C/W: semi-graphic depictions of self-harm
Christine felt like the world was falling apart around her.
She kind of always felt it to some degree. Like everything in her life was so precariously stacked that all it would take was the gentlest tap at the bottom to get the entire thing to fall over.
It was falling over, and she wasn't sure why.
It started when she was sent home early from her shift due to a particularly ridiculous customer complaint which was bad enough because she wasn't even sure if she had a job or not anymore.
It really started to crumble when she leafed through the stack of mail on her table that she had been ignoring for a week.
Important, the envelope boasted in pink text. She felt her heart sink into her stomach as she opened it.
And it was exactly what she thought it was. A shut-off notice. She almost never paid on time - it was nearly impossible - but so long as she was only around a month behind she typically found that the consequences weren't too terribly severe.
Christine was fully aware that her reactions tended closer to doomsday than rational, and she really did try to keep a handle on it. Things would always be better if she could just take a breath and think for ten seconds instead of going into a full panic spiral - she knew that. She was completely cognizant of the fact that she was out of control, and it only made her feel that much more helpless when the familiar catch started in her chest.
"You can call in the morning, Christine," she told herself, trying to work through the shake in her voice. "It says it right in the letter. Payment plans. You should have just gone ahead and gotten on one to begin with. It'll be okay."
It was only the gas, anyway. Spring was settling in and the average temperature was on the rise. She could survive out of the microwave for a little while. She hardly ever used the stove anyway, except to give herself a little extra heat when the furnace hiccuped. It would be fine. Just fine.
Except that it wouldn't. Because the water would be cold. It wasn't like she could boil it when the stove was out, too.
It was how it always started. Some stupid little trip that sent her headfirst down every stair. She couldn't think. She couldn't breathe. And she knew, from experience, that it would only get worse because the harder she tried to shut it out, the quicker her thoughts would race.
It wasn't ever really a rational thought. There was no active thought behind it whenever she wandered into that little bathroom and reached for the razor blade with trembling fingers. The only thought that she ever really had was that she needed to be able to breathe, and it was the only thing she found that made it possible.
If there was rational thought behind it, she would have said that it was stupid. That even though it shortened the spiraling anxiety attacks, it led to weeks of discomfort. She was well aware of risks like infection and the blatant truth was that it really didn't ever fix anything at all. It only made it worse.
That was what her rational mind would say, but it wasn't ever her rational mind that accompanied her, gasping on the bathroom floor.
She held her phone in one hand and the thin razor blade in the other, staring at them both.
What good would calling him do when she couldn't even catch enough of a breath to say hello?
She set the phone aside and unbuttoned her pants, pushing them out of the way.
Her fingers trembled but the sting of it was exactly what she sought; she took a shaky breath, her head falling back against the wall.
It still wasn't quite right. She could actually feel her lungs expand but they seemed to tremble under the effort.
She moved down an inch, her fingers just a little more steady as she dragged the blade against the outside of her thigh.
The blade clattered against the busted tile and she lifted her hand, staring at the red blood staining the tips of her fingers.
It was the first time that she could ever remember having an immediate sense of regret. She could breathe, but she felt tears gathering on her eyelids as she rubbed her thumb against her forefinger and watched the blood peel away like damp paint.
She should have called him. She should have because, as she looked down at the almost perfectly even wounds and the small ruby pool gathering in the dip of the tile, she realized that she wouldn't be able to hide it from him anyway.
She sniffed and wiped at her warm cheeks with her clean hand, leaning forward to reach for the bottle of rubbing alcohol she stashed under the sink.
Christine sat in front of the laptop, sniffing while she played with her sleeve, staring straight down at her lap.
"Tell me about work, sweetheart."
His voice was soft. He had been trying, for the better part of ten minutes, to coax anything out of her at all.
She wasn't sure why that was what tipped her over the edge.
She was sure that she had cried in front of him before, but it had never been anything like this. She gasped. She could feel the way that her shoulders shook; she could feel the terrible heat in her cheeks. It wasn't crying, it was a full-on breakdown and all he was able to do was watch her through her shitty webcam.
"Christine," he said, his voice just a bit more serious. "Tell me what happened."
