Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles Frost, J (acx book reading txt) 📖

Cute. Very British. He told me he was born and lived in England until he was ten; British words still pepper his speech. I wonder if that’s ever a problem for him, although I suppose with his British sub it wouldn’t have been. He’s asked me not to think about her anymore, though. Which is good, because I already kind of hate her, and hating her is a buzz-kill.

“It’s the Ravenclaw house badge, Sir.”

Logan chuckles. “Are you a Ravenclaw?”

“Uh-huh. What house are you, Sir?” I don’t have any doubt that he has a house, or that he’s watched the Harry Potter movies, or maybe even read the books, not since he sent me that text about ElfQuest while I was checking in at the airport.

“Slytherin,” he says, reaching up to stroke my head.

No, he’s not. He’s Gryffindor through and through. “Sure, Sir.”

I nod under his warm hand. With the relief from the burning in my ass, and the orgasms, I’m getting very sleepy.

Logan notices. He notices everything, which is both wonderful and a little scary, because I’m never going to be able to get anything by him. “You want a nap? Food won’t be here for another forty minutes.”

“Would you nap with me, please, Sir?”

“Sure, that sounds good. Come on, burrito baby.” He flips both sides of the fuzzy over my back, then rolls me up into his arms. He carries me to the bed and sets me on top of the covers. “We’ll do the painkillers after the nap, with some food, unless you need them now?”

I shake my head, blinking up at him sleepily. “I’m good, Sir.”

He smiles down at me, and it’s a real smile. Affectionate and heartfelt. None of the strain he was carrying earlier. None of the weirdness or soul-scourging. My own heart leaps. I worm my arms out from inside the Ravenclaw roll he’s made of me and hold them out to him. He slides onto the bed and stretches against me, giving me more of his weight than he did the night we slept together in New York. I couldn’t sleep all night like this, but for a nap, it’s perfect. I sigh happily and snuggle into him.

3

What kind of fucking nutter tells the woman they’ve been dating for less than a week they were consumed by lust for their own sister for most of their adolescence? I wouldn’t blame Emily if she slapped me across the face for real and walked out. What the fuck must she think of me?

I watch her for some sign of rejection, of disgust, anything, while she falls asleep in my arms, and after she wakes, while we eat the sushi boat and sashimi platter I’ve had smuggled into the hotel. Any sign. A side-eye. An unconscious lip-curl. A flinch when I brush against her.

There’s nothing. She seems wholly relaxed, and, fuck me, happy. How can she be happy after I wounded her, using her like she was less than a Fleshlight? No, that’s not right. She wasn’t at all happy while I was doing it. She got more and more tense under me as it went on, to the point where I was sure she was about to use her safe word and if I hadn’t been a second away from coming, I’d have stopped even without it. It was more awful doing it than I expected. But it should have been, since I was imagining Lizbeth under me the whole damn time. Maybe that’ll purge me of that ghost. I fucking hope so, because I don’t think Emily can endure anything like that again.

Even if she could, I don’t think I can do it to her again. That wasn’t domination. It wasn’t sadism. It was abuse.

I’ve abused my submissive.

And she accepted it. Somehow, to help me heal. Maybe she’s freaking out inside, but I don’t think so. Emily’s a little reserved, a little shy and introverted, but she doesn’t have much of a poker face. I can pretty much tell what she’s feeling minute-by-minute just by watching her expressions and body language. I watch her as she gobbles down what must be her tenth piece of salmon sashimi; the calorie-counting she was doing during our first dinner together evidently doesn’t extend to sushi. I can’t see even a twitch of tension. She’s sitting on the floor by my side, with her back against the couch, one leg drawn up and her right elbow propped on her knee. She’s wearing my black tee, which she swims in, and those hot, red-and-white-striped thigh-highs that make me want to eat her like a peppermint, and nothing else. Her nipples poking against the cloth are almost as tempting as the sushi. She uses chopsticks like she was born with a pair in her hand, lithe snatch-and-grab-raids from the mountain of fish spread on the coffee table in front of us. She keeps taking pieces from under my nose, and I can see the sly smile she hides in each bite.

She’s playing with me. This is her little peeping back out from the very adult mask I’ve made her wear for the last several hours playing with me. She’s playing with me after I pinned her to the bed and made sure she didn’t enjoy it as I used her. After I spanked her so hard that her left ass cheek is covered with white blisters, damage I’ve never done to any of my bottoms, even when I was just learning. She’s playing with me after I admitted the darkest, ugliest secret I carry. Beyond the Hell I saw in the Navy, beyond the shitty things I’ve done when I was drunk or stupid, beyond the loss of my parents, wanting to beat and fuck my own sister is the thing that’s made me feel the worst in my entire life. I’ve never admitted it to anyone, but after knowing Emily for less than a week, I’ve admitted it to her.

I slide my arm