# Chapter 2: The Claiming of "Daddy's Little Obsession"
Tagline:** He can't stop thinking about me.
Suffix:** Obsession
I can feel it before he even turns the key in the lock. A static charge that builds in the air, a heavy, suffocating presence that settles over my ribs and makes my breath catch in my throat. I know his rhythm. I know the exact moment the obsession wins. He’s been fighting it all day, I can tell. I’ve seen the way his jaw tightens when he looks away, the way his knuckles whiten around his coffee mug, the way his voice drops half an octave when he says my name. He’s been thinking about me. Every fucking second. I don’t doubt it. I’ve felt the weight of his gaze on my back, in the hallway, at the table, through the bedroom door. He’s been starving for me, and now the hunger is finally going to win.
The lock clicks. The door swings open. And he’s there.
Tall. Broad. Filled with that familiar, overwhelming presence that makes my knees weak and my thighs press together without my permission. His coat is unbuttoned, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looks exhausted, but not in the way that makes him softer. The exhaustion only makes him sharper. Darker. More dangerous. His eyes lock onto mine the second they hit me, and I feel it like a physical touch—a hot, heavy sweep that strips away every pretense, every layer of control I’ve been trying to keep.
“You know why I’m here,” he says. His voice is low, rough around the edges like he’s been chewing on it all day, like he’s been holding back a dozen different commands and letches.
I nod. I can’t speak. My pulse is a trapped bird against my ribs. My skin hums.
He closes the distance in three long strides. One hand finds my jaw, fingers wrapping around my cheek, thumb pressing into my bottom lip. His skin is warm. Calloused. Real. His eyes are black with want, with something deeper, something that doesn’t care about boundaries anymore. They’re hungry. Devoured by me. I can see it. I can feel it.
“You’ve been running through my mind since I let you go,” he murmurs, leaning in until his breath ghosts over my mouth. “Every fucking second. I couldn’t work. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t look at a screen without seeing your face. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sit. Just your mouth. Your hands. The way you looked at me like you wanted to be ruined.”
I swallow. My throat is dry. “I do.”
That’s all it takes. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling my head back just enough to expose my throat. A low groan rumbles in his chest, deep and feral. He presses his mouth to my pulse, not kissing it, not teasing—claiming it. His teeth scrape just shy of breaking skin, and I shiver, a full-body tremor that starts at my spine and ends in my toes.
“Mine,” he growls. The word vibrates through my bones. “You heard me when I said it. You repeated it. You don’t get to pretend you don’t know what this is. You don’t get to play innocent when I’ve been losing my goddamn mind over you.”
I nod again, tears pricking my eyes from the sheer weight of it. The obsession. The fact that he’s been haunted by me, that I’ve haunted him right back. It’s raw. It’s messy. It’s exactly what I asked for without ever saying the words. I press my forehead against his chest, breathing him in—sandalwood, sweat, coffee, and something uniquely, undeniably him.
“Say it,” he orders, fingers tightening just enough to make me gasp. “Say you know what you’ve done to me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I’ve been dreaming about you. Every night. I touch myself and I imagine your hands. Your voice. Your cock. I whisper your name until I’m shaking. I can’t stop. I won’t stop. You’re in my head, Daddy. You’re everywhere.”
He curses, a harsh, broken sound, and turns me around. His palms flatten against my waist, fingers digging into my hips, and he pushes me back until my lower back hits the wall. The impact knocks a gasp out of me. His body cements itself against mine, hard and unyielding. I can feel every inch of him pressing into me, the heat of his chest, the thick ridge already straining against his trousers, the weight of him demanding space.
“Look at me,” he says. Not a question. A command.
I lift my gaze. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown. There’s no room for negotiation in his expression. This isn’t a request. It’s a reckoning. He’s done waiting. Done pretending he’s in control. The obsession has finally cracked him open, and what’s left is pure, unfiltered possession.
He strips my top off with one rough motion. Buttons fly. Fabric tears slightly at the seam. I don’t flinch. I arch into it. My nipples harden instantly under his stare. He reaches down, thumbs swiping over them, and I cry out.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking responsive. I’ve been imagining this. Imagining how you’d sound. How you’d feel wrapped around my cock. How you’d take it.”
His hands move to his belt. The metallic click echoes in the quiet room. His fingers work the buckle, push his trousers and boxers down just enough to free himself. He doesn’t pull it out completely—just enough to let me see it. Thick. Veined. Aversely hard. I lick my lips. My mouth waters. My stomach drops with anticipation.
“Kneel,” he says.
I drop to the carpet. The rough weave scratches my knees, but I don’t care. I look up at him, hands resting on my thighs, chest rising and falling. He grips my hair again, not painfully, but with absolute certainty, and guides himself to my lips.
“Open,” he murmurs.
I do. He pushes past my lips, past my teeth, and I take him in. Deep. My throat relaxes instinctively, and he groans, hips bucking forward once, twice, until he’s buried to the hilt. I gag slightly, tears welling, but I keep my eyes locked on his. He hates that I’m crying, but he also loves it. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his fingers flex in my hair, in the way his breath hitches like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.
“Good girl,” he rasps. “Take it. All of it. Don’t you dare pull back.”
I suck him off with a rhythm that’s been drilled into my head by daydreams. My hand joins his cock, wrapping around the base, stroking in time with my mouth. He watches me like a starving man watching a feast. Every time I pull back, he pushes in deeper. Every time I whimper, his thrusts grow rougher. His free hand slides down my arm, over my stomach, and rests heavily over my lower belly.
“You think about this?” he asks, voice strained, trembling at the edges. “When I’m not here? When I’m in another room? Do you imagine my cock splitting you open? Do you imagine my name on your tongue while you stroke yourself? Do you imagine me filling you? Breeding you?”
