The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (great novels .txt) π
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βSir, can I cry?β
βYes,β he groans. He lifts his head a little and nuzzles my temple. The first tear smears against his lips. βYes, cry for me.β
A second tear follows the first, then a stream. Iβm not sure what heβs doing, what he wants, what heβs trying to make me feel, but everything about this is reminding me horribly of my marriage. Lying under Ashley and feeling nothing except shame at my own lack of desire for the man I was supposed to spend forever with. Thatβs not how I feel about Logan. But what heβs doing isnβt something I want, not even a little bit. And doing this, this horrible, hollow parody of the thing he does that makes me feel so good, is tearing me up.
Loganβs panting into my ear now, his thrusts still shallow but faster. Fast enough to give me just a little edge. I tighten my pussy around him, but he shakes his head. βStop. Just lie there. This isnβt about pleasure.β
Itβs not? What the fuck is it about? I donβt understand what heβs doing, and I hate it, as much as I hated sex with Ash by the end. I want it to stop, and Iβm a heartbeat away from saying my safe word when Loganβs breath catches.
He doesnβt make any noise as he comes. Nothing like his usual full-throated groans. He just pushes a little deeper. I feel him flex, although thereβs no hot rush because of the condom.
And then I realize thatβs why he put it on: so I couldnβt feel him, and he couldnβt feel me.
I sniff, swallowing my tears. βSir, are we done?β
Thatβs not what I want to say. I want to beg him to get off me so I can go take a shower. I donβt want to lie under him anymore, feeling the roughness of his clothes against my skin. I donβt want his rubber-coated dick in me. I want to get away, hide in the bathroom, and wash whatever the fuck that was off me.
But if it was me, and I was suffering like he is, Iβd see that as abandonment. Iβd sink, maybe when Iβd just started to swim.
βYes. Itβs over now,β he says against my temple.
Thank fuck for that. I touch him tentatively, brushing my hands over his shoulders. He shifts and more of his weight settles onto me. He was holding himself up, preventing us from connecting the way we did in New York, his wonderful weight controlling me. I slide my hands down his back until I reach his skin. Clammy, and thatβs nothing to do with the hotel roomβs air conditioning.
βDo you feel better, Sir?β
Please, please, let that horrible fuck have exorcized whatever demon is riding him.
βNo,β he says, his breath warm in my hair. βNow I feel as hollow as they do.β
Was it for nothing? Did I endure that for nothing? My eyes and nose sting. Fresh tears slide down my temples. I keep rubbing his back, not sure what else to say or do.
βIβm going to get rid of the condom,β he says finally. βPut your panties and a hotel robe on, sit on the couch, and wait for me.β
βYes, Sir.β Iβm sure he can hear the relief in my voice. Not just because I really want him out of me, but also because his rasp is gone. Heβs speaking in his normal voice again. Hopefully, everything will go back to normal now. Because I really donβt want to meet that demon again.
He slides up onto his forearms and looks down at me, his dark eyes probing. βAre you okay?β
Kinda not, but Iβm holding it together for him as best I can. I nod.
He leans in and kisses my wet eyes. βCan you keep going? I can tell this is upsetting you.β
βYes, Sir.β Iβm not sure why Iβm agreeing. Itβs upsetting me. I hate everything heβs done. But heβs much, much more upset than I am. If this is what he needs to do to cope, Iβll take the train with him to the last stop. βIf I need to, Iβll use my safe word.β
βGood girl, Emily. Thank you for that. And thank you for doing this with me.β
The praise and the thanks heal the gouges heβs been carving in my heart. I manage a smile for the first time since he told me to close my eyes. βYouβre welcome, Sir.β
He pulls out and goes to the bathroom to deal with the condom. When he comes back out, he hands me a robe. I look a question at the bathroom door. Although plane trips usually leave me dehydrated, his schedule required that I drink eight ounces of water every hour, which I did religiously. I really need to pee.
Logan nods and I take that as permission. He hasnβt told me I need permission to use the bathroom, and it wasnβt in his contract, but maybe thatβs because I told him watersports was a hard limit. Controlling my bodily functions isnβt quite watersports, and I donβt mind asking permission to use the toilet, particularly when weβre in scene. Iβm glad he gave me permission, though, because Iβm not sure how long Iβd be able hold it if he said no, and peeing anywhere but a toilet is a total, complete, Great Wall of China hard limit.
The bathroomβs gleamingly tiled and huge, nearly as big as the downstairs of my whole house. I pee and wash up, using the opportunity to soap off the film of travel and the slight stickiness between my legs, before I shrug into the fluffy, white bathrobe Loganβs given me.
When I emerge, I hear Logan rather than see him. Heβs in yet another part of this huge suite. Heβs on the phone, although I canβt tell
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