The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection Frost, J (good beach reads .TXT) 📖

playing hard. You need to recover and heal, and that happens primarily when you sleep. Do you trust me on this?”

“I do.” I trust him with my life at this point, even if I don’t like the sound of being edged for days. “Ta for reassuring me, Daddy. That wasn’t topping from below, was it?”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand, holding my fingers in his palm and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. The gesture gives me happy shivers.

“No, little girl. I need you to tell me your previous experiences, particularly ones that made you unhappy or led to you breaking rules, so that we don’t repeat them. What’s the old saying?”

I think about it for a second. “Winston Churchill said that those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it. Is that the one?”

“Exactly.” He takes my teacup, dips the teabag a few times and tests it with his pinkie before handing it to me to drink. “I want you to feel free to tell me anything. Don’t worry about topping from below. I’ll tell you when you’re doing it.”

“You’ll give me a chance to fix it before you punish me?” I ask over the rim of my teacup.

He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “I will, but punishments are for deliberate rule-breaking. Remember the contract? You haven’t done anything while we’ve been together that was close to earning you a real punishment, little girl.”

I don’t want to, either. If the soaping was discipline, and flogging with the crazy metal flogger was play, a real punishment might be the death of me. “The contract says you can punish me when I challenge your dominance. Topping from below kind of does that, doesn’t it?”

“Topping from below’s usually an attempt to control a scene, but I suppose it could be any time you try to exert your will over mine since we’re doing this full-time. If it’s going to worry you, sweetie, we’ll do three-strikes. I’ll give you plenty of warning.” He nips my knuckles and smiles at my squeak. “Emmy, you’re a very sweet bottom. The way you constantly try to please me blows me away. I know Matthew warned you about topping from below, and I know most highly intelligent bottoms do it from time to time. But try not to be anxious about it, little girl.”

“Okay, Daddy.” His reassurance smooths the knots in my tummy. I take the last few swallows of my peppermint tea and tidy up my place. When Logan finishes his coffee and puts down his cup, I take that as my cue to do the plate ritual. Logan watches me and gives me a big wolfy smile when I lick a crumb of sausage off my thumb.

* * *

He’s still smiling that wolfy smile thirty minutes later when I say “yellow” for the first time. I’m lying on the bed, propped up on a couple of pillows, because he doesn’t want me lying flat right after I’ve eaten. He’s lying partly on my left leg, pinning me with his weight. One of his warm hands holds my right leg, knee bent, spread wide as he strokes and kneads my inner thigh. His other hand rests on my mons, with just the tips of his index and middle finger brushing my clit, over and over, the lightest of touches.

My clit burns. My pussy burns. My ass burns. Cold-hot-cold-hot. Wave after wave, gnawing away at me, amplified by his delicate touches, by his breath feathering over my hyper-sensitive skin, but mostly from the damn toothpaste he’s oh-so-gently smeared all over my clit, vagina and sphincter.

“Tingly, baby girl?” he asks, never losing that wolfy grin.

Something almost bursts out of me that would definitely earn me a punishment. I clamp my jaw, grinding my teeth together, and toss my head from side to side, which is the only movement he’s left me, pinned by his weight and the cuffs holding my arms spread wide across the bed.

He gives me a minute while I shudder, trying to think of cold showers, toenail fungus, bad text grammar, dead puppies, anything, anything that pushes back an orgasm. Finally, replaying that porn video where the girl kept spewing yellow chunks in my mind’s eye does it. The squeezing heat in my belly relaxes a fraction.

He drops a warm kiss on the top of my mons. “Good girl, Emily.”

Fuck you, Daddy.

Those words nearly burst out of me again. Did I mention how much I hate being edged? I really hate it. Asking permission for my orgasms is enjoyable, mostly, because it lets me feel his control in that moment when I’m losing all control. But this just sucks. Having him play with me knowing I can’t come all day is miserable. And the toothpaste is too much. It’s burning in a horrible way. Like the top layer of my skin’s being chewed off. Even the pleasure’s not pleasurable; I feel like my body’s being forced into arousal. It’s like riding the Sybian, which I hated, too. How could this ever be a reward?

“Emmy, look at me.”

I blink back my seditious thoughts and lift my head to meet his eyes. He holds mine for a long moment, gauging me, and I sink a little into his dominance, but then I get another wave of biting cold-hot through my vagina and ass and have to fight not to scowl at him.

“Mmm. Let’s get rid of a little toothpaste.”

Let’s get rid of all of it. And let me up so I can shower, with a scrub brush.

But he doesn’t. He licks around my clit and opening—which does not help me cool off, thank you very much—before he begins touching me again, this time brushing my inner labia instead of my clit. Did he remove any toothpaste? It doesn’t feel like it. If it’s burning less, it’s the difference between a hundred-degree day and a ninety-nine-degree day. Both are really fucking hot. I drop my head back and