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

taxi to take you to the airport tomorrow. You take the flight as scheduled and I’ll pick you up at LAX. I’m sorry you’ll have to fly alone—”

“Don’t be,” I breathe. He’s not leaving me behind, and he’s made all these arrangements for me. My heart feels so full in my chest it should burst out like an alien, only that’s not very romantic. “I’ll write and nap on the plane, I promise. Oh, Daddy, thank you for not leaving me behind.”

“Leave you behind? That wasn’t ever an option. I can’t wait to see you, baby doll. I miss you like fuck.”

I giggle. “I miss you, too, Daddy.”

“Good girl, Emmy, good girl. I’ll see you tomorrow night, huh? I’ll find somewhere nice for us to have dinner. Sushi sound good? I’ll find us some sushi and then we’ll take a walk down Hollywood Boulevard. See the stars, okay?”

“Yes, sir. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll do everything just as you’ve said.”

“You’ll be okay, right? I know this is a last-minute change, but I don’t want you reading anything into it, baby doll. No dark thoughts, okay? If you have any dark thoughts, you call me right away.”

He’s worried about me? That’s the last thing he should be worried about. And other than some snips while I was trying on clothes, HIM’s been pretty quiet since I got home.

“Please don’t worry about me, Daddy. If I have any dark thoughts, I’ll call you. But I promise I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, good girl. I’ll see you soon, huh? Just a little later than planned.”

“Yes, Daddy. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“See you then, sweetheart. I’m going to text you Manny’s number, just in case. Any problems, call me straight away.”

“I will, Daddy.”

The text with Manny’s number pings up on my screen a second after we hang up. I save it as a new contact, and while I’ve got my phone out, change Logan’s contact name to Big Daddy Dom NYC, which makes me smile despite the change of plans.

Sleeping in his bed without him is a little lonely, but his bed really is very cozy. I tuck a pillow behind my back and pretend it’s him spooning me. His sandalwood scent on the sheets soothes me. My belly’s full of the wonderful steak fajitas he had delivered for me. I sleep for nine hours without a single nightmare.

When I wake, my phone is full of messages from him. He always texts in full sentences, with punctuation. I’d adore him for that alone, without all the sex and kinkery.

Are you sleeping in my bed, baby doll? I wish I was there.

I’m thinking about you naked in my bed. Are the sheets brushing your skin? Are your nipples hard? Are you awake?

You must be sleeping. I should be. Time difference is messing me up. I can’t wait to see you. Sushi might have to wait. Someone I need to eat out first.

Are you up? Did you sleep OK?

Are you still sleeping, baby? There’s breakfast in the fridge. Grapefruit and the bread you like for toast.

Going to have breakfast with client. Text me when you get up. I want to know you’re OK.

I tap the screen to bring up the keypad and text him. I’m awake. I love your bed. I slept for 9 hrs. Feel great. I’ll have breakfast. Can’t wait to see you, Daddy.

I expect it to be several hours before he texts me back, but the phone chimes as I’m getting dressed.

Back at you, baby girl. I’ll call you after I’m done. You need phone sex.

I get phone sex? My heart, and my ovaries, leap. He said no masturbation until I was back in his bed, but, of course, I slept in his bed last night. I just did it without him. If that gets me phone sex, it was totally worth sleeping alone.

I abandon dressing, wrap myself in his huge terrycloth robe and take my phone with me down to the kitchen. I cut up the grapefruit and toast the Bateman’s Stone Ground he’s found for me and put the rest of the loaf in the freezer so it doesn’t spoil while we’re away. I arrange my breakfast on the table overlooking the garden, take a picture of it and send it to him. I’m eating breakfast overlooking your garden. Love your view.

I’m finishing my grapefruit when my phone pings. When I tap it, a panorama of downtown Los Angeles opens on the screen, the skyscrapers gleaming in the hard, red morning light. This is my view. Needs you in it.

How does he always say the perfect thing?

I rub my fingertip back and forth over the picture he’s sent me while I eat my toast. Why a picture of the Los Angeles skyline should make me feel ridiculously warm and fuzzy inside, I have no idea. Probably the same reason sitting in Logan’s bathrobe, which has the same warm sandalwood scent as his sheets and the spot under his jaw, eating the bread he must have gone to a specialty grocer to find for me, has silenced HIM, which should be screaming by now. After a long rant about my stupidity in going on a two-week cruise with a man I’ve known for less than a week on the train yesterday, it’s been quiet. Maybe the magic of sleeping in Daddy’s bed silenced it.

Once I’ve finished my toast, I clean up the kitchen, then take my phone back up to the bedroom, still admiring my view. I lie on his bed, ignoring a grumble from HIM about lying down after I’ve eaten. I open his robe, pull up the “Daddy’s Lil Monster” tee I wore to bed, and slide my fingers into my panties. I hold my phone over my hips and take a picture.

I check it, caption it, and send it to him.

My phone pings a second later.

Wait until I call you. If you come before I call, you won’t be able to sit down again. Ever.

I take my fingers