Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5, E Frost [best thriller novels of all time txt] 📗

warm hand while I consider. “He just used to warn me not to do it. I wasn’t the way I am with you when I was with Matthew. I was still trying to figure out what it meant to be submissive. I didn’t let my little out the way I do now.”

Logan nuzzles my hair and cuddles me even closer. I’m going to end up inside his skin if he holds me much tighter. Not that that’s a bad thing. “I’m not worried about you topping from below, Emmy. Be as bratty as you like. I love finding new spots to smack. Speaking of which, pretty sure I owe you a paddling for being a rude girl last night.”

I was half-hoping he’d forget about that, because as I wake up, I’m discovering all the sore spots from last night. And there are a lot of them. “Daddy, don’t be a morning meanie.”

Logan chuckles. “Nice try. Let’s clean up. No sex with morning breath. Go to the bathroom and do whatever you need to do. When you’re finished come back in here and I’ll take a minute in the bathroom. If you need a drink, there’s a water bottle on your night table. Anything else you need?”

“No, Daddy.”

He pulls the covers off me and swats my behind, which smarts in a way that tells me I’ve had a good spanking recently. I wriggle out of bed and skip off to the bathroom, aware of Logan’s eyes on my ass.

In the bathroom, I dance around, washing with the pink washcloth he’s left out for me, brushing my teeth and shaking my ass to the tune of Nelly Furtado’s “Say It Right,” which I can hear from the bedroom. Mostly, I shake my ass at the tub and the bottle of “Coconut Passion.” Whoever left it there, she’s not here. She didn’t get stretched over Logan’s knee and spanked with a tawse until she nearly came and then finger-fucked in front of his club brothers. She didn’t have crazy werewolf sex with him and sleep snuggled in his arms and wake up with his morning rocket pressed into her ass. He didn’t buy her pink towels and a purple butt plug, and she didn’t call him “Daddy.” I hug myself and twirl around, immersed a warm golden glow. The analytical part of my brain knows Logan’s just being a good Dom. He cares about topping, not about me.

The little part of my brain, which feels more and thinks much less, is just squealing daddydaddydaddy.

And HIM? That part of my brain is blessedly silent. Not even the snarled hair and under-eye circles reflected in the bathroom mirror cause it to stir. It’s been battered down into whatever dark hole in my subconscious it comes from by the wonderful, I-got-fucked-so-hard-last-night ache suffusing me.

Once my bladder is empty, my mouth is minty and I’m not worried anymore about how I smell, even though I really like being called his gingerbread baby, I trot back into the bedroom.

He’s put his bathrobe on again, which is just so disappointing. I might have to sneak it into my luggage before I leave and shred it when I get home so he can’t wear it the next time I see him. And despite my usual debilitating insecurity, there’s not even a heartbeat where I wonder if I’m going to see him again.

He draws me to him and runs his hands down my back to my butt. He gives me a squeeze that has me wriggling against him and sighing at the soreness. Massaging me with those big wolf paws, he murmurs in my ear, “How tender is this little bum this morning, baby doll?”

I might weasel out of the paddling if I tell him I’m too sore. But it would be a lie, and honesty is important to me, too. “Sore but not too bad, Daddy.”

That gets me his wolfy growl and I’m glad I’ve told him the truth.

“Have some water while you wait for me, sweetheart. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He massages my ass for another minute before he kisses me on the forehead and pads out of the bedroom. I retrieve his horsehair brush and brush out my hair while I cross the room to get the bottle of water. There are more things on the nightstand now, including a black silicon paddle as wide as three of my fingers and as long as my forearm. It looks extremely evil.

I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. He said he didn’t want me to stop playing with him, and that he wanted me to let my little out all the time.

The little in me wants to play hide-and-seek.

I take the paddle and push it between the mattress and box-spring of his bed, then smooth out the dark green fitted sheet. I perch on the edge of the bed, on top of where I’ve hidden the paddle, and drink my water.

The music switches over to Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in the Bottle” and I giggle between sips of water at how appropriate the song is. Despite his mainstream musical taste, I love that Logan’s made a sex playlist for me. It’s another of those perfect gestures he makes that light me up inside. I just hope he’ll keep seeing the things I do in return as fun and playful instead of annoying and inane.

By the time he returns, I’ve worked myself up into nervous jitters. I smell sandalwood and can see from the redness of his jaw that he’s shaved again for me. For me. He’s perfect and I’m the idiot who hid the paddle while he was out of the room.

I hop off the bed, retrieve the paddle from its hiding place, take it to him and drop to the floor at his feet, kneeling, then pressing my forehead to the carpet in the full-submission pose Matthew taught me.

Logan’s silent for a moment. Then he squats over me and rubs his balls in my hair. Omigod,