She is drawn in, like a moth to the flame. The heat of him, the strength and reassurance that he gives her, how gentle he is with his touches of her skin. His hands move all over her and all she can do is lean into it, skin tingling and craving the pass of his skin against hers. It makes her feel drunk, drowsy almost, like he has put her into a trance. His words are like smoke and she inhales and inhales enough to make her feel high and loose, outside of her head but still connected to the skin so that she can feel everything.

Nuzzles, light touches, kisses, her hands start working on his shirt, the buttons, the flecks of paint from his art. He wants her, he doesn't want her to be with anyone else and she sighs soft and long under her breath while her fingers finally start to peel the fabric of his shirt away. She straddles his lap, her mouth against his once again, mouth soft, open, oh so easy under the press of his tongue and the grip of his hands. "It will be our little secret, no one needs to know except us." Secrets, so very tempting, alluring, dangerous, forbidden, it makes her skin feel like there is electricity running through it, down her spine and into her stomach.

She isn't thinking about anything about later, about how she will feel, how she will react, all she is thinking about is now. How his lips feel, how the palm of her hand feels against the tight of the muscles on his back and slides. this is what consumes her thoughts and breath. "I trust you," and she does, completely and utterly, because why would she not? He is her father and he is supposed to take care of her and not lead her to harm or danger, he never would.

Another soft, long sigh, as her mouth searches for his once again.