She forced herself to look at him; she had to look at him or she would look at herself in the tiny box in the corner and she would lose every nerve she had left. She tried to take a slow breath and rubbed under her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. "I c-ut," she confessed, the words smaller than she meant for them to be.
The look on his face was enough to make her tears start all over again; she wanted to unplug the power cord of her laptop. She wanted to fall face-first into her pillow and stay there until she actually vanished.
Instead she fidgeted with her sleeve, staring down at her lap so that she wouldn't have to see the terrible disappointment in his eyes.
"When?" he finally asked, the question soft.
She bit the inside of her tip, twisting her thumb through a hole in her sleeve. "A few hours ago," she mumbled to her lap.
"A few hours ago," he echoed gently. "Did it help?"
"Not really," she admitted in a gasp.
"I want you to look at me, princess."
So she forced herself to, hating the fact that she couldn't get her lip to stop trembling.
"You're scared," he said softly, leaning forward against his desk. "What are you afraid of?"
She crossed her arms tightly, hugging herself. "I don't want you to be mad at me, Daddy," she confessed.
"I'm not mad at you," he said easily, looking at her closely. "It's very brave of you to tell me. Will you tell me why you did it?"
"It was just a panic attack," she mumbled.
He shifted in his seat. "You have a lot of those, don't you?"
His words were soft and she forced herself to take a breath, brushing away the remnants of her tears with her sleeve. "Yeah," she admitted weakly.
"How many have you had since you got home, princess?"
She frowned, shrugging one shoulder. "A few," she admitted weakly. "They don't always get that bad."
He was frowning, too, and she hated it. "Did you have any when you were here?"
"Only on the plane," she answered softly.
"On the way here or on the way home?"
Christine swallowed hard, forcing herself not to look away from him. "Home," she whispered.
He was the one to look away, down at his own hand on the edge of his desk and she wasn't sure what to make of it. "When do you get home from class tomorrow, princess?"
She frowned. "Four thirty, Daddy," she answered. "Unless the bus is late. Then sometimes not till five."
"Five, then," he said, finally looking at her again. "I want you to tell me about something good that happened this week, princess."
Four thirty came and went.
So did five.
Christine sat on her couch, staring blankly at the television. She wasn't really even sure what she was watching; it was some sort of talk show, but she hadn't been following along at all. She usually didn't. Sometimes she just needed to hear another voice in her apartment. She preferred the mindless chatter to her neighbor's yelling.
She texted him, like she did every day, to let him know that she had safely made it home. That was forty-five minutes before and even though the little "read" icon had a checkmark, he hadn't responded.
Christine wasn't sure if he had ever simply not responded.
Typically she tried her hardest to resist the urge to be particularly needy. She was fully aware that she was damaged goods. She knew, rationally, that he would answer her when he could. It didn't stop the slight twist of anxiety.
She needed too much, and she tried to pretend she didn't. Part of her wondered if she could fix it just by pretending she didn't for long enough.
She was squinting at the screen of her phone, trying to make out the third digit in the time between the cracks of her screen, when someone knocked on her door.
It was weird, because no one knocked. The only person that ever came over was Meg and she had a key. Christine set up her deliveries to be held at the front desk because she had learned very quickly that packages left in the hallway had a tendency to vanish.
No one knocked and she approached the door cautiously, reaching for the chain.
There was another knock, and she slid the chain into place, licking her dry lips nervously. There was no peephole, and it had never really been an issue before.
With the third knock, she undid the deadbolt and pulled the door open slightly, peeking out from behind the safety of the chain.
"Daddy?" she breathed.
She threw the chain off and when she flew into his arms, she was reminded remarkably of their meeting at the airport that first time.
He caught her easily, like he had been a bit more prepared this time than last. "I'm sorry I didn't text you back, princess. There was a problem with the car rental."
She pressed her warm face against his throat, tightening her hold on him. "You're here," she breathed shakily.
"I'm here," he agreed, his lips pressing against her hair. "I worried that you would be upset."
"You're really here," she choked out.
His touch was gentle against the back of her head. "I'm really here, princess," he murmured. "Can I come in or would you like to spend the night in the hallway with me?"
