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

most observant people I’ve ever met. Of course, he knew. I just didn’t think he’d do anything about it. But his disappointment tells me he has, or is going to, and by not leaving it to him to deal with, I’ve let him down. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I should have trusted you to take care of it.”

“Yes, you should have. Daddy always has his girl’s back. Always. I’ve already set the wheels in motion and by this time next month, Rachel will be gone. But until that happens, there will be no more confrontations, no snide remarks, and definitely no catfights, no matter what she says to you. Are we clear?”

He’s getting rid of Rachel? Like getting her fired? I know my daddy has a lot of clout at his club. He used to be Master of Training, which meant he trained all the new subbies. He’s still on the management committee. But I didn’t think that he could—or would—get her fired. I want to ask questions, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. Instead, I hug him hard.

“Clear, Daddy. I’m so sorry.”

He kisses my forehead again. “I forgive you, little love. I know you’re still getting used to having a daddy full time, and I’m still learning to be your daddy. But this is something that you should have come to me with and let me resolve. I’ve been waiting for you to, and it hurt that you didn’t.”

He’s hurt? He’s never said I’ve hurt him before. Ever. What have I done?

I push up until I can press my forehead against his. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise. I love you and I never want to hurt your feelings—”

“Sh-sh-sh,” Logan cuts across my babble. He draws me back down into his arms and cuddles me close. “Daddy will survive. But I’m telling you how I feel because I want you to tell me how you feel. We communicate, right? We share our feelings. That’s how this works.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl. Now, seeing you in the playpen’s made Daddy horny, so option one is that you get on your knees, and option two is that Daddy fucks you over the back of the couch. Either way, you’re not getting an orgasm.”

Damn.

I blink up at him a few times. Although his mouth twitches, his expression doesn’t soften. Sometimes the puppy eyes work, but they seem to have lost their super-powers today. He’s really annoyed—okay, hurt—that I didn’t come to him about Rachel.

“Option one.”

Sucking him off will make me horny, but I can endure that. Having him fuck me and not being allowed to come is more than an endurance test. It’s torture. It scrambles my brains, and he knows it, which is why he’s given me the choice. I thank him for it.

“Ta very much, Daddy.”

“On your knees, then, my baby.”

He takes a throw cushion off the couch and tosses it to floor between his feet before helping me down onto it.

Chapter Two Logan

Discipline is not the way I like to start the day, even followed by one of Emily’s ball-exploding blow jobs. But we got home from my club too late last night to do anything but go to bed. Emily’s bedtime is midnight, no matter what else is going on. Come the Zombie Apocalypse, I’ll still be putting my little girl to bed at midnight. She operates on a very limited energy reserve, so a full seven hours of sleep is essential, or I get a hot mess of a little girl. And a hot mess of a little girl does not make for a happy daddy.

The situation with Rachel is not making for a happy daddy, either. Rachel may think she’s being subtle with her digs at Emily, but I’ve kept track of each and every one. I’ve already spoken to all the members of the management committee about moving Rachel to Sacrum, our sister club in New Jersey, and most are in agreement. I’m just waiting for the committee meeting next week to take a formal vote and then I’ll break the bad news to my former bottom and her new master. Neither of them will be happy. But I’ve given Rachel a month to get over herself, and Sante a month to get her under control. Since neither has, I’m resolving the problem my way.

I wish I could resolve all my problems so neatly.

With a sigh, I look over my little girl’s shoulder, through the open, French doors at her back, out into the garden behind my townhouse. Mum’s oasis. She loved her garden, so rare in the crowded city. While she was alive, the garden was full of the plants I remember from England. Nodding roses and tall spires of foxgloves and climbing honeysuckle the bees like. Since Mum passed, I haven’t done the best job of keeping up her garden; all I have to do is look at a plant for it to die. I kept the grass mowed with the old push mower because I like the exercise and cut back the roses every winter because I remember Mum doing that but, otherwise, I’ve left the garden alone.

Since moving in with me, Emily’s sprinkled whatever green magic women have over the garden and now it’s full of flowers again. They’re not the same flowers Mum grew. I don’t know their names. But they’re pretty and fragrant and bring the soft sounds of bees into the breakfast nook where we’re sitting.

I’m glad Emily’s started putting her stamp on the house. I want her to feel at home here.

I smile at her, and feed her another bite of the dry, whole-wheat toast she likes for breakfast, although I’m not sure how anyone can like dry, whole-wheat toast. She tried feeding it to me when we first arrived home from San Diego. I nuked that immediately. She can juice all the kale, carrots, wheat grass and other green crap she wants to stuff “micronutrients” down me. The physical