he had touched me here. The small white shape at the back of my eyes got larger. My free hand fisted in the sheet beside my hip. The other tightened in his hair. He made a low approving sound against me and the sound went through me like a second touch.
I came against his mouth with my hand fisted in his hair. My thighs closed around the sides of his head. My back lifted off the mattress an inch. I made a sound that was not a word and was not a name and would have embarrassed me in any other life. He stayed with me through it. He did not slow down until I did.
I heard the small short word he said against the inside of my thigh as I came down. It was not a word in English. It was the one he used to use, the one I had not known how to translate and had stopped asking him to.
I lay there a moment with my chest moving and my hand still in his hair.
He kissed the inside of my thigh once. He set his chin on the small flat above the bone of my hip. He looked up the length of me with the older eyes.
I sat up.
I pushed him gently back onto the pillows with the flat of my hand at the center of his chest. He let me. He went where I pushed him. I climbed over his hips and I set my knees on either side of his and I put both my hands on his chest and I looked down at him.
"Let me make you remember I used to own you," I said.
His mouth opened a little. The older voice came up through the Pete one, flat and low and certain.
"I am still yours," he said. "The memory does not change the deed."
The line landed in me like a coin dropped into a well, the small clean fall and the small clean sound at the bottom. I bent and kissed him long and slow.
I tasted myself on his mouth.
I moved down his body.
