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

we’re going to do the Viking raid. I want another chance to flog you, little girl.”

My eyes roll back, and I nearly stumble. Daddy wraps his arm around my shoulders before I fall, holding me steady.

“I think you like that idea,” he says.

His growly tone sends delicious shivers through me.

“Itty-bitty bit,” I admit. “But Master Niall might figure out it’s about him.”

Logan chuckles. “Do you think that would bother him? I’m pretty sure he’d love knowing he inspired the scene. If you’re worried it will embarrass him, I’ll mention it to him beforehand.”

“Yes, please, Daddy. Otherwise, I’d love to do those scenes.”

“Good girl. We’ll do some other private scenes, but those will be the big public ones.”

I look up at him, feeling again that swell of adoration. “Thank you for using my fantasies. Ta very much. It means a lot to me.”

He stops me just before the doors of the restaurant to kiss the tip of my nose and smile down at me. “My pleasure, little girl. Your fantasies are huge turn-ons for me. I have plenty of ideas of my own for scenes, but while we’re still getting to know each other, I want to act out your fantasies.”

We’re not late, but there are already a lot of people in the raised, railed-in area where the captain’s table sits. I don’t recognize any of them. My excitement fades into trepidation.

Then the cigar-smoking chief appears, dignified in his white dress uniform. He shakes Logan’s hand and, after checking it’s okay, opens his arms to me and gives me a hug that turns his dignity warm and friendly.

“How are you two enjoying the cruise?” he asks.

Since I’m absolutely loving it at this moment, I give him a big smile.

Daddy takes me back from Chief Licence, tucks me into his side, and whispers, “Wrists.”

I cross my wrists behind my back obediently. Daddy strokes the soft spot on the inside of my wrist with his thumb. Their deep voices wash over me as I drift down into a peaceful place.

* * *

Logan brings me back up for the meal. Although everything tastes better from my daddy’s fingers, even without him handfeeding me, the blackened chili-chocolate soup and tequila shrimp are wonderful. All while we eat, Daddy gives me little touches: swirling his fingertips over my thigh under the table, stroking my arm, and sliding his palm over my hair. I feel saturated with his affection; it helps me withstand the small talk. There’s no one like Teresa to give me lessons in spin-states, but Chief Licence and Daddy trade stories about storms at sea. Most of their stories involve puking, which keeps the mood light.

After lunch, Logan leads me out to the deck to watch the coming storm. The sea and sky churn all the way from the boat to the horizon: deep gray above, eerie, jade green below. There’s a black band where sea and sky meet, seared white every few seconds by flashes of lightning. It’s dramatic, much more dramatic than storms over Lake Onondaga. Everything in Mexico seems amped up: the heat, the vegetation, the light, the colors. Syracuse is washed out in comparison, but I’m not sure I could handle this intensity all the time.

Chief Licence joins us and we all turn our faces into the cool, salty spray. It’s not raining yet, but the waves are high enough to splash the deck.

“Stay away from the pools today,” the chief warns us. “Two words: projectile vomit.”

“Seriously?” Logan asks.

“Anytime we get a big storm. I have no idea why people think swimming when the boat’s bouncing around like a rubber ball is a good idea, but they do. Never fails.”

“That must delight the cleaning staff,” Logan says.

“Days like this, they have the worst job in the world. Storm’s supposed to break around midnight. They’ll be at it until dawn.”

“Miserable.”

“And they’re not going to get much of a break. We’ve got another front coming in the day after tomorrow. Hope you brought your umbrellas for Mazatlán.”

I look up at Logan. I didn’t bring an umbrella. I thought Mexico was hot and sunny.

He grins. “Yes, beanie, I brought a brollie. As long as you’re a good girl, you can share it. If you get bratty, it’s sightseeing in the rain for you.”

I stick out my tongue.

“Cheeky monkey.” He pinches my lower lip between his finger and thumb. “I think it’s time for your next edging. Say goodbye to the chief.”

“Goodbye, Chief Licence.” I dip him a little curtsey, abbreviated by Logan’s hold on my lip.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Emily. Keep those sea-bands on. You can sleep in them, too. Perfectly safe.”

I smile as much as I can before Logan leads me away. He walks me all the way back to my room, still holding my lip, his other arm around my waist to keep from pulling too hard. His hold hurts but also sends white-hot tingles through me.

Inside my room, he walks me around with him as he checks under the furniture, in the cupboards, and behind the curtains. He ends up by the bed, where he releases me.

“Strip. Leave your stockings and sea-bands on.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Without waiting to see if I’ve obeyed, he unlocks the connecting door and disappears into his room. When he returns, I’ve got my pretty dress off and folded neatly on my dresser. Because I really want to start this scene off right, I’m in a submissive position: kneeling on the floor, forehead to the carpet, with my arms stretched in front of me.

“Good girl,” he says but doesn’t tell me to rise. He moves around the bed, and I hear him setting down something that clinks like glass. There’s a rustle of cloth before he returns to stand beside me. He goes down on one knee and sets his hand on the back of my head, warm and controlling. “I didn’t tell you to go into High Protocol, little love, but I like this very much, so we’ll go with it. Tell me