I woke to the faint aroma of coffee weaving through the house, a warm thread tugging me from sleep. The morning light bled soft and golden through the curtains, dusting the room in a hazy glow. It was my birthday. I stretched slowly, muscles uncoiling, wondering what Lily had planned. My hand grazed her empty pillow and found a folded note instead. I snatched it up, pulse already ticking faster, and unfolded her neat, curling script.

"Happy birthday! Today, I'm yours to take any time, anywhere in the house…" The words hit like a match to dry grass—heat flared low in my gut, spreading fast. My breath caught as I reread it, fingers tightening on the paper. After all those late-night whispers about free use, her shy hesitations, those timid little "maybe someday." I was out of bed in seconds, bare feet hitting the floor, needing her now.

She was in the kitchen, a vision in that pink nightgown I couldn't get enough of—silk so thin it clung like a lover's breath, tracing her curves, teasing the dip of her waist and the swell of her hips. Her long brown curls tumbled loose, a ribbon barely taming them, catching the sunlight in a shimmer of gold and amber. She hummed softly, a nervous little melody, stirring something on the stove—oblivious to me standing there, drinking her in. The scent of butter and sugar mingled with her jasmine perfume, sweet and dizzying, pulling me closer. When we started dating, she was shy, barely able to voice her wants—now, she was offering herself up like this. My chest ached with it, a mix of hunger and something softer, protective, like I'd shield her even as I unraveled her.

I moved silently across the tile and slid my arms around her waist, hands greedy for the heat of her skin through that flimsy fabric. She gasped—a quick, sharp sound that jolted straight to my cock—then melted back into me, soft and yielding. Her warmth seeped into my chest, her curls brushing my jaw, tickling like a whisper. I grinned, pride swelling hot and thick. My princess, so eager, so trusting.

"Good morning, Daddy," she murmured, voice trembling, soft as a feather's edge.

"Good morning, princess." I pressed my lips to her neck, right on that little birthmark—a crescent moon that always made her shiver. She didn't disappoint; a faint moan slipped out, her body quaking as my hands roamed her hips, claiming every inch I could reach. "I love my gift."

She bit her lip—her shy tell—and nodded, hazel eyes flicking up to mine before darting away, lashes fluttering. "I… I thought you'd like it. I wanted to try. For you."

I tightened my hold, letting her feel me—hard, thick, pressed against her ass—showing her exactly how much I liked it. "You sure?" I growled low, breath hot against her ear, fingers inching up to graze the soft curve under her breasts, testing her.

"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, voice shaking but assured, "I—I wasn't sure if it'd be enough."

"Enough?" I pressed myself harder against her, cock straining through my boxers, her breath hitching like she could feel me splitting her open already. "It's perfect." My hands burned to rip that nightgown off, pin her to the counter, and sink into her until she screamed—but no. I wanted her desperate. Trembling. Begging. She loved the tease, thrived on being pushed to the edge, and I'd drag her there all damn day until she broke.

Cruel? Maybe. But her little whimpers, the way she'd squirm—she fucking lived for it, and I knew it.

I let my hands wander, splaying wide over her hips, digging in just enough to mark her as mine. Her breath sped up, a soft whine escaping as she pressed back, hips rocking subtle but needy. I smirked and stepped away, leaving her grasping at the air. She spun around, eyes wide and searching—hazel pools flickering with confusion, want, a silent, please. Her cheeks bloomed pink, and she tucked a curl behind her ear, fingers trembling.

"Daddy, please…" Her voice was a fragile thread, barely there, quivering with need.

I leaned in and kissed her forehead, lips lingering on her fever-warm skin. "Thank you, princess. I'm gonna savor you all day. But first—breakfast." Her breath snagged, a tiny gasp, and she nodded, returning to the stove. Her hands shook as she gripped the spatula, scraping loudly against the pan.

I stayed close, looming behind her, watching her unravel under my shadow. That nightgown hugged her like a tease, shifting with every nervous twitch, her curls swaying like they were begging me to grab them. She felt me there—I could tell from the stiff way she held herself, her chest's uneven rise and fall. Every second I didn't touch her wound her tighter, and I fucking loved it—owning her without even laying a hand on her.

"I—I made your favorite," she stammered, voice cracking, barely holding it together.

I stepped closer, not touching, letting her sense me—my heat, my breath. Her hands faltered, the spatula jerking hard against the pan. I eased back, watched her plate the food with unsteady fingers, then took my plate from her, brushing her skin deliberately—electric, fleeting. I pulled her chair out and guided her down with a firm hand on her shoulder, a quiet claim she couldn't miss.

