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

feel guilty. All the justifications I’ve come up with over the years, many of which are written in previous pages of this journal, still ring hollow. Yes, I started a relationship with Lew too soon after my separation from Ashley. Yes, I was confused by my unexpected desire to give myself over to Lew’s control. Yes, the deranged sex, after five years of marriage without a single orgasm, turned me inside out. Yes, Lew’s demand that I be his little girl full-time terrified me.

None of it justified me running away from him, cutting off contact, refusing to talk to him, treating him as though he’d abused me.

I was inexperienced, confused, and frightened, but mostly I was a coward. The memory of the hurt on Lew’s big, bearded face as he turned away from my apartment door the last time still makes my eyes sting.

I never want to see that expression on Logan’s face.

I’m not inexperienced, confused, or frightened by my kink anymore. I know I’ve been given a second chance with Logan. I know how rare he is: a real Dom, a Dom who commands my submission, who won’t back down when I push him, and who cares as much as about my needs as he does his own. He’s a Dom I can trust. A man I can trust. If I’m brave enough.

I flip my phone back to his picture and silently promise him I’ll be really brave this time. Mary Wollstonecraft brave. Rosa Parks brave. Wonder Woman brave. I won’t hide my feelings or keep secrets. I’ll trust him not to shred my heart.

Logan smiles back at me from the screen. He has full, soft lips for a man. Expressive lips, whether smiling his hungry, wolfy smile, or feathering softly over my skin. I believe you, those lips seem to say. I believe in you.

Belief that’s echoed in his dark eyes.

I blow his picture a little kiss, then tuck my phone and journal away, pull out my laptop and open my current manuscript. It’s another highlander historical romance, my eleventh, and it was feeling pretty stale until I met Logan.

Now I have plenty of fresh inspiration as I put my fingers to the keys and begin to type.

* * *

Seven hours later, having followed Logan’s schedule to the minute and feeling surprisingly well-hydrated and refreshed despite the long flight, I bounce into the baggage claim area. I spot Logan immediately, twirling a cart around on its back wheels idly while he waits. He smiles when he sees me and opens his arms so I can run to him.

He’s such a big man, eight inches taller and a good eighty pounds heavier than I am. He scoops me straight up off the ground. I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and pepper his face with kisses.

“I’m so happy to see you,” I say between smooches. “First class was awesome.” I remember the British phrase for thank you that he’s taught me. “Ta very much. And I followed your schedule to the minute.”

He chuckles and stills me with his big paw on the nape of my neck to claim a deep kiss. Then he lowers me to the ground.

And I realize something’s very wrong.

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes that were so hot and wanting even through the phone on our video-call this morning have gone cold, bracketed by deep, tight lines. Those weren’t there this morning. Under his summer tan, his skin is gray. He’s holding himself strangely. He’s still military-straight, but his stomach’s tight, like he’s clenched against a blow.

“Sir, is everything okay?”

He collars me with his hand on the back of my neck and presses a kiss to my forehead.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. “I found a sushi place not too far from the hotel, but I couldn’t get a reservation until eight. I know that’s crazy late for you.”

And him. Some of his strain might be from jet lag, but there’s definitely something else going on.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m really looking forward to it. A California roll in California? Do you think that’s too trite?”

He chuckles and kisses me again while I watch his expression closely. So much strain. “No, baby. You have your tourist sushi.”

I go up on my tiptoes and nuzzle into the warm spot under his jaw. He still smells like sandalwood, but there’s something else, too. Something acidic and a little bitter, like the white part of a lemon rind. Is he getting sick? I have First Defense with me; I always use it when I fly. Maybe I should offer it to him.

My big, yellow suitcase appears on the conveyor belt. It distracts me, and I tug Logan towards it. He retrieves it, and my smaller suitcase, when that arrives on the conveyor, and loads them onto the cart. I lay my backpack on top of the suitcases and take his hand when he offers it to me. That he can wheel the laden cart with one hand doesn’t surprise me. That he wheels it to a handicapped bathroom, after we get through the outer gate, does.

He pushes the cart inside, draws me through, and locks the door behind me. “Over the sink. Ass up, shorts and panties down, if you’re even wearing any panties,” he says, but it’s a pale imitation of his sexy growl.

I am wearing panties, because I feel indecent without them. I move into position, there’s no way I’m hesitating even for a heartbeat, not with him in this mood. As I’m sliding my shorts down, I ask, “Sir, can we communicate?”

He stops what he’s doing—unbuckling his belt from the sound of it, a noise that’s like Pavlov’s damn bell to a submissive and has me practically drooling between my legs—and draws in close behind me. “Yes, Emmy, what’s wrong?”

There’s no way to tackle this but head-on. Trying to be subtle with someone as honest and straightforward as Logan is just insulting. “Please, Sir, has something happened? I