Saying it out loud made my stomach twist with a mix of want and embarrassment. Not because it was wrong—I'd stopped believing that—but because it feltraw. Exposing a need that deep, that intimate, was more terrifying than any confession.
Ezra’s expression didn’t change. “Is that what you need right now?”
"Yes," I said. No hesitation this time. "It quiets everything. I don’t know why exactly. But it helps."
I swallowed. “Please.”
He waited. Not with judgment, but presence. Holding the silence open so I could step into it willingly. He wanted me toown it, to name what I needed without apology or shame. My body answered first, heat blooming low in my gut, breath catching, cock stirring against the seam of my jeans. But my voice followed.
"Can I suck on you, Daddy?" The word slipped out with startling ease. Not a game, not a joke—just the truest name for the man who made me feel safe enough to fall apart and still be whole.
"Come," Ezra said, taking my hand. He led me to a leather chaise in the corner of the studio, positioning himself against the raised back. He patted the space beside him. "Here. You'll be more comfortable."
The invitation was simple, but it held weight. Permission. Safety. A choice.
I settled next to him, then shifted to drape myself across his lap, my head resting against his chest. The position felt natural, familiar. As if I were always meant to be here.
Ezra unbuttoned his shirt, one button at a time, revealing inch by inch the chest I'd explored so thoroughly the night before. The skin around his nipples looked flushed, a little swollen, faintly bruised. My stomach clenched.
“Did I... hurt you?” The question slipped out before I could stop it, low and hoarse with guilt.
Ezra looked down at me, amused. “You did,” he said simply. “But I don’t mind hurting for you.”
That undid me.
I leaned in slowly, giving him time to stop me—but he didn’t. My mouth found his chest again, not with desperation this time, but care. I brushed my lips over his skin, soft and reverent. I tasted salt, warmth, him.
My tongue circled one nipple lightly, avoiding pressure. He inhaled sharply, chest rising beneath my cheek. I kept going, teasing the sensitive skin with careful flicks and slow licks until it pebbled under my tongue.
I wasn’t nursing. I wasn’t clinging. I was worshipping.
His fingers threaded through my hair, not to guide but to ground. The rhythm of my tongue deepened, just enough to make him breathe heavier. My hand slid to his thigh, squeezing gently.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Show me how good it feels to take your time.”
I kissed lower, tracing the edge of his ribcage with my lips, tongue flicking lightly against the line where muscle met bone. His body twitched under me, breath hitching.
“Easy,” I whispered, not sure if I was telling him or myself.
He chuckled, low and pleased. “That’s new.”
“What is?”
“You, taking your time.”
I smiled against his skin, feeling bold and shy at once. “I want to please you.”
Ezra’s fingers tightened in my hair—not demanding, just present. “Oh, my sweet boy… You do.”
I kept going, letting sensation guide me. The way his skin warmed beneath my tongue. The way his nipple twitched when I barely grazed it with my teeth. I’d thought this act was only about comfort before, but I understood now. It was also about power. About trust. About letting myselfwantand be wanted in return.
When I finally drew back, his chest glistened with spit and the beginnings of arousal. His eyes were dark and heavy-lidded, lips parted.
“Good boy,” he murmured.
My whole body flushed. My fingers found his belt buckle, hesitating there. I looked up and licked the sensitive bud again, seeking permission.
"Not yet," he said, removing my hand gently but firmly. "First, you learn to receive. Then you learn to give."