"One more minute, Daddy," she breathed. "Please."
"One minute."
She had given little thought to how their reunion might go, mostly because she wasn't completely convinced that there actually would be one. Part of her wondered if it would be awkward, now that she had managed to glimpse a piece of something that she wasn't sure he was really ready to share with her.
There was no awkwardness in it, and as the seconds ticked by she forced herself to relinquish her hold on him, letting her sock-clad feet find the floor again. "I can't believe that you're here, Daddy," she whispered.
"Then I will have to find some way to convince you," he answered, finally reaching for his suitcase and stepping into the apartment. He set it down, just inside, and twisted the deadbolt back into place.
"Don't you have to work, Daddy?" she asked softly.
"You are more important."
"Oh," she breathed, frowning as her fingers subconsciously moved toward her leg. "It's because-"
He caught her wrist before she could actually touch it, pulling it back up. "It's because you needed me to be here," he said, the words strangely firm. "You needed me to be here as far back as last weekend and I wasn't."
"I told you not to come," she mumbled.
"You did," he agreed, his fingers shifting their grip on their wrist. "And I shouldn't have listened. I want you to show me what you used, princess."
"Right now?" she asked, her voice small.
"Right now."
"Don't you want to put your bag-"
"No," he said, his voice just a little softer. "I can do that later. I want you to show me, princess."
His hand slid down her arm. She felt a little better when his warm fingers intertwined with hers, a little less like a prisoner.
She led him through the apartment slowly, into the small bathroom that hardly fit the both of them, and he dropped her hand.
"Where is it?" he coaxed her gently. "If you don't show me I will spend the entire morning tearing your apartment apart to find it, princess. I will eventually."
She reached up, opening the medicine cabinet with two shaky fingers.
There really hadn't been any effort to hide it. The blade sat flat, right in the middle of the bottom shelf.
She wasn't sure how she felt about it when he picked it up, turning it over to look at the other side. "This is what you used last night?"
"Yeah," she breathed.
"Are there more?"
She swallowed. "No."
"Are you lying, sweetheart?"
"No," she answered, her cheeks warm. "That's it, Daddy. I promise. There were four in the pack but they - t-hey get rusty, after a while, and I have to th-row them away."
He reached around her to push the mirror closed, setting the blade on the edge of the sink. His hand was gentle on her waist as he coaxed her into turning. "I want you to look in the mirror, princess."
She lifted her head, staring at their reflection in the spotty glass. He looked a little too serious and it made her nervous, so she dropped her eyes to her own reflection.
"Tell me what you see."
"My nose is red," she mumbled.
His fingers were gentle as they framed her jaw, preventing her from turning her head away. "That isn't what I meant, princess," he murmured gently. "I want you to tell me what you see when you look in the mirror."
Christine stared at her reflection. When her first tear fell, neither one of them moved to wipe it away. It traced a familiar path down her cheek, gathering in the space between the tip of his forefinger and her chin.
"I need you to say it out loud."
"Pathetic," she breathed, blinking and watching more of her betraying tears fall.
He pressed his lips into her hair. "What else?"
"Ugly," she said, and there was just a bit more bite to it as she stared herself down, as she watched her stupid patchy blush and her tears, as she watched the uncontrollable tremble of her lip. "Stupid. Worthless. Helpless waste. Garbage," she breathed.
There was something almost freeing about it. She had never said it out loud, not even to herself. Her chest felt just a little less heavy when she took a shaky breath.
He moved, resting his chin on top of her head as he gazed at their reflection sadly. "Can I tell you what I see, princess?"
She nodded weakly and his smile was sad.
"I see a very beautiful young woman to start," he said softly, swaying with her slightly. "I see a little girl who had a bit too much life heaped onto her plate all at once. I see someone that has been drowning but refuses to stop kicking. I don't see a bit of pathetic in you, Christine. You're a fighter through-and-through."
"I don't feel like it," she admitted.
"Do you know what else I see?" he murmured.
She sniffed. "What, Daddy?"
"I see someone that needs to be taken care of," he murmured warmly. "And I see someone else that would be happy to do that if she wasn't so frightened of needing it."
