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

She nods.

Better. The nickname feels natural. I’m settling into my groove, finding the things that set her at ease. “My name’s James Logan, but I go by Logan.”

She nods again and I realize she’s probably seen my name on the medical records I gave her, but the reminder doesn’t hurt. It’s all about building rapport.

“I think we should establish one more thing,” I say. “Just this time, no touching. You can look at whatever you want, but hands off.”

“Oh, um, okay. Do you . . . will you, um . . .”

I like how tongue-tied I make her. How she turns fiery red when she’s uncertain. Some of my other subs have been blushers: natural blondes and redheads color up with little provocation. Kitty’s dark-haired, but her skin’s very pale and she blushes beautifully. I can’t wait to find out if her skin marks as easily.

“Will I take my clothes off, too?” I supply for her. “Yes. I’d never ask you to do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh.” Her smile returns. “Okay.”

“I’ll go first.” Although being naked is one my favorite things, getting naked isn’t. There’s no graceful way to take off shoes and socks. I decide to strip in stages, which Kitty will probably appreciate, too. I shrug out of my denim shirt and tug off the black tee beneath, then stand at rest with my hands tucked into my back pockets so she can look at me.

Those big hazel eyes lick over me like a caress, skittering up to meet my eyes, then sliding back down my throat to roam my chest. Why in the ever-loving fuck did I decide that we’re not going to touch each other this time? I want to feel her warm palm stroke my abs the way her eyes are doing.

“You’re, um—”

“Big,” I say, rather than risk her saying something like “scary,” because that’s not the way I want her thinking about me right now. “Six-two, hundred and ninety pounds. You ever been with a guy as big as me?”

She shakes her head.

“My size scare you?”

“If I say ‘yes,’ is the audition over?”

That’s a “yes.” I need to keep setting her at ease until we have some trust built. Once she trusts me, she won’t see my size as a disadvantage.

“No, baby doll.” I wink at her. Disarming. “I haven’t seen yours yet.”

She gives me back a shy smile. “No tattoos?”

I have two, one which she won’t be able to see until I take off my pants. I turn so she can see the motto I have inked across my traps: “Death Before Dishonor.”

I hear her shuffle forward a step. When I glance over my shoulder, I see she’s got her hand raised as though she’ll touch my tat.

Oh, yes, baby doll. Break my rule and give me an excuse to discipline you.

She clears her throat and takes a step back. “Is that the services?”

“Uh-huh, Navy. Do you have any ink?”

“No.”

I consider for a moment and decide that’s okay. I like tattoos on women. I even talked Mir into getting one. But something feels right about having a baby girl be unmarked. Besides, if the rest of her is covered in the same creamy, freckled skin as her face, throat and arms, there will be plenty to enjoy, even without any ink.

I turn back around and look down at her. She’s drawn close while she’s been looking at me, and is just a step away. She can’t really be intimidated by my size if she’s willing to get so close. “Okay, I showed you mine,” I say.

Her hands flutter up and down between her breasts as though she’s undoing buttons, although there aren’t any on her tunic. “I, um, do you want me to—”

I need to make this easy for her. She’s trained, well-trained, even. If I give her commands, that should help her relax.

“Turn around and face the mirror. Take your top off over your head, fold it and lay it on your bag. Then take your bra off, put your hands over your breasts, turn around and face me.”

She closes her eyes and I watch her for any sign that might have been too much. When she opens her eyes, her pupils are huge.

“Good girl,” I murmur as she turns around to face the mirror over the sink.

She plucks at her top, finally gathering it under her breasts and then lifting it off over her head. Her hair slithers free, sliding over her skin like sepia ink, the tassel of her plait swishing to the middle of her back. I can’t wait to run my hands through it. Beneath the tunic she’s wearing more white silk: a demi-cup bra, edged with white lace and embroidered with tiny pink hearts. Cute. She’s blushing so hard the tops of her breasts are mottled, but when she’s not so pink, her skin will be gorgeous: creamy, smooth and dotted with red-brown freckles. Just what I was hoping for. She’ll mark up like a wet dream.

She meets my eyes in the mirror, and blushes to her hairline.

I give her a nod to keep her going.

Biting her lip, she starts removing her bra: unhooking it behind her back with that strange, double-jointed movement women somehow manage without dislocating an elbow. She slides the straps down her arms. I don’t angle to see her bare breasts as she takes off the bra. I keep my eyes on hers in the mirror. She breaks eye contact to fold her bra and place it on top of her tunic and bag, sitting in the sink. Then her eyes rise to mine again. She cups her hands over her breasts and turns to face me.

“Show me what you have for me,” I say, very gently.

She lets her hands fall to her sides, revealing little breasts so slight the overhead lights barely cast any shadow beneath them. Her pink nipples are furled tight. Goosebumps bead her freckled skin.

She glances down at herself, then back up at me.

“Beautiful, baby doll. How’re you