ANGEL With our gazes glued, I reached down and cupped his cock through his sleep pants. Oh. Oh, fuck. He was hard. So hard. Thick and straining against my palm like it was trying to break free. I could feel every inch of him through the thin fabric—the rigid length, the swollen head, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. Daddy’s cock filled my palm and then some, impossibly thick, impossibly hard. I wrapped my fingers around him as best I could through the fabric. Stroked up, slow and firm, feeling him pulse beneath my palm. Feeling him throb with every frantic beat of his heart. And then I pressed my thumb against the head, rubbing in a slow circle. Then I pressed. Hard. He hissed—a sharp, pained sound punched out of his lungs—and his hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding into my hand. His eyes squeezed shut. His jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles straining. “There you go, Daddy. Stop fighting it. You want me, don’t you?” I whispered, triumph in my ton
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