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

what Mrs. Black said to him. How she kept using kink as a weapon to make him share her pain. And he had to just sit there and take it in order to do his job, while every Dom instinct screamed at him to punish her and let the physical pain relieve her emotional agony.

I know so well how crazymaking it is to have those internal voices screaming at you. I almost tell Logan about my internal voice, but this isn’t the time. I don’t want to make this about me. Instead, I return his kisses and caresses, rub his back, and try to say the right things.

I feel it when his mood shifts. When he’s no longer just kissing me but claiming my mouth. When he’s no longer just caressing me but working his hands under my clothes to rub and squeeze and pinch. My body shifts with him, muscles softening, nipples hardening. Ribbons of heat and need run from breasts to belly to clit. The sex during our first date was so, so, so good. I’ve barely thought of anything else for three days and I can’t wait for more.

But something about this feels off.

He works my shirt over my breasts, under my arms, but he doesn’t take it off. He pulls my shorts and panties down, but he doesn’t touch where I want him the most, that furiously burning place between my thighs. When I try to unbutton his jeans, he pushes my hands away. What does he want? I’m not sure, and he’s not giving me any direction. This isn’t at all like our first date, when he commanded me so precisely, controlled my every breath. I loved that and I want more, but he doesn’t seem to want to give it to me.

Uncertain, I watch him anxiously.

“Close your eyes. Don’t look at me,” he rasps.

Finally given an order, I obey. But I don’t like it. I don’t like that rasp, which is one tone away from disappointment, even though I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong. The wrongness is inside him, and I don’t know him well enough to know what form it’s going to take as he lets it out.

He picks me up and carries me through the suite, his bare feet thudding softly on the thick carpet. The world tilts, and I force myself not to clutch at him as he lowers me. I feel firmness under my back and the silky rub of fabric on my bare back. He’s set me on the bed. He tugs my hips to pull me down to the edge, my legs dangling, my shorts and panties still tangled around my calves. I keep my eyes closed and listen as he unzips his jeans.

Then I hear something I don’t expect and don’t understand.

The rip and crinkle of a condom wrapper.

Why is he using a condom? We had unprotected sex in New York, several times. We’ve shown each other our tests, and he knows I have an implant. Why does he need a condom now? Does he think I had sex with someone while we were apart? Oh, fuck no, did he have sex with someone else while we were apart?

His hands close on my thighs, and I have to keep myself from flinching at the sudden contact. His hands move up my thighs, spreading me. I feel his tip nudge between my labia, then he’s thrusting into me.

There was plenty of foreplay while we were cuddling, and it feels like he’s using a lubricated condom. He pushes deep on the first thrust, all the way in on the second, his thighs pressing mine apart, my feet pushed hard against the side of the bed by his shins. I want to kick my panties and shorts off so I can wrap my legs around him, but I’m not sure if he intends for me to be in this uncomfortable position, so I don’t move, except to push my hips up into his thrusts. He could bottom out in me with little force. But he doesn’t. He leans over me, slides his forearm under my shoulders, and drops his face into my neck. Since he can’t see my face, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling—no mirrors, this place is way too fancy for that—as he starts fucking me.

Except he’s not really fucking me. He’s thrusting slowly and shallowly. Without any heat. Without any strength or force. His heart isn’t in this any more than it was in the airport bathroom, so why is he doing it? I wriggle, trying to get him to move faster, draw him deeper. The bite of his jeans against my thighs keeps me wet and open, even though his movement inside me isn’t anything more than okay.

This is what sex was like with Ash. Disconnected. Hollow. It never made me come; it barely even got me wet. Ashley never understood, but Logan does. Logan knows how to connect with me, how to create a level of intimacy I’ve never felt before. He must be doing this for a reason. Although I’m not sure what it is. Still, if it soothes his hurt, I can give this to him. Maybe he just needs gentle right now. I focus on him: caressing him everywhere I can reach, meeting his slow motions.

“Stop,” he groans. “Just lie still.”

He doesn’t want me to touch him? He wants me to just lie here and take his dick, like a blow-up doll? I drop my hands to my sides and try to be plastic for him, cold and still. He keeps working his cock in and out of me, a little faster than before, but it doesn’t even feel good now. I’m not even his fuck toy. I’m just a plastic hole in the bed, not good enough to touch him.

Is this his version of humiliation play? I know he’s a sadist. Has he forgotten that humiliation is one of my hard limits? Is this his idea