Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5 by E Frost (self help books to read .TXT) 📕

“You’re welcome, baby doll. I had a mother, too. I wouldn’t have left for two weeks without saying goodbye to her. If I set the alarm for two hours, we can get a little more sleep and still have time for that omelette I promised you before we head to the train station. Shh, now.”

He strokes my hair again, and he’s still stroking it when I drift off.

Saying goodbye to him is ridiculously painful. I’ll see him again on Wednesday night. Two days.

That’s just two days too long.

I should be able to bid him a breezy goodbye, with a heartfelt kiss for such a great first date. Instead, we linger at the gate, as far as Logan can come without a ticket, tangled in each other’s arms, lost in each other’s mouths. At the last minute, he lets me go, and I have to race through the gate and down the platform, clutching my phone and my overnight bag and thanking goodness that I wore flats.

My phone pings before I even find my seat. I check it, and smile at his message. Forty-seven hours. I’m counting down, and will be counting on your sweet ass when I see you on Wednesday.

I wriggle down into my seat while I text him back, feeling the delicious soreness of said part. I’ll be counting, too, sir. Can’t wait. Thank you for the best first date ever.

He sends me back a clapping hand and peach emoji, which have me giggling as I put away my phone and pull out my laptop.

Nothing’s changed at home. The swimsuits I ordered have arrived, and they’re cute, even though they make me wish I had more up top and I’ll have to wear the little matching skirt-thing to cover my scars. Logan didn’t ask about them. Every one of my Doms has asked, and I haven’t told any of them the truth.

If Logan asks, I will.

My neighbor, Tammy, who recommended the care home I have my mother in, because her father is there, has put a note through my letterbox the way she does every Monday, asking if she can catch a ride with me. I smile as I scribble, “Sure, 9:35,” on the back of the note, the way I do every week, and pop it back through her door. Not letting her down makes up a little for missing a second night with Logan.

I’m revising that opinion by midnight. The house is ringingly empty. It’s dark, no matter how many lights I turn on, and cold, despite the warm day. My eight hundred and twenty calorie meal for one tasted like cardboard against the memory of tortellini in brodo. None of my manuscripts are calling to me. There’s nothing on TV, despite having five thousand channels. I’ve started three different books and put them down because they failed to hold my attention. I’m beginning to contemplate watching funny cat videos on YouTube—the last stop on my “my life sucks rotten eggs” train—when my phone pings.

It’s a Skype request from “Big Daddy Dom NYC.”

I snigger and flick over to text messages. Some weird guy calling himself Big Daddy Dom NYC is trying to Skype me. What should I do, Daddy?

Logan’s response is instant: Send him a picture of you peeing. That will scare him off.

I giggle and accept the Skype request, then open a video call. “Hi, Daddy.”

There’s a scraping noise before the video opens on his end. Logan’s face appears, framed by white pillows. He’s in bed already. “Hey, baby doll. You busy?”

I shake my head. Profoundly unbusy.

“Thanks for texting me when you got home,” he says. “I always want to know you’re safe.”

Boy, I’m glad I remembered to do that. “I’m safe. Safe and bored and wishing so badly I could have stayed another night.”

Logan sighs and slides an arm behind his head. His arm muscles bunch under his skin. I remember how that log felt around me, so warm and solid and comforting, and have to swallow a whimper.

“I’m missing you, too, baby doll,” he says. “How about I talk you to sleep?”

Even though I wouldn’t normally even go to bed for a couple of hours, I nod eagerly. I race upstairs, turning off lights as I go.

“Have you locked your doors, sweetheart?” Logan asks as I’m dashing upstairs.

Shit. I dash back down, lock the front door, check the back door, and rush back upstairs. I leave the phone on my bed while I pee and brush my teeth in record time; retrieve it as soon as I return to the bedroom. “Should I undress for you, Daddy?”

“Uh-huh. Let Daddy see his beautiful girl.”

I take my time wiggling out of my yoga pants, bending all the way over and displaying myself the way I know he likes. His groan of appreciation makes heat flush the parts I’m pointing at the phone.

“Baby, you got any body lotion?”

“Yes, Daddy.” I show him the top of my dresser, where I keep perfumes and lotions and deodorant. “What would you like me to smell like?”

“Pink bottle.”

Him and his thing for pink.

“Pear and magnolia,” I tell him, picking up the Crabtree and Evelyn bottle and waving it at the phone. I hear him take a deep breath, as though he can smell it.

“Smooth it on, all over your skin, start at your feet.”

I set the bottle on the floor, prop the phone against the bottom dresser drawer, bend over until I can touch my toes, squeeze a dollop on my hands and rub it in, smoothing it up the backs of my calves, my thighs, over my bottom, in slow, circular strokes.

Logan groans. “You’re killing me.”

“Am I, Daddy?” I turn around, feigning innocence, while I smooth the lotion up and down my arms, stretching my hands to him.

“Tease me and your ass will regret it. Forever.”

I giggle and rub lotion over my breasts, pinching my nipples as I rub. When my nipples are hard and slick, I slide my hands down