"That's it, though," she whispered. "I shouldn't need it."
"You have spent so much time locked in your own head worrying about being too much that you haven't even had time to consider what I need, have you?" he asked gently.
She frowned and he dropped his hands, letting his arms hang over her shoulders as he leaned into her.
"I will tell you, then," he murmured warmly. "I need you to need, princess. I like it when you text me four times in a row. I want you to call me six times in a day. I want you to need me so much that you need to hear my voice to fall asleep; you could not possibly ever be too much for me because I need you just as much."
"My ex called me smothering," she admitted, frowning at their reflection in the mirror.
His kiss to the top of her head was soft. "Conventional relationships are for people with conventional needs," he murmured gently. "I don't think either of us is lucky enough to be one. It's okay to need something different, sweetheart. If you didn't think you might, I don't think you would've gone looking in the first place."
Christine reached up, holding one of his hands in both of hers as she considered their reflection. "I don't want to feel like this anymore," she confessed, letting the words be the weak tremble that she needed them to be.
"Then every morning you are going to get up," he instructed, the words warm. "You are going to come into this bathroom, and you are going to look right at yourself in that mirror with your chin up and you're going to find something to compliment yourself on. It can be your pretty eyelashes, or your very sweet smile, or it can just be that you woke up and felt okay. Whatever it is, you're going to say it out loud, right to yourself."
"I'll feel like an idiot," she mumbled.
"You might," he agreed gently. "But you'll do it anyway. Do you know why?"
"Why, Daddy?"
"Because you are a very good girl," he murmured warmly. "And I told you to."
She shivered, and he squeezed her shoulder gently.
"I want you to go and change into something comfortable, princess," he instructed gently. "I promise that I will still be here when you come back."
"I brought you a present," he said softly, sitting on the uneven, lumpy couch beside her. He toyed with a small bottle between his fingers, eyes seemingly transfixed on it. "I want you to know that I love you exactly as you are," he continued, turning the bottle between his fingers. "When I look at your scars, I don't feel embarrassed to hold your hand or have you on my arm. I don't see weakness. I see battle scars and a very brave young woman that lived to tell the tale." He paused, tapping the bottle against his knee. "But I understand that it's different for you."
Christine drew her knees up to her chest, her heels resting against the edge of the cushion. "What is it, Daddy?" she whispered.
He turned the bottle over in his hand, gazing at the label. "It's a scar cream," he murmured. "It's no magic cure. If you want it to work, you will have to be consistent. At least once a day." He paused, glancing at her. "It worked when I used it. It will take about a month before you see any real fading."
Christine stared at him. She had seen it in the pharmacy before, but it was always locked away in those big anti-theft boxes and she was pretty sure she hadn't ever been able to afford it. She could remember staring at it in the box, promising that when she finally started to grow a savings account that was what she would celebrate with. "That stuff is expensive."
"It's a little pricey," he admitted, turning the bottle over. "Your peace of mind is worth it… if you run low all you have to do is tell me. I think it may help, if you don't have the scars to stare at."
She hesitated a moment, and then she peeled her fingers from her knee, offering her hand to him. "Will you please show me?" she whispered.
He covered her hand with his, turning it over in his palm. "Of course I will, princess," he said, the words soft.
She watched him from behind the safety of her knees as he pushed her sleeve up, exposing the mottled mess of scars. She hadn't ever really willingly let him examine them so closely, and she held her breath as his thumb brushed gently over a particularly deep one.
"Have I told you how happy I am to know you?" he asked softly, his thumb brushing its way back across it.
"I didn't mean to," she mumbled.
He brushed his lips against the thick scar gently, and she felt herself shiver. "I know, princess," he murmured. "It might be a little cold."
It was cold but she didn't flinch at all when he opened the bottle and drew a line down the center of her forearm with it.
"You have to massage it in," he murmured, his thumbs digging firmly against the scars as he did just that. "I think that's what does it, more than the cream itself. It helps break up all that scar tissue."
She held her breath, staring fully at his thumbs against her arm. She held her breath because she was pretty sure if she did anything else at all, she would cry.
