Page 46 of His Holy Chaos

"Come here," he says, and his voice drops into that register that makes my knees feel like they're made of water. I step closer, and he hooks a finger into the waistband of my boxers, tugging them down. The cage is right there, and my cock is straining against it so hard it almost hurts.

His fingers are warm when they find the lock. He doesn't rush. He never rushes, no matter how much I want him to. He turns the key with a soft click, and then the cage comes apart in his hands, piece by piece, and the relief of it, the sudden freedom, makes me gasp.

"Easy," he murmurs, and his hand wraps around me before I can even breathe.

I'm already hard. Painfully, obscenely hard, and the first stroke of his thumb along the underside makes my vision blur at the edges. He's watching my face with those blue eyes, reading me.

"Look at you," he says. "So desperate already."

"I've been locked for two days, Daddy," I manage, and my voice comes out wrecked already.

"I know exactly how long it's been, and you're still staying locked for three more." His grip tightens, just enough, and he gives me one long, slow stroke that pulls a sound out of me I didn't know I could make. "I've been counting too."

His other hand finds the back of my neck, gripping firmly, grounding me, and he pulls me closer. I can smell his cologne. He works me slowly, maddeningly, his thumb circling the head on every upstroke, spreading the wetness that's already leaking from me. My hips jerk forward involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on my neck in warning.

"Stay still."

"I can't…!"

"You can. You will."

I bite my lip and force my body into stillness, trembling with the effort. He rewards me with a faster stroke, then another, building a rhythm that has my thighs shaking.

Then he stops.

I nearly scream.

"Turn around," he says. "Bend over the desk."

I move so fast I almost trip over my own boxers pooled at my ankles. I hear the drawer slide open. His slicked fingers find me, and the first one slides in with an ease that makes him hum approvingly. "You've been good," he observes, working me open. "Kept yourself ready for me."

"Always," I breathe. He asked me to finger myself every day so he could use me whenever he wanted. How could I not oblige?

A second finger, and I arch my back, pressing into his hand. He curves them just right. He knows my body almost better than I do.

"Please," I whisper. "Please, Daddy, I need you."

He withdraws his fingers, and I hear the sound of his belt, the slide of his zipper, and then the thick pressure of him pressing against me. He enters me slowly, one steady push that fills me completely. His hands settle on my hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of my spine, and he holds there, buried to the hilt, letting me adjust.

"Breathe," he reminds me, and I realize I've been holding my breath.

I exhale in a shuddering rush, and he begins to move.

It's not gentle. It's not too rough either. His hand slides around to grip my cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation is so overwhelming that tears prick the corners of my eyes. If he doesn’t let me cum, I don’t know what I’ll do.

"You've been so good for me lately," he says, and his voice is rougher now, the controlled edge fraying just slightly. That's how I know he's close. "Coming to me when you need it instead of destroying yourself."

"I'm trying," I gasp. "I'm trying to be good."

"I know you are." He leans forward, his chest pressing against my back, his beard scratching against my shoulder, and his lips brush my ear. "That's why I'm going to let you come."

The words hit me like an electric shock. "Really?"

"Really. You earned it, puppy."

A sob tears out of my throat. Gratitude, relief, something bigger and more terrifying that I don't have a name for, and his hand tightens on me, stroking faster, his hips snapping harder, and I'm right there at the edge, the edge I've been teetering on for two agonizing days.

"Come for me," he says, and it's not a suggestion. It's a command.