He eases his fingers out of me, and I can’t stop a sound of protest. But Jonas doesn’t stop touching me. He grips my thighs. “Get your hand off your clit, Blake.”
Immediately, I drop my hand. I’d rather he touch me anyway. He’s not doing anything to actively push me to orgasm, but the sheer sexiness of this moment, of this strange sort of humiliation, has me dancing on the edge despite that.
He lightly pinches my clit. I jolt, but manage to cut down the reaction before I dislodge him. He circles once and then goes back to my opening and wedges two broad fingers into me. “So fucking eager for it.” The way he says it, it doesn’t sound like a good thing. “Would you have done this in your father’s office? Bent over his desk, pulled up your dress, and soaked your thighs while I stroke your pussy?”
The image slammed into me and I have to bury my face in his pillow to avoid moaning out load. Except it backfires because I get a full inhale of Jonas’s scent. He squeezes my ass, fingers digging in. “That was not a rhetorical question.”
It would be so much easier to form words if he wasn’t tracing my G-spot with the tips of his fingers. I take in a shuddering breath. “Yes.”
“Shameless. Little. Slut.” Each word is compounded by a stroke.
This whole situation is so surreal. I can’t see him. He’s got a handful of my ass, but the only other place he’s touched me is my pussy. It’s like we’re strangers, except I don’t call strangers Daddy. I don’t call anyone Daddy, even my father. Apparently Jonas is the exception to that rule, because it just feels right for some reason. I turn my head to the side. “Tell me you didn’t want it that night, too.”
He gives my ass another light slap. “We’re not talking about me, baby girl. We’re talking about you and this needy pussy.” He keeps working my G-spot, edging me closer and closer to orgasm. I fight it. I have to. I’m suddenly terrified that the second I come, this ends, and I desperately don’t want this to end.
“I need your cock,” I blurt out.
“No,” he answers easily. “You haven’t done a single thing to earn it, and you won’t get your way by demanding it like a spoiled brat.”
I grip the sheets and fight to hold still. “Please?”
“Now she learns some manners,” he murmurs. “The answer is still no.” The mattress moves beneath us as he slides his hand down my hip and around to stroke my clit. The new position has his clothed legs touching me, and that little extra bit of contact is nearly as hot as the way he plays with my clit. “Be a good girl and come all over my hand, Blake. I know you want to.”
Confusion and desire and no small amount of shame work me just as intensely as Jonas does. Even trying to fight my orgasm, it’s already too late. I moan as I come, bearing down on his fingers. The orgasm keeps going and going and, holy shit, I’m squirting. He fingers me until I’m a puddle of flesh and bone on his bed, shaking and panting and whimpering. Only then does he stop touching me and sit back.
I can’t look at him. He hasn’t moved, and I can’t shake the feeling that if I break the silence first, this will end forever. And I desperately don’t want it to end.
Finally, he says, “Look at the mess you’ve made.”
I sob out a breath in what might be relief. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Come over here and prove it.”
Elation gives me the strength to rise on my hands and knees to move around to face him. Jonas looks at me the same way he has been since I showed up unannounced on his doorstep—as if he’s half a second from tossing me out on my ass. I don’t expect the punch of lust in response. I really should by now.
He flicks an impatient hand at the floor by his feet. “On your knees.”
It’s only then that I notice the massive cockstand pressing against the front of his jeans. It looks almost painful, and giddiness has me rushing off the bed so fast, my legs give out. He catches my elbow, keeping me off the floor, and shakes his head. “Slowly, Blake.”
How am I supposed to move slowly when he’s giving me something I’ve spent six years pretending I don’t crave? It was so much easier when I didn’t see him, but all the longing of that night at the Christmas party hits me at once, compounded by countless nights spent fantasizing about a different ending, stroking myself to orgasm with this man’s name on my lips. Again and again and again.