Daddy's First Lesson novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Lesson One

Blindfolded and held down, Joss comes on Abram's mouth. Her homework is to draw him from memory.

I texted him five days in a row to say I was inside.

He answered each time with the same word: Good.

On Saturday I stood outside the green door at eleven and pressed the bell before I could change my mind.

Abram didn't say hello.

He took my coat, looked at my face, and said, "Behind the curtain."

The room behind it was small and warm, with a low bed covered in dark sheets, a leather chair, and a single lamp.

"Dress off," he said. "Leave the rest."

I stood very still.

I wore a size eighteen and had been told, kindly, by a man who loved me, to find clothes that were more forgiving.

"Joss."

"I'm not what you're used to."

"I don't know what you think I'm used to." He stepped close.

"I think you're soft and warm, and you've been apologizing for it since you were twelve. Take it off."

I pulled the dress over my head.

I stood there in my bra and underwear with my arms crossed over my stomach.

"Arms down."

They fell to my sides.

His eyes went over me slowly, my hips, my thighs, the full curve of my breasts, and he took his time.

"Look what you've been hiding," he said, low.

My knees almost gave.

He took a strip of black silk from the drawer and held it up.

"This goes over your eyes. Do you want it?"

"Yes."

"Turn around."

The silk went over my eyes, and the dark was total.

His hands found my shoulders, and I heard my own breath loud in the room.

"Lie back."

He guided me down onto the sheets, and the bed was cool against my back.

Then his big hands took both of my wrists and lifted them above my head.

He pinned them there with one hand.

"You said you wanted to be held until you stopped apologizing," Abram said, close to my ear. "So say it. Sorry. Say it for me."

"Sorry," I whispered.

"Again."

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm..."

"Good. Keep going."

His other hand slid down my side, slow, and the bra strap fell off my shoulder.

I kept saying sorry until the word turned into a gasp when his palm closed over my breast.

His thumb pulled across my nipple through the lace, once, twice.

"Stop saying it," he said.

I stopped.

My wrists were held fast and I couldn't have gotten loose if I tried, and that was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

He took the bra off.

I heard the dry sound of it hitting the floor, and then his mouth came down on my nipple, hot and wet, and I arched off the bed.

"Oh," I said, "oh, God."

"Quiet," he said against my skin. "I want to hear exactly what I'm doing to you, and I can't if you're loud."

I bit my lip.

His mouth went lower, over my ribs and my soft stomach, and he kissed every inch of it.

I tried to tuck it away from him.

His hand closed harder on my wrists.

"No hiding."

His fingers hooked into my underwear and pulled them down my legs.

I felt air on my skin, then his hands on my knees, spreading them wide.

"Look at you," Abram said. His voice had gone rough. "You're soaked, Joss."

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Please put your mouth on me."

"Say it properly."

My face burned under the silk.

"Please eat my pussy."

He made a low sound, and then his mouth was on me.

His tongue dragged flat and slow up the whole length of me, and I cried out.

He found my clit and circled it, and my hips lifted off the bed.

He put one arm over my thighs and pinned me down, and the weight of it made me wetter.

I couldn't see.

I couldn't move my hands.

All I had was his mouth and his tongue.

I had the scrape of his stubble on my inner thighs.

I had the sound of him groaning against me.

"You taste better than I thought you would," he said into me, and I nearly sobbed.

He slid two thick fingers inside me, and curled them forward.

My whole body locked.

"Abram, I'm going to, I can't..."

"You can. Come for me."

His mouth closed over my clit and he sucked, and the fingers pressed up inside me, and I broke.

I came screaming his name into the dark, my back bowed.

He didn't stop until I was shaking and begging him to.

He let go of my wrists.

For a moment I lay there, panting, with the silk still over my eyes.

Then his palm cupped my cheek.

"Did you apologize once after I told you to stop?" he asked.

"No."

"You did it right, Joss."

The tears came before I could stop them, and they soaked into the silk.

He pulled the blindfold off carefully and wiped my face with his thumb.

I looked up at him.

His mouth was wet and his pupils were wide.

The hard line of him against his trousers told me what it had cost him to stop.

"Aren't you..." I began.

"Not tonight." He pulled the sheet over me. "Six Saturdays. We're not rushing the list."

"What's on the list?"

"Everything you drew."

He stood and went to the drawer.

He took out a small black notebook and put it in my hands.

"Homework," he said. "Draw me from memory. Not my hands this time. My face."

I held the notebook against my chest.

I had drawn hands for a year because I couldn't stand to look at the men attached to them.

"I don't know if I can draw your face," I said.

"That's why it's homework."

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