Page 47 of The Protege

I lean closer to him, tucking my feet under myself. “You never say good girl anymore.”

Laszlo frowns and swivels to look at me. “Don’t I?”

I don’t have to hide what I want from Laszlo. I don’t have to call him just Laszlo or Mr. Valmary. I can call him what I’ve heard girls my age call handsome older men. He’s such a daddy. I like the sound of that so much. Such a daddy. Big, strong men with stern faces but sweet smiles, and hands that look like they could caress, could smack, could give pleasure while you sit in their lap. Who would call you sweetheart and baby and little one as you called them daddy. Laszlo already calls me sweetheart. Laszlo is big and strong and stern, and his sweetest smiles are only ever for me. I might be a virgin who’s never been kissed but imagining calling Laszlo daddy makes me so wet and weak.

“No, you don’t. Daddy.”

His face transforms in shock, but I think I see something else flicker in his eyes. Just for a second, and it gives me courage.

“What? Don’t call me that.”

But I liked calling him that. He’s sitting so close to me, his shirt still unbuttoned and I can see his chest, the dark hair there that I want to nuzzle with my nose, run my nails through, press my cheek against. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not your father.”

“I know. I didn’t mean it like that.” I close the foot of space between us, slipping into his lap and pressing my palms against his chest. My knees hug his hips. He feels better than a cello between my legs. I want to hold on tight while he plays me like a musical instrument. Laszlo and his skillful fingers can play anything. His hands go to my waist and I reach up to touch the bristles of his beard, running my nails luxuriously through them, like I’ve always longed to do. Not just for a moment, but for as long as I want, drinking my fill of him. I’ve imagined doing this as I’ve watched him scratch his cheek sleepily in the morning or rub his chin as he pores over a score. He feels as good as I thought he would, soft yet prickly at the same time.

“Do you like that, daddy?”

His eyes are locked on mine and he’s barely breathing. My finger slides over his full lower lip and his mouth parts. Laszlo. My Laszlo. I press my lips to his and it feels so right. I’ve always loved him and he’s always loved me. It took ten long years for me to grow up and for him to see me as a woman. I felt it earlier when he put his arms around me. He knew at last. I’m all grown up.

And he kisses me back. His arms tighten around me and he pulls me close against his chest. I don’t know what I’m doing, but Laszlo does. He deepens the kiss by increments, his tongue flicking out to taste my lips, and I open my mouth to invite him in. My fingers rub through his beard as I kiss him and he bites down gently on my lower lip. Moaning, I arch against him and feel something against my sex. Something hard. He’s hard. He’s hard because of me. He feels the same way I do about him. He wants me. I rub against him, back and forth, and the friction sends wildfire sparks through my body.

He breaks the kiss, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes, and when he speaks his words are roughened with desire. “Good girl,” he murmurs, licking my lip with the tip of his tongue. Those words send as much pleasure through me as rubbing my sex against him does. His hands caress my hips, helping me move back and forth. Coaxing me onwards. I pant against his mouth and my eyes close as I feel an orgasm swiftly approaching. I rub harder against him, my arms locked around his neck. I’m so close. I’m going to come for him. I’m going to show him how much I want him and how good he makes me feel.

But a moment later he pushes me roughly away and I find myself sitting on the cold sofa cushion, his hands gripping my upper arms.

“No. Isabeau. We can’t.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying. He releases me and sits back, pushing a hand through his hair. Powerful emotions are warring in his eyes. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t make each other feel good. I want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel. “What’s wrong, daddy?”

But he doesn’t seem to hear me. My frustrated orgasm is waiting in the wings and I reach out and touch him, try to get back in his lap where we both feel so good, but he grabs my wrist in a painful grip and growls, “Isabeau, what the fuck are you doing?”

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