Page 42 of Daddy Knows Best

"No. Listen." His eyes held mine, storm-gray in the lamplight. "I don't want normal. I want the woman who wears bee socks. Who drew her monster with crayons and faced it head-on. Who trusted me enough to be vulnerable, to submit, to let me help carry what was too heavy alone."

Tears pricked my eyes. "That's therapy Emily. What if real Emily disappoints you?"

"Impossible," he said simply. "Because they're the same person. The woman who ate honey dessert while I played footsie with her socks? Who teased me mercilessly about myincrediblemusic taste? That's also the woman who I’ve seen at her lowest, who took correction with grace, who's standing here brave enough to voice her fears. All you, Emily. All mine."

The possessiveness in that last word undid me. I swayed toward him, and his hands steadied me, sliding from my face to my shoulders.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, formal even now. "Here, in public, where anyone could see?"

"Please," I whispered.

He leaned down slowly, giving me time to change my mind. But I rose on my toes to meet him, impatient for the connection. Our lips met softly at first, testing. Then his hand slid into my hair, angling my head, and the kiss deepened into something that tasted like promises.

I pressed closer, feeling the solid warmth of him through cotton and denim. His other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me steady as the world tilted. This was declaration. Ownership. A claim staked in full view of the harbor and the city and anyone who cared to look.

When we finally broke apart, I was breathing hard, lips swollen, completely uncaring that we'd just made out like teenagers by a tourist attraction. Nate looked equally wrecked, his careful control scattered to the wind.

"Okay?" he asked, thumb stroking my cheek.

"Better than okay." I leaned into his touch. "Although maybe we should invest in chapstick if we're going to keep doing that."

His laugh rumbled through his chest. "Noted. I'll add it to my spreadsheet."

"Please tell me that's a joke."

"Maybe one day you’ll get to see my spreadsheet. It’s impressive."

I poked his ribs, making him squirm. "Terrible. You're terrible."

"And yet you're still here."

"And yet I'm still here," I agreed, marveling at the truth of it. Still here, still his, still becoming whoever Emily-and-Nate would grow to be.

The lighthouse beam swept over us, bronze light blessing whatever came next.

Chapter 8

Iwantedeverythingtobeperfect.

The fairy lights needed adjusting—not because they'd moved, but because my hands needed something to do besides shake. I wound the amber strand one more time around the curtain rod, stepping back to check the glow. Soft. Warm.

From my laptop, the Backstreet Boys crooned about wanting it that way, volume set just loud enough to settle my nerves.

I padded to the nightstand where Tuesday's delivery waited. The rattan cane lay across folded tissue paper like some kind of sacred object. Twenty-four inches of flexible correction—or in tonight's case, sensation. I lifted it with careful fingers, testing the weight Nate had demonstrated during our planning dinner. Light enough for control, substantial enough to leave marks if we wanted.

The handle fit my palm perfectly, wrapped in wine-colored leather that had already shaped to his grip. I gave it an experimental swish through the air. The sound made my stomach flip and my thighs clench, body already translating possibility into want.

This wasn't about punishment anymore. Not tonight.

I set the cane back in its tissue paper nest, aligning it just so. Beside it, the black silk blindfold looked innocent as a sleep mask. The kind of thing normal couples might use, if normal couples also left handwritten agreements on their beds detailing exactly what would happen at 8 PM sharp.

My reflection caught me off guard—naked except for white cotton panties I'd need to lose. The cropped cami Nate had approved barely covered my breasts, hem ending just below the curve. Every time I moved, air kissed the underside, keeping my nipples peaked and sensitive. The bee socks came next, pulled up to mid-calf, their tiny insects marching in formation.

"Uniform complete," I told Sir Reginald, who watched from his tower with feline judgment. He'd been banished to the living room for the evening, bribed with treats and a new catnip mouse. "Don't look at me like that. This is healthy. This is choosing."

He yawned, unimpressed by my personal growth.

The panties slipped down my legs with decisive movement. No backing out now. I folded them neatly, adding them to the dresser drawer where good girls kept their underwear when Daddy said they weren't necessary.

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