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

“Yes, Daddy.” He doesn’t need to remind me not to flirt with Max or Daisy. Although his jealousy gives me a little thrill, I wouldn’t ever provoke it. I never want Daddy to doubt my loyalty. “Can I take a shower before breakfast?”

He nuzzles my neck. I hear him inhale and hope I’m not stinky. “No, we’ll have a bath today at some point. Until then, you wear Daddy’s scent on your skin.”

“Yes, Daddy.” I love the idea of smelling like him all day, and since he wiped me up, I’m not all gross with his come. I try really, really hard to appreciate his gifts, but sometimes it’s hard to appreciate the sticky, smelly ones.

After some more nuzzling, and some kissing when he turns me over, Daddy lets me up to dress. Since he’s feeling super-possessive today, I set out my “Daddy’s Lil Monster” T-shirt and a pair of soft, blue capris.

“Yes, on the shirt,” Daddy says after inspecting the ensemble. “No, on the pants. Wear the white ruffled bottoms with white thigh-highs. No bra. You can wear knickers if you want to.”

A hot thrill shoots through me as I put the capris back in the drawer and take out the shorts he wants me to wear, which are like a diaper cover, smooth cotton in the front and three layers of ruffles in the back. They make me feel super-little and super-sexy when I pair them with the fitted shirt and thigh-highs. I wouldn’t have worn this in front of Max and Daisy, but if Daddy wants me to see me in it, I’ll happily wear it for him.

The outfit also tells me we’re not going out today until I change. Daddy’s comfortable with me being little in public, and I’m comfortable knowing he’ll protect me, but I don’t wear obvious little clothes out of the house. There’s a line between being myself and inviting hate, and it’s not a line I want to cross.

Logan pulls on board shorts and a black T-shirt that outlines his muscles and makes his biceps look massive. He gives such great arm porn. When I’m done dressing and putting up my hair in a ponytail to keep cool, he beckons and, when I go to him, he puts his arms around me and massages my butt-cheeks through the ruffled bottoms, squeezing the plug.

The movement makes my nerves in my ass light up like sparklers. “Daddy,” I gasp.

“Mmm, that’s right. Feel Daddy’s plug inside you. You are my little girl, Emily.”

Wow, he’s insanely possessive today. I look up into his eyes and hold his dark, burning gaze. “You are my daddy. My Wolfy-Daddy, who makes me stupid happy.”

His eyes soften, and he smiles. “Still stupid happy?”

“I am. Are you, Daddy?”

“I’m happy with you.” He kisses my forehead. “I’m happy with us. There are a lot of things I’m not happy about, but you make up for all of them. I need you, little girl. I need you in my life. I don’t say that lightly. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever said that to anyone before. But I’m saying it to you. Do you understand?”

I think so. He’s saying he finds as much succor and sustenance in our relationship as I do. Logan’s never been a daddy before, but he took to it immediately. I thought he did it for me, because I need a daddy and he wants to be my Dom. But maybe he’s finding more to being my daddy; maybe it’s filling some of his deeper needs, too. I nod and smile up at him.

He pats my ruffled bottom. “Breakfast, little girl. And no arguing with me today about the dishes. It’s my turn and my leg’s fine.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

I love that he takes his turn with the household chores. I did everything around the house when I was married to Ash. He always justified it that I didn’t work regular hours, so it just “made sense” for me to be his damn house elf. I never argued. Looking back, I realize it was an expression of my submissive need to serve. Logan could exploit that need; I’d do all the household chores if he told me to. But other than letting me do everything for the few days he was having trouble getting in and out of bed and up and down the stairs, he insists on sharing the load.

My daddy.

I expect him to either head into the basement to work out, or into his office, when we go downstairs, but he doesn’t. He stays with me, turning on the flatscreen in the great room and flipping it to the morning news, then pottering around, picking up stray plates and glasses from the party to put in the dishwasher and arranging the couch cushions. I’ll just need to run the vacuum after everyone leaves. One of the nice things about Daddy’s house being sparsely furnished is that clean-up is super easy.

Mixing a bowl of waffle batter under my arm, I twirl around the kitchen island to the tune of Sia’s “Never Give Up,” which is my happy jam. Even though Logan told me not to make breakfast for everyone, when I put a stack of eight plates on the island, he sets the table without comment. I make plenty of waffle batter, and when he doesn’t grumble, I put two dozen turkey sausages on the oven grill. I hear the upstairs toilet flush as I start a pot of coffee. Sounds like Max is up, at least.

Lucy and Austin come upstairs before Max comes downstairs. They’re only wearing their underwear, and Lucy’s blonde curls are a rat’s nest. With a big yawn, she sits down at the dinner table while Austin comes into the kitchen and gives me a hug.

“Morning, hun. What can I do?”

“Morning.” I smile up into his dark, sleep-creased face before handing him a set of tongs. “Keep an eye on the sausages for me?”

“You got it.” He yawns. “Any chance of coffee?”

“That pot’s extra strong