Page 74 of Obsessed Bratva Daddy
"Does this look good on me?" I said.
It came out softer than I meant. The nerves in my throat turned it into a question and a tease at once.
He breathed once, on purpose, like a man pulling himself back.
"Devastating," he said. Low. No give in it. "I want to tie you up and never let anyone else look at you again."
The silk on my skin warmed half a degree.
"Then tie me," I said. "And remind me whose I am."
He crossed the room.
Four long strides and the fifth was already his hand at the back of my neck. His mouth landed on mine before I had time to take a real breath, and the kiss was not careful. He kissed me like a man who had been holding the inside of his ribs together since the garden. One hand fisted in my hair at the base of my skull. The other splayed wide and hard at the small of my back and pulled me into him until the dresser stopped meaning anything. My palms went up his chest, found the steady drum under the cotton, and stayed.
He turned us. Two steps, and my back met the wall beside the dresser, a soft thud of silk on plaster, his thigh sliding between mine and staying. I felt the line of him through his trousers, hard and patient and already decided. My breath went small in my throat. His teeth caught my bottom lip and dragged, and the heat in my belly dropped low and sat there. His hand came up from my back to my jaw, gripped, tipped my face exactly the way he wanted it, and the kiss went deeper.
Somewhere in the middle of it I felt his control slip. A quarter inch, no more. His hand tightened in my hair past gentle, eased, tightened again, like a man counting himself down on purpose. The low sound he made in his throat was not a sound I had heard from him before.
"Careful with me," he murmured against my lip. His breath was uneven. "I am not going to be careful with you."
"Promise?"
He bit my bottom lip, gently, on the word.
He stepped back an inch. Just one. The cold of the room rushed in between us and I missed him already. His hands went to the knot at his own throat and his eyes did not leave mine. He pulled the silk loose slowly, watching me watch him, one motion and then another, and slid the tie free of his collar with the patience of a man enjoying my face. He let it hang doubled across his palm. The dark silk caught the lamp.
I watched him.
He watched me watch him.
He lifted my wrists between us, both of mine inside one of his, and the silk went cool against the inside of my forearm. He wound it once. Twice. He was gentle with the wrap and not gentle with the knot. Then he slid two fingers between the silk and my skin and tested the give, careful, the way a man checks the things he intends to be rough with later.
"Too tight?"
I shook my head. I could not have spoken if I tried.
He lifted my bound hands to his mouth and kissed the inside of my left wrist where the pulse was already running fast for him. Then the right. His eyes stayed on my face the whole time. He was asking me a question the entire length of that knot, and I gave him the answer with mine. Something hot and bright moved under my skin at the thought of being his to handle, all of me wrapped in his color, his silk, his decision.
"Good girl," he said, and the floor under me did something soft.
He walked me backward to the bed by the silk between my wrists. Each step was a small careful tug that made my breath catch. He sat me down on the edge of his mattress, laid me back against his pillows, lifted my bound hands and set them above my head on the cool cotton, and left them there. Then he took one step away from the bed, and he stood, and he looked at me.
He gave himself the view. He gave me the time.
The lamp caught the wine red of the robe where it had fallen open at my thigh. His eyes went slow. My mouth. My throat. The hollow at the base of it where my pulse was beating. The lace cups. The dip below my ribs. The ribbon ties at my hips. Bare feet crossed at the ankle on his blanket. Bound wrists resting where he had put them. He took a second longer than he needed,and I saw his chest move through his open shirt, in and out, not steady. His jaw worked once.
"Look at you," he said again, low and slow, like the words cost him something to release. "I am going to keep you in this bed for hours."
My thighs pressed together on the blanket without my permission. He saw it. The corner of his mouth moved.
He came down over me.
The second kiss was deeper than the first. His weight settled over me slow, his forearm braced beside my head, his other hand mapping me through the silk. Hip. Ribs. The underside of my breast through the lace. His mouth went from mine to the line of my jaw to the soft place under my ear, and then lower, the slow drag of his open mouth down the column of my throat making me shiver under him. He found a ribbon at my shoulder with his teeth and pulled. The bralette gave on that side. He kissed the skin he had uncovered like it was the only piece of skin in the world he had been allowed to find.
I could not get my hands down to him. The silk held. I tried anyway, tugged once on instinct, felt the soft pull on the inside of my wrists, and the helpless little spark of it went straight down. My breath caught around the sound of my own name in his mouth.
"Mine," he said against my collarbone. Once. Quiet. Not a question.