As she sat, I leaned in, lips grazing her ear. "You're all mine," I said, voice a low rumble, a vow.

She shivered, nodding fast. "Yes, Daddy."

I sat across from her, but I didn't let her settle. My foot nudged hers under the table, a slow, constant press—keeping her tethered, on edge. She shifted, the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet, a soft breath slipping out. Her eyes flicked to mine—wide, pleading—then away. Breakfast was just the start—I'd have her begging by noon, every inch of her screaming for me.

Lily was on the couch, curled up with one of those dirty books she loved—pages worn thin, the kind that turned her cheeks pink and set her squirming. I'd caught her reading it before, whispering lines about rough hands and whispered commands, her breath hitching like she could feel it. After this morning—knowing I could take her anytime, anywhere—she had to be soaked. She was tucked in tight, legs folded under her, sunlight slicing through the window to set her curls ablaze—gold and honey spilling over her shoulders. That nightgown had ridden up, bunched around her thighs like a crumpled secret, baring the pale curve of her skin. She looked peaceful, almost innocent.

I crossed the room, silent, snatched the book from her hands, and tossed it aside. Her eyes snapped up—hazel and startled, uncertainty flickering—until my mouth crashed into hers, hard and greedy, tongue diving in to taste her. She fisted my shirt, yanking me down, melting back into the cushions, her body arching up like she was offering herself on an altar. My hands shoved up her nightgown, fabric catching rough under my palms, peeling it back—her skin was fever-hot, flushed pink. No panties. My fingers grazed lower, finding her slick and swollen, her pulse thudding under my touch like a trapped heartbeat. Her breath sliced the air, sharp and ragged, her grip on my shirt turning brutal—knuckles white, nails digging in.

Her legs fell open, hips tilting up, a silent scream for more—but I held back. She jerked, chasing my fingers, grinding into nothing as I kept them ghosting, teasing, barely there.

"Please, Daddy," she rasped, voice splintered between kisses, nails clawing my shoulders like she'd shatter without me. "Please…" That broken plea nearly snapped my control, but I drank it in—her need was too sweet, too perfect to end yet.

I dipped my head, lips brushing her neck, finding that birthmark that made her quake. My hands dragged the nightgown higher, past her stomach, settling on her breasts—squeezing until her eyes fluttered shut, rolling back, moans spilling out like jagged music. Her hips rocked, mindless, hunting friction I wouldn't give. I slid lower, lips grazing her skin—slow, torturous—kissing her breasts, sucking until her nipples peaked, hard and aching under my tongue.

"Fuck…" she gasped, hands twitching, half-grabbing me, half-clutching the couch, her body trembling like it might break.

I kept going, lips tracing her waist, brushing soft, deliberate kisses along her pelvic bone—inches from where she burned. Her hips bucked, raw need stripping her bare—just whines and moans now, each one a fractured beg. I pulled back, letting her pant, her eyes locking on mine—wide, glassy, drowning in want. She didn't know how to ask, but she tried—hands settling on my head, nudging me toward her clit with a shy, desperate push that twisted something wild in my chest.

Her whimpers carved me open—watching her fall apart, thighs shaking, me hovering there, not giving in, when every nerve in me screamed to devour her. I was teetering, too close to losing it—if I went further, I'd be gone, buried in her until we both broke. But I couldn't let her see that. If she knew how she was wrecking me, she'd push harder, turn it against me. I wouldn't give up that power—not until she begged.

I clawed back control, smirked, and pressed slow kisses to her thighs—first one, then the other. "Not yet, princess," I purred, voice steady, masking the storm inside.

She panted, frustration etching sharp lines across her flushed face, her hand clamping mine like she could force me to stay. I saw it in her eyes—wanting to scream for it, too shy to try. I kissed her deep, hands roaming her curves, and whispered, "You're doing so good, princess."

Her tension melted, dissolving under my praise like sugar in rain. Her gaze softened, stubborn and bright—she wanted to please me, and that need outshone her body's cries. "I—I am?" she breathed, her voice tiny, her eyes searching for more.

"So good," I said, brushing a damp curl from her cheek, thumb lingering. Her hand fell limp, fingers curling in, her body yielding—soft, waiting—for me to decide.

After the couch, my pulse was a war drum, body coiled tight from her gasps and writhing. I needed a cold shower to keep from losing it, so I left her there, breathless, and ducked into the bathroom. The water stung, icy needles on my skin, but it barely touched the heat she'd stoked. I stepped out, towel slung low, and the house was too still. I knew where she'd gone.

