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

of a scene that hurts me emotionally? Oh Lord, I hope not, because I hate this. It’s not a turn-on. I don’t want to do this. I want him to stop. My chin quivers, and there’s a hot rush behind my eyes.

“Sir, can I cry?”

“Yes,” he groans. He lifts his head a little and nuzzles my temple. The first tear smears against his lips. “Yes, cry for me.”

A second tear follows the first, then a stream. I’m not sure what he’s doing, what he wants, what he’s trying to make me feel, but everything about this is reminding me horribly of my marriage. Lying under Ashley and feeling nothing except shame at my own lack of desire for the man I was supposed to spend forever with. That’s not how I feel about Logan. But what he’s doing isn’t something I want, not even a little bit. And doing this, this horrible, hollow parody of the thing he does that makes me feel so good, is tearing me up.

Logan’s panting into my ear now, his thrusts still shallow but faster. Fast enough to give me just a little edge. I tighten my pussy around him, but he shakes his head. “Stop. Just lie there. This isn’t about pleasure.”

It’s not? What the fuck is it about? I don’t understand what he’s doing, and I hate it, as much as I hated sex with Ash by the end. I want it to stop, and I’m a heartbeat away from saying my safe word when Logan’s breath catches.

He doesn’t make any noise as he comes. Nothing like his usual full-throated groans. He just pushes a little deeper. I feel him flex, although there’s no hot rush because of the condom.

And then I realize that’s why he put it on: so I couldn’t feel him, and he couldn’t feel me.

I sniff, swallowing my tears. “Sir, are we done?”

That’s not what I want to say. I want to beg him to get off me so I can go take a shower. I don’t want to lie under him anymore, feeling the roughness of his clothes against my skin. I don’t want his rubber-coated dick in me. I want to get away, hide in the bathroom, and wash whatever the fuck that was off me.

But if it was me, and I was suffering like he is, I’d see that as abandonment. I’d sink, maybe when I’d just started to swim.

“Yes. It’s over now,” he says against my temple.

Thank fuck for that. I touch him tentatively, brushing my hands over his shoulders. He shifts and more of his weight settles onto me. He was holding himself up, preventing us from connecting the way we did in New York, his wonderful weight controlling me. I slide my hands down his back until I reach his skin. Clammy, and that’s nothing to do with the hotel room’s air conditioning.

“Do you feel better, Sir?”

Please, please, let that horrible fuck have exorcized whatever demon is riding him.

“No,” he says, his breath warm in my hair. “Now I feel as hollow as they do.”

Was it for nothing? Did I endure that for nothing? My eyes and nose sting. Fresh tears slide down my temples. I keep rubbing his back, not sure what else to say or do.

“I’m going to get rid of the condom,” he says finally. “Put your panties and a hotel robe on, sit on the couch, and wait for me.”

“Yes, Sir.” I’m sure he can hear the relief in my voice. Not just because I really want him out of me, but also because his rasp is gone. He’s speaking in his normal voice again. Hopefully, everything will go back to normal now. Because I really don’t want to meet that demon again.

He slides up onto his forearms and looks down at me, his dark eyes probing. “Are you okay?”

Kinda not, but I’m holding it together for him as best I can. I nod.

He leans in and kisses my wet eyes. “Can you keep going? I can tell this is upsetting you.”

“Yes, Sir.” I’m not sure why I’m agreeing. It’s upsetting me. I hate everything he’s done. But he’s much, much more upset than I am. If this is what he needs to do to cope, I’ll take the train with him to the last stop. “If I need to, I’ll use my safe word.”

“Good girl, Emily. Thank you for that. And thank you for doing this with me.”

The praise and the thanks heal the gouges he’s been carving in my heart. I manage a smile for the first time since he told me to close my eyes. “You’re welcome, Sir.”

He pulls out and goes to the bathroom to deal with the condom. When he comes back out, he hands me a robe. I look a question at the bathroom door. Although plane trips usually leave me dehydrated, his schedule required that I drink eight ounces of water every hour, which I did religiously. I really need to pee.

Logan nods and I take that as permission. He hasn’t told me I need permission to use the bathroom, and it wasn’t in his contract, but maybe that’s because I told him watersports was a hard limit. Controlling my bodily functions isn’t quite watersports, and I don’t mind asking permission to use the toilet, particularly when we’re in scene. I’m glad he gave me permission, though, because I’m not sure how long I’d be able hold it if he said no, and peeing anywhere but a toilet is a total, complete, Great Wall of China hard limit.

The bathroom’s gleamingly tiled and huge, nearly as big as the downstairs of my whole house. I pee and wash up, using the opportunity to soap off the film of travel and the slight stickiness between my legs, before I shrug into the fluffy, white bathrobe Logan’s given me.

When I emerge, I hear Logan rather than see him. He’s in yet another part of this huge suite. He’s on the phone, although I can’t tell