No one else had ever looked at them the way that he did. No one ever saw them; she kept them hidden, even wearing sweatshirts in the blazing summer heat just to avoid the stares that she knew accompanied exposing them. She had never really let anyone look at them like this, and she certainly didn't let people touch them.
"I think that some of these will fade out quite easily," he murmured, his thumbs rubbing gently. "Some of them are almost gone all on their own… I don't want you to get discouraged, sweetheart. It still takes time. You have to promise you'll keep up with it."
"I promise," she breathed shakily.
He glanced up at her, pulling her sleeve down gently. "Do you want me to do the other arm too?"
She turned, hiding her cold toes under the side of his leg, and held her other arm out to him. "Please," she whispered.
He pushed her other sleeve up in exactly the same way, looking at the scars there just as closely. "I think these ones will be quicker," he murmured as he drew a thin line with the cream. "You're right handed, aren't you, princess?"
"Yeah," she said softly. "I am."
His thumbs rubbed just as gently. "Tell me what you're thinking about."
She swallowed, trying to force the lump in her throat down. "I really love you, Daddy," she breathed.
He pulled her sleeve down gently. "I really love you too, Christine," he said softly. "I'm sorry that I let it go."
"It's not your fault," she mumbled, looking down at her hand in his. "I should've called you like you said."
"You should have," he agreed gently. "But I knew that something was wrong. And I let it go because I didn't want to push you. I'm going to push you from now on, princess. I think it's what you need."
She stared fully at his warm hand around hers. "It's really hard for me," she admitted, the words quiet. "I don't- it's hard for me to talk about."
"It's hard to admit that something is wrong," he said, his voice low. "It's scary, isn't it? Letting someone into all of that chatter in your head."
"Yeah," she breathed, frowning.
"You know my secrets," he pointed out gently. "You haven't run. A little bit of instability doesn't scare me, sweetheart. It's practically my middle name."
"Ten years ago is a whole lot different than right now," she sniffed, her eyes focused entirely on their hands.
"You would think," he murmured, pausing for a moment. "I'm not going anywhere, princess," he said thoughtfully, his thumb wrapping over the back of her hand. "You can't scare me off that easily, I'm afraid."
"But you will," she mumbled, frowning. "And I don't know what I'll do without you."
"Oh, Christine," he sighed softly, tilting her chin up with the knuckles of his freehand. "You're worrying about the end of something that's hardly even begun… I have no plans of going anywhere. If I could keep you here, just like this, for the rest of my life I would be very happy. I don't want you to worry about that."
"I can't help it," she admitted, the words hardly even a whisper as she stared back at him.
"If I told you where I see this relationship going would that help?" he asked gently.
"Maybe," she said softly.
"One day, when you least expect it, I plan to get down," he said softly, moving to the floor on one knee. "Just like this, princess. Like any other man with any other woman."
She held her breath as he reached for her left hand, pulling it gently toward himself.
"And I will take your hand, just like this," he continued, his thumb brushing against the back of her knuckles. "I will have a very pretty ring, of course. And if I'm lucky, you will say yes. That is where I see this going, princess. Just like you would hope with any other relationship."
"You'd marry me," she whispered, not really sure if she meant it as a question or not.
His hand was warm against the back of her neck and she let him move her easily, pressing her forehead to the cool material of his mask. "The way that you feel is entirely normal," he reassured her gently. "Like you need this the way you do water, or air - it's okay to be frightened by it, princess. Everyone is, at first."
She swallowed around the hard lump in her throat. "When does it stop being scary?" she asked, hearing the break in her voice.
"When you learn to trust," he said softly, the pads of his fingers digging gently against the loose curls at the base of her head. "When you learn that you can tell me that you are afraid, or sad, or angry - when you trust that I want to be the air that you breathe just as badly as you need me to be. I want you to hold onto me too tightly, princess. It's what I need too."
"I wanted you to come, Daddy," she admitted, the words hard to force past her lips. "I really did but I was - I was embarrassed, and I didn't want to ask because then you would and. Look around."
"I'm not here to see your apartment," he pointed out gently. "I truly couldn't care less about what it all looks like. I'm here because you need me to be here, and that's the only thing that matters to me."
"Tonight, we are going to work on your communication," Erik said, dropping her arm.
