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

Bel-phe-gor, he will not let her go. Let her go!

Bel-phe-gor, he will not let her go. Let her go!

Will not let her go. Let her go! Never, never, never let her go.

Let her go!”

This is my little girl at her best. Zany. Carefree. Utterly adorable.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Oh Daddy de-ar, Daddy de-ar, Daddy de-ar, let her go!

James Ma-di-son has a paddle set aside for me.

For me. For me!”

I can’t stifle it anymore. Emily breaks off when she hears me laughing. I move into my office before I call her. “Emily, come here.”

Her feet patter across the hardwood floor. I sit in my desk chair and spread my knees. When she appears in the doorway, I point to the carpet between my feet with my index and middle fingers.

She rushes over and drops to her knees, immediately arranging herself in Nadu. She’s wearing the little red and white apron she wears when she cooks. Underneath the apron, she has on white fishnet thigh-highs, but nothing else. When the fuck did she get those? That does it. She’s getting fucked. I don’t care how behind schedule and grumpy I am. My little girl deserves a fucking over the desk for being so unbearably cute.

“What was that?” I ask, keeping my face composed and my voice stern.

“Queen, Daddy.”

“I don’t remember Freddy Mercury’s version involving Daddy’s paddle, little girl.”

She peeks up at me, probably gauging whether or not I’m actually irritated, then puts her head back down with a little smile. “It should have, though.”

“Uh-huh. Should it, now? And what was that about a spanking?”

She grins.

“Crazy little girl. Up over the desk. Spread your legs.”

She wriggles from head to toe before she rises and nearly throws herself face down over my desk.

* * *

An hour later, I rub my hand over the warm spot on my desk Emily’s left after a long spanking and even longer fucking. She’s back in the kitchen, singing, although she’s no longer perverting the lyrics, which is kind of disappointing. Sounds like she’s singing to the cat, who is meowing back. Better than that bloody row in the night. I hope we’re not going to have a repeat of that every night. I like the cat, but he’s not sleeping with us, and I don’t care how many hours crying outside the bedroom door it takes for him to accept that hard fact.

Emily sounds happy. She’s certainly not complaining about the rough fucking over my desk, or her now glowing bottom, or the butt plug I’ve put in and told her she’s wearing through the party so she doesn’t forget for a moment who she belongs to.

Her ebullience fills me up, wiping away my grouchiness. When she bounces in a minute later, singing “Fat Bottomed Girls,” and alights next to my desk for a minute to deliver a cup of juiced green shit, I draw her to me and give her a long, deep kiss, before I let her bounce away to finish breakfast.

While she’s cooking, and, mmm, smells like we’re having bacon this morning, which makes the kale or whatever I’m drinking bearable, I check emails and the two voicemail messages that came in last night after I turned off my phone. I haven’t made it a rule, but both Emily and I turn off our phones before scenes. I don’t care if the world’s burning down. It can wait until we finish.

Max has emailed me back a truly frightening amount of information about Tiger Tail Tech. He got all this from a single website address? Fuck me. I don’t have a website, my business is all referral, and I’m very glad of that at the moment, but I have a couple of social media accounts. I make a note to ask Max to sanitize them. I do not want anyone getting my home address, cell number, date of birth, and annual income just from what I have online.

I note down Damon Tiger’s cell number and address, but as I discover when I listen to my voicemails, I don’t need to. He’s called me.

Tiger answers on the first ring. “Tiger Tail Tech, Damon Tiger speaking.”

Nice and professional. He doesn’t sound at all like a guy who would choke a stranger with a belt while he and Rick were “spit-roasting” her.

“Thanks for calling me back, Mr. Tiger. This is James Logan. I’m an investigator working for Rick Errol. Do you remember him?”

“Oh.” There’s a long silence. “I thought it was about a job. No, sorry, I don’t know, uh, Dick Errol.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. So much for professionalism. “Rick. I think you may have met him at a party last summer on Fire Island. At the Castillo’s house. Do you remember the party?”

“Um, I’m not sure. What’s this about?”

“Rick is trying to reconnect with a woman he met at the party named Laura. Do you know Laura?”

He’s silent. “Laurel,” he says finally.

Bingo. “Laurel? Do you know her last name?”

“Why do you want it?”

He could just be naturally suspicious, although I’d think a naturally suspicious person wouldn’t hop into a drunken threesome. Or he could be part of EvonneBringsTheTruth’s revenge.

“Rick wants to find her,” I say, which is certainly the truth, although certainly not all the truth.

“Been a year plus since that party.”

“Laurel made a big impression on Rick.”

“Yeah? Well, no accounting for taste. He’ll find out soon enough.”

That doesn’t sound good.

“Sorry, I’m not sure what you mean?”

“Means Laurel’s too good for us mere mortals. I don’t know her last name. I met her through Dovie. Devota Donegan, that’s Dovie’s real name, but everyone calls her Dovie. We’ve gotten together a couple of times when Laurel came up to visit Dovie. After that party, I tried to be nice. Treat her like a lady. But she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

I scratch hurried notes onto my pad. “Devota Donegan, does she live here in New York?”

“Queens, but, yeah.”

“Do you have her address?”

“Sure.” He rattles it