I pushed the bedroom door open, and there she was—curled on the bed, back to me, drifting toward sleep. She'd ditched the nightgown for my old shirt, the fabric swallowing her, hem riding up to bare her thighs and the curve of her ass—no panties, a deliberate taunt. She knew I'd find her like this, laid out all soft and innocent, daring me to take her. My cock twitched under the towel, already hard again. She was playing me, and I'd play right back.

Her breathing was slow, shallow, teetering on the edge of dreams. She looked sweet—curls fanned across the pillow, lips parted—like she hadn't just set me on fire. I dropped the towel and climbed in behind her, the mattress creaking under me. She stirred, a sleepy hum slipping out as I slid an arm around her waist, pulling her tight against me. Her warmth sank into my chest. The shirt was soft and worn, smelling of jasmine, making my head swim.

I kissed her neck, targeting that birthmark, and she sighed, hand drifting back to rest on my thigh—light, trusting. She was fading, but I couldn't let it end there. My cock nudged between her thighs, sliding against her slick heat—she was drenched, coating me, searing my skin. A groan rumbled low in my throat, and she tensed, waking just enough to feel me.

I eased inside, slow, shallow—just the tip—her walls fluttering, gripping me tight. A breathy moan spilled from her, hips twitching. I gave her a few teasing thrusts—barely anything. She rocked back, chasing more, but I pulled out, leaving her empty. Her hand shot back, grasping air, a sharp whimper breaking free, breath ragged.

"Daddy!" she whined, voice cracking into a muffled cry, face buried in the pillow—frustration, raw and trembling, like she might sob. She wouldn't look at me, hiding in the fabric, her body shaking.

I leaned in, lips brushing her ear. "Sleep, princess," I whispered, my voice calm and controlling. "You'll need your energy." I kissed her temple, feeling her shudder, then pulled back. She was still gasping, needy, and wrecked. I slid out, grabbed clothes, and left her to wrestle with the ache.

I was in the kitchen, trying to focus on lunch. The knife cut through tomatoes—juice pooling red and slick, but my head was stuck on her earlier gasps. Then I heard her—soft, hesitant steps on the tile, so timid they barely broke the silence. She stepped into view, and my chest seized. Her cheeks were flushed deep pink, hands pressed tight between her thighs, squeezing like she could hold in the desperation leaking out.

"You're wet for me, aren't you?" I said, voice low, teasing, the second her hazel eyes hit mine.

Her flush deepened, and she nodded—quick, jerky—lips parting, no sound, just a tremble as her hands pressed harder.

"What do you want?" I stepped closer, smirking, watching her shake under my gaze.

"I—I need you…" she whispered, gaze dropping, too shy to hold mine.

"Be specific," I pressed, leaning in, voice a taunt. She was cracking—I could feel it, see it in her trembling knees.

No words—just her hands grabbing the shirt's hem, yanking it off, baring herself. Her skin caught the sunlight, and every curve was screaming for something. She closed the gap, hand darting to my cock through my sweatpants, gripping hard—bold, desperate. Her eyes met mine—wide, pleading—but this wasn't for her. She wasn't begging for release; she was begging to give.

"Please…" she breathed, voice soft, heavy, fingers tightening.

I nodded, stunned silent, and she dropped to her knees on the cold tile. She tugged my pants and boxers down fast, pausing to look up—eyes searching, needing my okay. My hands threaded through her curls, and that was it—she took me in, deep, fast, throat tightening as she gagged but kept going. Her hands clamped my thighs, nails biting, pulling me closer, her desperation spilling out in every wet, eager sound like she'd break herself to break me.

"Fuck… I'm close," I panted, expecting her to pull back. She didn't—went faster, lips tight, hands yanking me deeper, begging for it without words. I came hard, a groan tearing out, knees buckling—I gripped the counter, wood biting my palms. She swallowed what she could, the rest dripping down her chin, streaking her chest.

I looked at her—messy, wrecked, lips swollen, face glistening. "God, you're such a pretty little slut when you're needy," I said, the words slipping out, raw and true.

I froze—shit, had I gone too far? But her eyes lit up, not hurt—pride. A shaky smile broke across her lips. "R—really?" she asked, voice small, glowing.

Relief hit me, and I grinned, bending to kiss her forehead. "Yeah, my pretty little slut," I said, soft but possessive. She beamed, radiant, dazed—like my words wiped away her need, leaving only the warmth of my claim.