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

I tilt the phone screen toward the stewardess. “I’m just turning it onto airplane mode.”

“That’s all right, Miss Martin. Can I get you something to drink?” She holds out a tray with champagne and orange juice in real glasses.

I don’t drink much alcohol and orange juice is too carbie.

“Is there any chance I could have some tea?” I ask.

“What would you like?”

“Peppermint, if you have any. If not, Earl Grey would be great.”

“Peppermint tea coming right up.”

She flashes me that smile again and turns back up the aisle, headed to the galley. I figured she’d continue serving drinks until her tray was empty before getting my tea. Wow, that really is first class service.

I’ve never flown first class before. Between the good service, the comfy seats, and the charging plug for my laptop, I like it so far. I really, really hope the cruise line paid for it, though. The idea of Logan paying to fly me first class after only knowing me for six days makes my tummy clench.

Once I get my phone switched over, I open my photo file and thumb to the last picture I took. The picture is of Logan, sitting at his breakfast table, the morning after our first real date. He’s sleep-rumpled, bare-chested and absolutely gorgeous. At least to me. Most people looking at his picture would probably just see a big man with a night’s worth of beard.

I touch the screen, tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the line of his muscular neck. His gaze burns into mine, even from the picture, despite being sated and lazy after twelve hours of kinky sex. Intense eyes. Black wolf eyes.

They undo me.

Thinking of those hot eyes moving over me, I squirm in my seat. The movement reminds me of the lingering soreness between my legs from this morning’s phone sex. How awesome is phone sex that actually leaves me sore?

When the flight attendant returns with my tea, I take it as a sign to stop drooling over Logan’s picture and tap up my music app. Logan sent me five playlists before he left early for L.A. He played me two of them during our first date. “Music to Fuck Emily To” and “Music to Fuck Emily Harder To” make me smile, and my cheeks burn, as I flip past them. There’s another playlist titled “Cuddle Bum,” but the thought of listening to that when I don’t have Logan to cuddle with is unbearable. I thumb to the fourth playlist, “Daddy’s Girl,” and tap it up while I put in my earbuds. One Direction’s “Steal My Girl” fills my ears and I sip my tea, happily humming along to the music Logan picked for me.

An hour later, while I’m humming to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer,” my phone beeps. I’ve set several alarms to make sure I follow Logan’s schedule for the flight. This one is to remind me to get up and stretch every hour.

I set aside the journal I’ve been writing in and climb out of my seat. A few of the passengers look up when I stand, but they go back to their tablets, laptops, and in-flight entertainment after a glance. I wait until no one is looking my way before I stretch. I wouldn’t ordinarily wear little clothes when I’m not with my daddy, but I packed for the cruise before I knew Logan would have to fly out early without me. If it was cooler, I’d put a sweatshirt over my Baby Deadpool T-shirt, jean shorts, and candy cane thigh-highs, but the plane is too warm for layers.

The flight attendant walks over to check on me. She takes in my outfit and winks, then moves on when I say I’m just stretching. Maybe people in first class wear crazy outfits all the time. The only one I actually noticed was the bald guy wearing a purple satin sweatsuit and so many gold chains he looks like Flavor Flav. Compared to him, I’m dressed conservatively.

I bet the guy in the purple sweatsuit isn’t following the instructions of his Daddy-Dom, who will tan his ass if he doesn’t keep to his schedule.

With a naughty grin, after Logan’s prescribed two minutes of stretching, I sit back down and skim through what I’ve written in the last hour. My handwriting is small and spiky, the opposite of the curling, elegant, Spencerian script my mother made me practice hour after hour. The only time I ever used that script was to write out my wedding invitations and look how that turned out.

I shake away that thought before it triggers the dark, doubting voice in my head, and focus instead on what I’ve written.

Logan makes me feel treasured.

I rub my fingertips over the words, and those that follow them: a list of the things he’s done since we met at the Salt City Kink Expo that have made me feel like the most special little girl in the world. I haven’t written about the two spankings he’s given me, or our scene at his club, or the sex. I’ve written about the other things. The little things. How he buckled my seatbelt when he put me in my car at the expo and again in the limo to and from his club. The toys he bought for me, including a purple butt plug he named Morris. The playlists. The huge bouquet of pink roses and a Hello Kitty balloon that arrived at my house when I returned home after our first date. Our nightly video-calls where he had me read him my favorite fairy tales before he blew me a kiss goodnight.

Little things. Lots of little things that have added up over the last six days to blow my mind.

Logan’s not a real Daddy-Dom, but he’s more my daddy than any of my Doms since Lew.

There’s a smear next to that line. A water mark from where an unexpected tear dripped onto the paper while I was thinking of Lew. Nearly five years later and I still