She felt strangely exposed, standing in the middle of her wreck of a bedroom, even fully clothed.
He stooped down, scooping up the pile of dirty clothes that she still hadn't gotten to, and tossed it a bit closer to the door. "Do you have a blanket, princess?"
Christine reached quietly for the large comforter on her bed, holding it out to him.
He took it, fluffing it out and laying it in the middle of the floor.
"On the floor, Daddy?" she asked, staring at the faded blanket.
"Your bed is a bit small, princess," he pointed out, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. "And while I appreciate that it gives me a perfect excuse to hold you very close tonight, we may need a bit more room for right now. I want you to take off that sweatshirt."
She obeyed easily, tossing it toward the corner of the room, and he watched her shiver in the cold air for a moment.
"Good girl," he offered at her quiet nervousness. "Now it's your turn to tell me something that you want."
"I want you to touch me, Daddy," she whispered nervously.
He stayed, unmoving, just where he stood. "How do you want me to touch you?" he asked gently. "If you can't tell me then I want you to show me, princess. You are allowed to touch."
She took a couple steps toward him. It wasn't so difficult, she found, to take his warm palm and press it against her breast.
"Like this?" he asked, squeezing gently. He waited patiently for her shy nod. "What else, princess?"
Slightly more confident, she guided his other hand to her waist. "Can I please unbutton your shirt, Daddy?"
"Of course you can," he answered simply.
She swallowed nervously as she did just that. "I think it's your turn," she offered in a whisper.
"So it is," he murmured. "I would like to take off your shirt. And your bra. I would like to actually touch you, princess."
"And your shirt," she whispered, feeling heat in her ears. "Please."
"And my shirt," he agreed, shrugging it from his shoulders and tossing it toward the pile of dirty clothes he had moved. "Lift your arms for me, princess."
She did, and her shirt followed the same path his did.
His hands were warm against her goose-pimpled skin and she shivered. "I'm going to take you shopping before I go home," he murmured as his fingers struggled against the clasp of her bra. "We will get you some very pretty bras that I won't have to resort to cutting off of you."
She felt her cheeks flush. "I wouldn't mind, Daddy," she mumbled, the confession quiet.
The clasp finally gave way under his patient touch. "You wouldn't," he murmured. "Perhaps we can explore that when you have a replacement."
"I liked it," she admitted softly.
"You liked what, sweetheart?" he asked, slipping the bra gently from her shoulders.
"When you were rough with me," she admitted, staring at her fingers on his chest so that she wouldn't lose her nerve. "And when you pulled my hair… and when you choke me."
His fingers trailed down her collarbone and when he cupped her breast in his palm, it was much warmer. Gently, he pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. "Tell me what you liked about it."
"It makes me warm," she said softly. "And I feel like I'm all yours."
"You are all mine," he murmured, giving her nipple a gentle pull. "I would like to kiss you, princess."
She tilted her chin up on her own. "Please," she whispered.
His kiss was slow. "It's your turn again, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low.
Christine looked up at him as she pulled away, slipping down to her knees. She licked her dry lips nervously as his palm settled against her hair. "Please can I take your pants off, Daddy?"
There was something surprisingly intense in his gaze. "And why would you want to do that, princess?"
"Because I want to use my mouth," she said weakly.
His fingers tangled in her hair, forcing her head back just a little more with a gentle tug. "To do what, princess?" he coaxed, his voice low. "I want you to tell me."
She swallowed, staring up at him and his intense eyes. "To suck your cock, Daddy," she managed to say.
"Good girl," he murmured. "What do you say?"
"Please," she breathed.
"You are such a good girl, princess," he praised warmly. "You can, but I'm going to pull your hair."
She let out the breath that she had been holding and reached for his belt as she felt him twist her hair around his hand once.
Christine could hear her own heartbeat in her ears; she felt her pulse in her fingertips as she yanked his pants and underwear down.
She reached for his half-hard member and he gave a sharp tug to her hair.
"You did not ask to touch, princess," he said, the words low. "Your mouth."
She shifted, steadying herself with her hands on his thighs as she licked her lip nervously, and then she did exactly as he said, tilting her head so that she could take him into her mouth.
