The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) 📕

I shiver. My nose starts to run, and I wish I could wipe it, but the last thing I want to do is take my hands off my head again.

Sniffling, I go to the corner where Logan directs me. When he twirls his finger in the air, I turn to face the corner, and having had corner time before, lean forward so my nose touches the paint. Logan comes up behind me; I feel his warmth at my back as he takes my hands off my head and secures them behind me with something soft. At least it’s not handcuffs. But I still can’t wipe my nose. I sniffle again.

“Fifteen minutes in the corner, Emily.” He runs his hand up and down my back. “Use the time wisely.”

Wisely? To do what? Contemplate all the ways I’ve screwed up what started as a wonderful day?

You screwed up more than that, stupid girl. What Dom wants a sub so badly behaved that other Doms criticize her? Logan will drop you after this. There won’t be any more masala chai. No days at his house. No nights at his club. Just your empty house and hollow hook-ups with Doms who want pictures of you peeing.

My nose runs from more than the cold. I can’t wipe it, or mop what’s dripping off my chin.

“Emily.” Logan’s warm hand lands on my shoulder. “Blow your nose, baby.” He holds a handful of tissue to my face, and I gratefully, and wholly ungracefully, snort into it. He pinches the end of my nose with the tissue, folds it and holds it for a second blow, then wipes my nose before kissing the back of my head.

His warmth moves away and the tears, and my nose, flow faster. Most Doms wouldn’t approach me during corner time, even if I was drowning in snot, but Logan takes care of me. Always. Even when I don’t deserve it. Because he’s a wonderful Dom.

A wonderful Dom who can have any sub he wants. He doesn’t need to waste his time on a stupid little girl who plays stupid little games and embarrasses him in front of other Doms.

“Emily.” His hand settles on my shoulder again. Is corner-time over? I’ve always hated corner-time, or time-outs, or whatever my Doms wanted to call isolation punishment. It’s just a chance for my own mind to turn on me. “Sweetheart, calm down. Blow your nose.”

He offers more tissue and I clear my fucking sinuses again. “S-s-sorry, Sir.”

“Sh. Quiet, Emmy. Eight more minutes.”

I nod mutely and bite the insides my cheeks, hoping the pain will distract me enough to stop the tears.

It doesn’t.

It can’t be just eight minutes before Logan releases my hands and turns me around to face him. It’s eight hours. Eight days, months, years of the hateful internal monologue berating me for my own stupidity, regurgitating every social misstep and gaffe I’ve made since meeting Logan, reminding me I’ve never managed to “keep a man,” as Maman would have said.

Did say, more than once, when my marriage imploded.

I’m hiccupping on tears when Logan releases my wrists and turns me around to face him and Niall. They both look appropriately horrified, and when I look down at myself, I see why. In the wide, damp patch across my chest, snot glistens. Shiny on the white cotton of Logan’s shirt.

I put my hands over my face and run into my own room where I strip off his shirt and shove it under the tap, scrubbing madly. I’m too blinded by tears to actually see if I’m getting anything off or just splashing water everywhere.

“Emily, here, stop, little girl.” Logan reaches around me and takes the sodden shirt. He wrings it out and tosses it over the handrail in the bathtub. Returning to me, he runs his hand up and down my back, his palm dry and warm over my clammy skin. “I don’t care about a shirt. What is going on with you?”

I look up at him through my tears, my mouth working, but nothing’s coming out.

He blows out a breath. “That’s the way it’s going to be, huh? You’re not going to talk to me? Have it your way. Since we’re in here already, let’s get it over with.”

I bite my trembling lips, trying to think of words to explain, but nothing comes. There’s nothing I can say to explain how horrible I’m feeling inside. How embarrassed I am. How much I hate myself in this moment.

“Brace yourself against the sink. Head up. Mouth open. Tongue out.”

What?

“I-I don’t—”

Logan crosses his arms over his chest. “Was I unclear?”

Fuck, now I’ve made him angry. Angrier. Fuck-fuck-fuck, why can’t I do anything right?

One thing. Just let me do one thing right. I grab the edges of the sink, feeling the wet bandage stretch across the back of my hand. He told me to keep it dry. Another thing I can’t do right. A fresh tear streaks down my right cheek. I sniffle hard. Please, anything but more snot.

“Tongue out, Emily. Don’t make me wait.”

I shake my stringy hair back from my face and meet my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. I look awful, even by bad day standards. My hair has come loose from the ponytails; it straggles around my face. Some of it is wet and flattened to my head. Some of it is mussed and sticking up. My eyes are red, framed by bags so dark they look like bruises, an unlovely contrast with my white cheeks and pale lips, chapped from stretching around that stupid dildo. No wonder Logan and Niall looked horrified. I’m beyond a hot mess; I’m a nuclear melt-down. Freaking Chernobyl has nothing on me.

I blow out a ragged breath, trying to get control of myself. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I can’t tell if you’re not listening to me or if you’re really trying to test my limits, Emily. Tongue. Out.”

I stick it out. No mucus, but there is whitish foam along the edges. Oh, that’s attractive.

“Because you’re so distracted, I’ll repeat