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

He puts a warm hand in the small of my back. “Bad day, baby doll, but you’re going to make it all better.”

“I’ll do anything you want to make it better, Sir.” And I mean that. If he wants me to drop and blow him, even here in a public bathroom, I will. If he wants to hit me with his belt, I’ll take it without making a sound. “But please don’t do this if it’s not what you need.”

He blows out a long breath and pulls my shorts up. “Turn around.”

I do, and the pain is stark in his eyes now. It pierces my heart like a red-hot needle. I reach for him. “Oh, Daddy, please, what happened?”

He picks me up, sliding his big hand under my bottom. When I wrap my legs around his waist, he turns and walks us the two steps to the door. With my back propped against the door, he leans in and kisses me, slow and deep.

When he lets me up for air, I stroke his face, freshly shaved for me, again. He smiles back at me. This time, it reaches his eyes. “How’d you know?”

“You look really strained. Are you jet lagged? Are you getting sick?”

“Just jet lag.” He tips his head to the side, pushing his cheek into my hand. It’s not just jet lag. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

That’s why he was texting me all night. “I saw your texts. Do you want a nap? Do you want to go back to the hotel and have a nap? We could just cuddle.”

He gives me a chuckle that has absolutely no humor to it. “What happened to me being so rough with you when you land that I fuck you without any foreplay?”

I don’t know what happened to that. All I know is that he looks wrecked and not at all in the mood to play.

“Please, just tell me what you need right now. Please let me help.”

He pecks the tip of my nose. “I need you.”

Typical male evasive answer. “Communication? Please?”

He blows out a breath. “You want to know the truth, Emmy? I don’t feel like playing right now. I want to go back to the hotel and hold you tight. I want to feel you all over me. I want to know you’re with me. You’re with me and you’re going to be with me in five minutes and an hour and tomorrow and the day after that.”

Oh, good Lord, something did happen. Something way beyond jet lag. I tighten my arms around his neck. “Please, let’s go back to the hotel.”

“Okay. I’m sorry about this, little girl,” he says as he steps back from the door and lowers me to my feet.

I stretch up and kiss his jaw before letting him go. “I’m not.”

Outside, we find the taxi stand and as he’s loading my luggage into the trunk, I tell him I’ve read that Uber plans to have flying taxis in Los Angeles within the next few years, which is the only amusing thing I can think of at the moment. His eyes lighten a little and when we get in, after he buckles my seat belt and gives the driver our destination, he puts his arm around me. I hug him tightly. I don’t say anything. If he wants to talk, he will. In the meanwhile, I give him the quiet comfort of my body. He stares out the window at the passing palm trees for a few minutes, occasionally turning his head and kissing my hair. I can feel the tension in him slowly ebbing.

Finally, he murmurs into my hair, “I’m really glad you’re here, Emmy.”

“I’m glad to be here,” I respond softly, twisting a little so I can look up at him.

“I interviewed Bill Black’s widow this morning.”

I knew that already. I give him a moment to see what else he’ll say, and when he doesn’t continue, I ask, “Did it go badly?”

“No, she was forthcoming. Too forthcoming.” He shifts and I can tell he’s uncomfortable with what he’s about to say. “Interviewing widows bites. It’s the worst part of my job. Their loss makes every word a punch in the gut. I feel like I’ve gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight.”

I rub his chest, warm and firm under his black T-shirt. “I can understand that.”

“I have no idea why I should care. They’re strangers. I don’t even know the person they’ve lost. But it gets me every time. Fuck, I don’t know if I should even say this.”

I tuck my face into his neck, so he doesn’t have to look in my eyes while he admits something painful. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know I can. I’m not afraid of you judging. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

Why would his sensitivity to a stranger’s loss hurt me? “I promise I won’t take it the wrong way.”

“It makes me hot,” he whispers against my temple. “It makes me insane to discipline them. I want to beat all that grief out of them. Fuck them until they smile through their tears. I know how wrong that is, but that’s what I want. Wanting it, and not being able to do it, guts me. It’s like I’ve got a giant fishhook right here.” He slaps his hand over his flat belly. “And it keeps twisting.”

I stroke his chest, his abdomen, smoothing my hand over and over the planes of his body, so he can feel my acceptance. “Please take it out on me, Sir.”

He cups my head and presses his lips hard to my forehead. “Thank you, baby doll.”

* * *

He doesn’t take it out on me. Not at first.

Once we put my luggage in the bedroom and he shows me around, he draws me to the swanky suite’s big, semi-circular couch. He cuddles me in his lap, then lies down with me, sinks into me, pets me, and kisses me, while he tells me