Page 106 of Dark King Daddy

“I want to enact one item from the yes column,” I said. “I want to kneel for you. I want to worship your cock.”

He confirmed: “You expect no repayment for this. No return. No obligation.”

“None.”

Daniil looked at me. The fire was behind him. The signed agreement was on the table. The word Daddy was in the room and had been there all evening, and now it was not a negotiation. It was a living thing between us.

“Kneel, Ksyusha.”

I stood. I walked around the low table. I knelt.

The carpet was thick and soft beneath my knees. The silk of my trousers pressed against my calves. I settled—weight even, back straight, my hands resting on my thighs. I looked up at him.

He was above me. Not because he stood. He was still seated. But the angle—my knees on the floor, his body in the chair, his eyes looking down into mine—created the geometry I had wanted. Submission as offering. I had chosen this position. I had asked for it. He had given me the word, and I had taken it, and the taking was the point.

I reached for him.

My hands found his belt. The leather was warm. The buckle was heavy brass—I felt the weight of it as I unfastened it, the smooth slide of the tongue through the prong. I drew the belt open. I unbuttoned his trousers. I eased the zipper down, tooth by tooth, the sound small and precise in the quiet room.

He was hard beneath the fabric. I could see the huge shape of him, the tension of his cock against the cotton of his briefs. I drew the waistband down. He lifted his hips—a small, controlled movement, the only assistance he offered—and I freed him.

I looked up. His eyes were on mine. His hands rested on the arms of the chair. He did not guide me. He did not push me. He watched.

I wrapped my hand around him. The heat of his cock against my palm sent a pulse of arousal through me so sharp that I inhaled. I held still. Let the sensation settle. Then I moved—slowly, my fist closing around the base, my thumb tracing the length of him with enough pressure to feel every detail.

I leaned forward. I placed my mouth on him.

The sound he made was small. A controlled exhale, forced through his nose, the sound of a man whose discipline was being tested by something softer than discipline could resist. I took him into my mouth—slowly, inch by inch, my tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock, my lips sealed around the shaft. The taste of him was salt and skin and warmth.

I moved with deliberate slowness. My hand followed my mouth—fist and lips in tandem, a rhythm I controlled, each stroke measured, each withdrawal complete enough that I could look up and see his face before taking him again.

His composure held. But it thinned. I watched it thin with each stroke—the jaw tightening, the fingers pressing into the leather armrest, the ice-blue eyes going darker as the pleasure built. I was giving him this. My hands. My mouth. My willingness to kneel and serve and focus entirely on his body. And the giving was not sacrifice. It was desire. My desire. I was wet between my legs, the ache building with each stroke of my mouth on his cock, and the ache was not frustration, it was the specific, concentrated arousal of a woman doing exactly what she wanted to do.

I lifted my head. I took his right hand from the arm of the chair. I placed it in my hair.

He understood. His fingers closed. His hand in my hair anchored me. I moaned around him—low, involuntary, the vibration traveling through my lips into his body—and his fingers tightened.

Fuck, he was so big.

Fuck, he was so perfect.

I took him deeper. Tasted him, salt and sweet on my tongue.

My hand worked the base while my mouth worked the rest, and his hips shifted—a small, involuntary thrust, the first loss of composure I had seen from him all evening. I felt it. I felt the moment his control broke—not shattered, not abandoned, but bent, the way steel bends before it gives. His hand in my hair tightened. His breath changed. His body tensed beneath my hands.

He came with my name in his mouth.

Not Ksenia. Not Orlova. “Ksyusha.” The word broken in half, the first syllable stretched, the second swallowed. I held him in my mouth and took it—the warmth, the pulse, the sound of my name in a voice stripped of everything but need.

I stayed where I was. I did not pull away. I held him until the tension left his body and his hand loosened in my hair and his breathing slowed.

Then I sat back on my heels.

Daniil looked at me. His face was flushed. His eyes were dark. The composure was returning, but slowly, and the seams where it met the rawness were visible.

He stood. He crossed the room to the side table where the water sat. He poured a glass. He brought it back and held it out to me.

“Drink.”