Page 65 of Daddies Dark Desires (Forbidden Fantasies)

The soft massaging of his fingers works up my waist, under my pajama top, and finds the bare skin around my ribs.

He glances down to lift the edge and drag both thumbs down my stomach. Oliver’s nostrils flare.

Every small touch takes forever, and it’s driving me crazy.

I can’t hold myself back. My palms run over his shoulders, tight but wide enough to eclipse me. When I run my fingers into his hair, his head tips back and elongates his throat. I can’t help but bend and plant kisses there.

“Harper.” His voice is low, yearning but dark, and my back hits the mattress a second later.

Oliver hovers above me, pushing my shirt up to free my breasts. I expect his mouth on my skin, but that’s not what happens.

One hand traipses between us, down my stomach to tug at the waistband of my shorts before he rubs me over them. Tension runs up his arm and his jaw clenches as I squirm under him.

It’s impossible to make him snap. I’ve been trying, but I have no control over the speed he moves. The way he likes to deny me but still overload me with pleasure. God, the mere thought of him making me come has me moaning.

He builds me in increments until I’m panting and grinding against his hand. His hand draws back as I get close, pleasure a hot pool in my center.

Peeling me out of my shorts, he handles me delicately, like a doll, and it’s torture not to rush him.

But when my fingers betray me and tug at the hem of his shirt, he lets me tear it up his body and strips out of it for me. God, the long, lean muscles of his body is far sexier than I imagined.

His abs bunch under my touch, a thin line of hair trailing down from his navel to his pants, which are bent out of shape.

I cup his hard length in my hand, wanting him to watch me give him pleasure. Oliver lets out a shuttering breath, then he tugs harder at my top, pulling my touch away from him and lifting my hands above my head and tangling them in the straps.

Oh god, yes.

I’m so wet that moisture spreads when I rub my thighs together.

And Oliver observes all of it. It’s driving me crazy.

Those long fingers traipse over my flesh, bringing goosebumps to my skin in their wake until every muscle of mine is taut with unspent energy. I can’t keep still, searching for his touch.

He teases me with light touches until I finally beg, “Please, Oliver. Touch me, or I’ll die.”

A small curve quirks at the edge of his mouth—the closest thing to a smile I’ve ever seen on him. And he presses his hand flat against my belly, smoothing over my hip and thigh before sliding between them to cup me fully.

Yes. Finally.

His strokes start small, but as I spread my knees apart, he digs a little deeper. He probes me gently until he slides a finger into me, then two, and his thrusts are intense and full of intent.

Oliver’s attention shifts from my core to my face.

I’m so close that I can’t hold anything back from him—mouth parted, gasping moans falling out, body rolling and searching for the orgasm he’s threatening me with.

“Please.” I have no qualms over begging him, but the small shift in his pupils reads danger.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Then, his fingers slide away, and I’m left whimpering and wanting.

God, this man has the patience of a saint.

24

OLIVER

Harper is perfection. She wants to grab for more. Beg for more. But she takes what I want to give her without complaint.