He groaned and it was always enough to excite her; she bobbed her head gently, peeking up at him as she flattened her tongue just under his head and felt him start to stiffen, just the slightest bit, under her careful attention.
He met her eyes, tugging her head back gently by her hair as he pushed his hips forward. "You're so pretty, princess. Do you know that?" She tapped gently on his thigh and, seeming to understand, he eased back slowly. "What?" he asked softly.
It took her a long moment of staring back at him to work up the nerve to actually say it. "Can I please touch myself, too, Daddy?" she forced out, trying to ignore the warm blush she felt spreading from the bridge of her nose.
"Of course you can," he answered warmly as he considered her. "But only if you let me see. I want you to finish undressing."
She held his eyes as she moved, pushing her sweatpants carefully down her thighs.
"Good girl," he praised her warmly, watching her closely as she moved.
To her happy surprise, his eyes really didn't linger long on the fresh red scab on her leg. Instead they followed the path of her hand as it disappeared between her thighs.
She made a breathless sound as she circled her clit gently and he tugged at her hair, pushing himself back between her lips as she moaned.
It wasn't embarrassing anymore. Not when she was gazing up at him and the way that he stared at her, warm and hungry and full of appreciation.
He gave another hard tug to her hair and she moaned, her fingers rubbing just a little quicker.
Once more, he gave a hard tug to her hair, pulling her back as he stared down at her. "It's my turn, princess," he murmured, the words low and warm. "I want you to lay back."
Watching his eyes, she obeyed, slipping back. He let her hair slip between his fingers as she did. "Daddy," she breathed.
"Keep going, princess," he said softly as he lowered himself down between her knees. "I didn't tell you to stop touching yourself, did I?"
She bit the inside of her lip as she rubbed at herself, opening her knees for him as he moved closer to her.
"Your turn, princess."
His breath was warm against her cheek and she shivered. "Kiss, Daddy," she breathed. "Please."
His kiss was open and warm, his tongue pressing between her lips. She moaned, her free hand clutching his bicep.
"Daddy, please," she breathed against his mouth.
"Please," he echoed, sounding halfway breathless himself. "Please what."
She shifted, pressing her feet against the floor so that she could push her knees against his sides. "Inside," she breathed, pushing up against him. "Please, Daddy."
His warm lips brushed against her temple as he shifted, reaching down between them. She moaned as he filled her, pressing her heels against the small of his back as she pushed against him to meet his thrusts.
"I love you," she breathed.
His fingers were warm against her throat, his breath a warm pant on her cheek. "I love you," he echoed in just the same way. "I'm going to choke you, princess."
She nodded, and his grip tightened.
It was a funny thing. If he was anyone else, anyone else at all, she would be horrified. She hadn't ever been whatever it was she turned into whenever he was near.
Or maybe she always had been, she thought. Maybe she always had wanted something a little more, a little rougher, and maybe she had always been too embarrassed to ever actually ask for it.
Raoul would have laughed at her. Or maybe he would have asked her if she was okay. He would have embarrassed her.
Erik didn't do that. He didn't laugh at her, or look at her with those judgmental eyes Raoul's friends did. He didn't pull her sleeves down to hide her scars or try to shame her into dressing nice whenever they were together.
His hand around her throat felt right, and he had never once laughed at her.
He released her throat and his lips brushed against her jaw as she gasped, her nails digging into the skin of his back as she grounded herself in the midst of the familiar headrush that came just after.
"Who do you belong to?"
His words were breathless, and she tightened her legs around him. "You, Daddy," she breathed in answer.
"Again." His breath was hot against her throat.
"I belong to you, Daddy," she breathed again, her heels digging against the small of his back.
His teeth grazed her throat. "Again."
Christine couldn't think. The relentless rut of his hips was almost too much. "I'm all yours, Daddy."
"Again, princess," he breathed.
"I'm your princess," she breathed as he hit a particularly good angle, digging her nails against the skin of his back. "I'm your whore, Daddy."
"That's right," he grunted, and his hand around her throat cut the breath she meant to take off right in the middle. "You're my dirty little whore. And I will never let you go."