“yes,” I choke out, the word muffled against him. “I dream about it. I ache for it. I want your seed. I want to carry it. I want to be ruined by you.”
He curses, yanks me back by my hair, and stands. The movement makes me dizzy. He turns me around again, presses me to the wall, and hooks his hands into the waistband of my panties. He doesn’t bother unbuttoning them. He just rips them down, the fabric tearing as he shoves them aside. His fingers are already wet. He spreads me open, thumb finding my clit, circling once, twice, and I sob.
“You’re drenched,” he mutters, voice thick, wrecked. “Fucking perfect. I told you. I told you you’d be ready for me. Always. You were born for this. For me.”
He positions himself at my entrance. No slow tease. No patience. He drives in with one brutal thrust, burying himself to the root. I scream, back arching, nails scraping the wallpaper. He holds me in place, chest heaving against my back, one arm locking around my waist while the other grips my hip hard enough to bruise.
“Breathe,” he orders. “Take it. Don’t you dare close up on me.”
I do. I let him stretch me, let him fill me until I’m trembling. He pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in. The sound is obscene. Skin slapping skin. My choked moans mixing with his ragged breathing. The room is thick with it. With us. With the weight of what’s happening.
“Mine,” he repeats, like a prayer and a curse. “Every inch. Every breath. You’re carrying my mark. You’re carrying my seed. I’m going to breed you so deep you’ll feel it for days. You’re going to walk around knowing I put it there. You’re going to sleep knowing I’m inside you. You’re going to live knowing you belong to me.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. Breeding. That’s what he wants. Not just sex. Not just release. He wants to plant himself inside me, to claim me in the most primal way possible. My hips start moving on their own, rolling back to meet his thrusts. He groans, feral.
“Yes. Ride it. Take your Daddy’s cock.”
I push back harder, the friction sending sparks up my spine. He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust deeper, harder, aimed straight at that spot that makes my vision blur. I’m close. So close. But he won’t let me come. Not yet. He controls everything. The pace. The depth. The moment I break.
“Look at me,” he demands, hand sliding around to grip my jaw. I turn my head. His eyes are dark, intense, utterly consuming. “When you come, you do it for me. You call my name. You tell me you’re mine. You understand?”
“yes, Daddy,” I gasp. “I’m yours. I’m yours. Only yours.”
He curses, drives in to the hilt, and holds himself there. His hands press against my stomach, fingers splayed over my lower belly. “Feel that? That’s where I’m going. That’s where I’m planting my claim. You’re going to feel it. You’re going to carry it. And you’re never going to forget who owns you.”
I shatter. My orgasm hits like a freight train, wracking my body, my knees buckling. He catches me, holds me up, and keeps thrusting through my climax. Each stroke drags another sound from my throat. He’s close too, breathing ragged, muscles corded, veins standing out along his neck. He’s fighting it. Fighting how good it feels. Fighting how much he wants to mark me.
“I’m gonna fill you,” he growls. “Gonna breed you so full you’ll be leaking me for days. Say it. Say you want it.”
“I want it,” I sob. “I want to be your breeding doll. I want to carry your pups. I want to be ruined by you. Please, Daddy. Please.”
He groans, hips snapping forward one last time, and eruptates inside me. Hot. Thick. Pulsing. He empties himself deep, marking me, claiming me, pouring himself into my core. I feel every drop, every spasm, and I cling to him, whispering his title like a vow. He stays buried, chest heaving, one hand still pressed to my stomach.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You take it so well. So fucking perfectly.”
I turn in his arms, face buried in his shoulder, crying from the intensity. He holds me, rocking me slightly, pressing kisses to my hair, my temple, my cheek. The obsession isn’t just in his mind anymore. It’s in his touch, his voice, the way he holds me like I’m the only thing keeping him anchored. He’s trembling. I can feel it. He’s not just claiming me. He’s surrendering.
“You’re mine,” he murmurs against my ear, voice rough, wrecked, but steady. “Always. You think I’d let anyone else touch you? Think I’d let anyone else claim you? You’re Daddy’s little obsession. And I don’t share. I don’t give a fucking shit about anyone else’s opinion. You’re in my bed. In my house. In my cock. And you’re staying there.”
I nod against his chest. “I’m yours. Only yours.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumb wipes my tears. His eyes are still dark, still hungry, but softer now. More certain. “Good. Because I’m not done. I’m going to keep you wrapped in sheets for days. I’m going to fill you again. And again. Until you’re swollen with my children. Until you can’t walk straight. Until the whole world knows who you belong to. Until you forget how to function without my hands on you. Without my voice in your ear. Without my cock stretching you open.”
I shiver. It’s terrifying. It’s exactly what I want. The obsession isn’t a flaw. It’s a promise. He’s bound to me now. I’m bound to him. And the claiming is only the beginning.
“Say it,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine. “Say you want it. Say you want to be mine forever.”
“I want it,” I breathe. “I want your babies. I want your claim. I want your obsession. I want all of you, Daddy. Take it. Keep it. Never let me go.”
He groans, kisses me hard, tongue sweeping through my mouth like he’s claiming every part of me. His hands slide down my body, mapping me, memorizing me. “Then we’re going to do it. No more waiting. No more pretending I’m not obsessed. I’m going to keep you. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to love you so hard you’ll never forget my name. And you’ll never forget who owns you.”
I cling to him. The word “obsession” hangs in the air, heavy and sweet. It’s not a curse. It’s a vow. He’s mine. I’m his. And as his hands slide under my thighs, lifting me against his hip, as he turns and carries me to the bed without breaking eye contact, I know one thing for certain.
He can’t stop thinking about me.
And he never will.