Page 18 of Daddy's Little Librarian
I was under it at the time, she’d said, hiding in the back of her closet, just like any Little he’d ever known might do. With tears still running down her face and that blatantly I’m so sad expression on her face, just like the last Little he’d been a Daddy to would occasionally have, especially when coming out of punishment time. And that bear cuddled to her chest… oh, that bear had been the clencher.
She’s a Little ran through his head like a skipping record. The entire time she sat gazing up at him from her hiding place in the closet, to the entire time they’d been in the bathroom—him counting out a new list of rules that would irrevocably redefine the rest of their relationship together; her, with those big, wide eyes locked on him and that teddy bear in the Bat Girl costume still clutched in her hand and her hands on her bottom as she tried not to rub, and occasionally failed.
He made up a bed for himself on the floor at the foot of hers, with his head positioned so he could see at a glance both the window and down the hallway.
Those looks of hers were going to be his downfall. He was very susceptible to Little looks. They brought out the protector in him, and damn Grams for the wily old woman she was, she knew that too.
Jesus, had Grams seen that look on Scotti before? Did she know Scotti was a Little? Did she know about the time he’d spent in his old BDSM group, back before he went to jail and back before he had a felony strike against him that would make it difficult for him to get back into a reputable dungeon from now until the day he died? Responsible dungeons ran checks on their members. Some only banned people with sex offenses. His old dungeon banned felonies period, and Kurt knew he had made that unforgiving list before he’d even gone to trial.
His friends there had turned their backs on him without even giving him a chance to explain. Dana had made sure of that.
He could never go back there.
He could never go back anywhere.
If he had Scotti, he wouldn’t have to, the devil on his shoulder whispered.
Like he’d ever just settle for a relationship with anyone for no reason other than because it was easy.
Like Scotti was easy, his devil scoffed.
He tuned that voice out and cranked up the stubborn in his soul. The only relationship he was going to have with Scotti would be the employer/employee relationship. He was her bodyguard, that was it. He was here to protect her to the best of his abilities, not to get attached.
Like he had anything to offer anyone, anyway, the devil whispered.
Exactly, he agreed.
Keep it simple. Keep it professional.
Don’t fall under the spell of those big-eyed Little looks.
“Can I get out of my bath now?” Scotti asked from the doorway, startling him.
On his knees fussing with blankets, he froze when he saw her—hair wet from being washed, her face clean of makeup, dressed in her pink bunny footie pajamas and Bat Bear dangling from its arm at her side.
Oh Jesus.
He was so screwed.
“Are you hungry?” Somehow, he managed not to sound like he was strangling on the rising tidal wave of need crashing down on top of him.
She nodded.
“I’ll make you a sandwich.” He stood up, but a part of him wanted more to open his arms and see if she’d rush to throw herself against him, flinging her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck and making herself small in that special way that brought the big, bad Daddy-wolf in him snarling to the surface.
She needs protecting like few you’ve ever known. Funny, how his inner angel sounded just like Grams.
You’re not a cop anymore, the devil replied. His protection powers were severely limited these days.
His sandwich-making powers, however, were topnotch. He led the way to the kitchen with her following like a duckling at his heels.
She had a nice, modern kitchen, with a cooking island that did double duty as a table. On his side, there was a stove and a shiny array of copper pots and pans on a hanging rack above it. The fridge was at his back, the double sinks to his left, and more than enough cupboard space to make searching for whatever he needed an extensive game of hide-n-seek until he figured out the layout. On her side, she had a row of four barstools, and she promptly parked herself on one.
“I could make you a sandwich,” she offered, as he began hunting down the bread. “On top of the fridge.”
“It’s fine,” he said, pulling it down. “It’s all part of the service.”
Her fridge was every bit as neat as the rest of her house. Things were organized—fruit in the fruit bin, vegetables in the crisper. A thin drawer below had sliced deli turkey and a wide assortment of cheeses. He dug past the Havarti and Provolone until he found Swiss. Pulling a bag of red grapes and baby carrots from their bins, and a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise from the door, he shut the fridge and came back to the island.