She felt warm, like every little nerve ending in her body was on fire. His kiss was pressed just against the corner of her open mouth and she reached for his wrist, tugging gently.
He released her throat easily. Christine coughed, and she felt the familiar pulse of him deep inside of her.
"Fuck," he breathed, giving two more deep, useless thrusts before he seemed to surrender to it.
His breath was hot and heavy against her slick throat, and she tightened her ankles around his back.
It was a moment before he lifted his crushing weight from her with one arm. "I'm sorry, princess," he said, still catching his breath. "I need ten minutes."
"Please don't move," she whispered.
His thumb brushed gently against her cheek. "Are you okay?"
"I'm okay," she answered, feeling sure of it for the first time in a very long time. "I just don't want you to move yet, Daddy. Please."
He lowered himself back to her carefully, pressing the unmasked half of his face to her throat. "I should have told you to bring your pillow," he breathed. "You can't be comfortable."
"I feel perfect," she whispered, meaning every word of it as she dared to touch the back of his head in hopes of keeping him exactly where he was.
"You are perfect," he murmured, his lips brushing against her throat. "So perfect that I couldn't even stop it."
She swallowed, dragging her fingertips gently down the back of his neck. "I feel safe," she confessed, the words quiet. "Just like this."
His sigh was soft. "You are very safe with me," he murmured. "Aside from the imminent threat of me crushing you to death."
"I would be okay with that, Daddy," she mumbled, running her nails gently down the back of his neck.
"I'm about to slip out anyway," he pointed out gently. His breath was warm against her ear. "If you are a very good girl and it would make you happy, I will let you fall asleep with me inside of you tonight. But only if you let go, princess."
"You promise?" she whispered, feeling the familiar warmth in her cheeks.
"I promise," he said softly. "And I am a man of my word."
With that, she relinquished the trembling hold of her ankles, letting her legs fall to the blanket.
His kiss was gentle. "Thank you," he said softly as he moved off of her. He reached to the far corner of the blanket, pulling it over the both of them. "Come here, sweetheart."
She settled easily against his chest, letting him tug at the blanket. "Daddy?" she asked softly, staring out into the hallway behind him.
"Hm?"
She blinked, frowning. "Can I wake up with you inside of me, too?"
"So you do have some fantasies in there," he murmured, his fingertips brushing along her back. "Is that something that you want, princess?"
She nodded against his chest, settling into the steady drag of his fingers.
"I'm going to wake you up first. At least the first time," he said slowly. "But I promise. First thing. Before you even get the chance to start your day."
She shifted, trying to get comfortable. "I feel like a burrito," she complained.
"Because of the blanket, I hope," he chuckled. "You're still trembling, sweetheart."
"I don't think it's 'cause I'm cold, Daddy."
"Maybe not," he seemed to agree, his hand resting against the small of her back. "What have you eaten today?"
"I don't remember," she mumbled, closing her eyes. "The oven doesn't work."
"Why doesn't the oven work?"
Christine frowned. "The gas is off."
He sighed, his thumb tapping against her back. "And that's why it's so cold in here," he murmured. "How long has it been off, princess?"
"It went off this morning. And the heat doesn't work well anyway," she defended herself weakly. "I just have to call the gas company in the morning."
"Your vents are probably clogged, sweetheart. I'll look at them tomorrow. It will give me something to do while you're at work." His thumb brushed thoughtfully against her back. "How behind are you?"
"I'm not telling you, Daddy."
"Why not?"
Christine frowned, blinking her eyes open. "Because then you'll offer to pay it, and I'll be embarrassed and I don't need you to because I can call in the morning and they'll put me on a repayment plan like the water."
"Is the water off too?"
"No," she mumbled. "That was a few months ago."
"I'm not going to offer to pay your bill," he said gently. "Because I don't want to embarrass you. But I am going to pick up dinner before it gets too late. And maybe a few more blankets. Is it okay if I do that much?"
She shifted, resting her chin on his chest so that she could look at him. "Just don't use the elevator, Daddy."
"Why not?"
"Because the fire department will probably have to let you out," she answered with a weak smile.
He reached up, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I appreciate the warning, sweetheart."