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

I’m ready to tell him about. Particularly not over the phone where I can’t curl up in his arms.

“That’s the little I saw at my club, isn’t it?” At my nod, he continues. “I like that little. She’s a naughty girl I love to play with. But I also like when you go younger and play hide-and-seek and suck your thumb. Could that be part of bad-baby?”

I sucked my thumb until I was fourteen and Maman made me get braces. “Sure.”

“Mmm, I’ll do some more reading and see what flips my switch. I’m guessing you don’t have any of the baby gear?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a nursery or anything.”

I have teddy bears, including the teddy buried under the pillow the phone is propped against, but my teddies are not something I show to my Doms. There’s being little, and then there’s the soul-deep comfort of sleeping with my teddies. My Doms don’t need to know about that.

“Don’t worry about the gear. I can get whatever we want through the club. You’d be amazed at what some of the members have.” He grins into the phone. “I don’t know if I told you this already, baby doll, but the Daddy thing is really working for me. I haven’t been this fired up in years.”

I grin back and the slight discomfort of talking about my kink fades back to the usual warm glow I feel when I’m with Logan. “Really?”

“Yeah. I can’t believe I’ve missed out on this for so long. I’ve seen couples that must have been Daddies and Mommies with their littles, but it never registered.” Logan taps his temple. “But it’s in here now. So I hope you’ve got plenty of time available, baby doll. ‘Cause we’ve got a lot of playing to do.”

I stroke my middle finger down the edge of the phone, wishing it was his jaw. “Yes, Daddy. As much time as you want.”

“Mmm.” Logan stretches back into the pillows; his grin goes from Wolf-Daddy to German shepherd. He looks happy and relaxed, which makes me happy and relaxed, too. “Let’s talk about that. I’m kind of addicted to schedules, so I’ll have one for each day on the cruise, and I’ll do one for you, too, so you know when your time’s yours and when it’s mine. How many hours a day do you usually spend working?”

I shrug. “Depends. If I’m on a writing jag, ten or twelve hours. But I burn out pretty fast writing that much. It’s more usually six or seven hours. Sometimes it’s just one or two. I write every day, though.” That’s a discipline I got into before my first book even came out.

“Can we compromise on six a day while we’re on the cruise? Two in the morning or evening and four in the afternoon? That way we can eat together and still have plenty of time for play.”

“Yes, sir, that would be great.” Although I can’t keep any schedule when I’m on my own, I love the idea of him giving me one. Knowing he cares enough to plan each day for me lights me up. “Did you do that with your other subs? Give them a schedule?”

“Some.” He doesn’t elaborate. “How about we get started on it now? It’s twelve-forty.” A glance at the clock confirms he’s right, even though it feels like five minutes since we started talking. “My baby girl needs at least seven hours of sleep. So from now on bedtime is absolutely no later than midnight. You can have one story and then I want you to go to sleep. If you wake up before eight, you roll over and go back to sleep. Do you have any of your fairy tales handy?”

I nod. I always keep a book of them next to my bed. At the moment, it’s the Lyons version of One Thousand and One Nights.

“Pick one story. A short one. And read it to me.”

“Yes, sir.”

I pick “The Ebony Horse,” which I read a few days ago and is long enough to feel satisfying but not so long it will antagonize Logan. Whether it’s the lack of sleep over the last few days, or Logan commanding me to sleep, I feel my eyelids getting heavy as I read. I stifle a yawn or two as I read the last page, and when I finish, I’m more than ready to put the book away, turn off the light and go to sleep.

“Night-night, baby doll,” Logan whispers to me, his voice warm and soft in the dark, like an extra blanket.

“Night-night, Daddy. Best phone date ever,” I say around a yawn.

“Oh, Emmy, we’ve got so much to come. Have sweet, baby girl dreams and text me when you wake up. Turn off your phone now.”

Reaching out from the nest of blankets I’ve pulled up to my chin, I do. Then I grab the teddy that’s behind the phone, drag it under the covers with me, curl around it and close my eyes.

Visits with my mother are never fun. She doesn’t laugh much anymore, and when she does, it’s about things the rest of us can’t see or hear. I gave up trying to talk to her about the people she used to know. I don’t mention Francis or Ash, my mother’s two sisters, or the cousins. They’re all strangers to her now. Instead, I read to her, or play one of the games her doctors say are supposed to slow her memory loss. Today, I bring along One Thousand and One Nights and read her “The Ebony Horse” because it makes me smile.

She gives me her vague smile back and rearranges the fresh flowers I’ve brought her. I bring them every week. I’ll have to have flowers delivered while I’m away. Another thing to do before I go. I read her another story, then cut the visit a few minutes short so I can speak to Jenetta about my trip.

Jenetta, the home director, welcomes me with the