Page 59 of The Protege

She seems to notice my struggle and puts a hand over mine, the one holding her throat, and her eyes are glittering. “Daddy? Make me feel you. I want to feel you.”

Make me feel you. Oh, yes, I can do that for her. I hold tight to her waist and pull her down roughly on my cock at the same time I thrust my hips up, penetrating her deep and fast. She cries out, her tight flesh yielding to mine. I don’t give her any time to recover. I pull her up and then thrust again, even deeper this time, and then again, watching her with a narrow, heated gaze. Her pussy is clamped around me.

But it’s not enough. I need more.

I turn her and push her against the arm of the sofa and get out from beneath her. She braces her hands while I take hold of her hips from behind and when I penetrate her she cries out. I pound her hard and she presses back, needing every inch of me. She feels like heaven and I’m so greedy for her. To hear each and every one of her whimpering cries. To keep going until I burst.

But I stop and pull out, going down on my knees so I can lick her, lovingly, thoroughly, working her clit with my tongue. Isabeau’s breath comes faster and faster and I know she’s almost at her peak. Almost. I pull away and she cries out in dismay, but then I take my cock into my hand and find her tight sheath and I’m thrusting into her again. I wrap her hair around my hand, to keep her still, keep her aware of me, and so I can enjoy the lovely silken feel of her vulnerability. I want her to come like this but I don’t know if she can, if it’s too soon, if it’s enough for her, and I’m about to tell her to rub her pretty little clit for me when she gives out a long, low moan and I feel her clench around me.

“Fuck, babygirl.” She feels so good rippling along my length that I come a moment later, pressing deeper and holding tight to her hair and waist, feeling myself spill into her, pulsing slowly as we breathe hard.

I gather her up into my arms, holding her tightly. She gives a soft cry and turns to face me, burrowing against my body. I know she feels it too. This need we have for each other, this connection that has withstood so much and grown into something new and wonderful.

I half-carry, half-walk her over to the bed and after I get rid of the condom we lay down together, naked bodies pressed close. Isabeau looks up at me, her fingers trailing through my chest hair. I smile and kiss her softly, feeling so at peace. It’s a strange thing when you’re a man who’s used to driving your own destiny to open your eyes and see the thing you were too afraid to hope for in your arms.

“I’m so grateful to you, Isabeau. For this, and all the years with you. I always got to smile when I was with you.”

Her fingers move up to my brow, smoothing the frown lines there. “You know, for years and years I thought you were the same with everyone as you were with me. I thought everyone knew you as sweet, indulgent, smiling Laszlo.”

I pull her closer, the only person I’ve ever wanted to be sweet with. To indulge. “No, baby. Only with you.”

I remember her so clearly as a child with a pink lunchbox. Half a cheese sandwich, half a marmite sandwich. A bunch of grapes. I used to like making her lunch and holding her hand as we crossed the street. It felt so wonderfully grounding to have her to look out for. It was a simple time, and so very happy.

I want that feeling again. To be able to look out for her and keep her safe.

“Daddy,” she says tentatively. “Will you tell me about that last year that I lived with you? About why you weren’t the same Laszlo with me anymore?”

I don’t want to tell her, because I’m not proud of any of it. But I have to. “I could feel you slipping away from me and I hated that, but at the same time I knew I had to let you go. That it wasn’t right, the way I felt about you. How possessive I felt, and how viciously pleased I was that you didn’t want to date anyone. I’d had you to myself since you were eight but I was going to have to watch someone else take you from me.”

She presses her soft, plush lips against my mouth. “No one was ever going to take me from you, Laszlo.”

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