Page 243 of Double Daddies
He plucked the paperwork from her other hand and shoved it into a locker. “Why, that potty mouth, of course. Some Daddies have their own methods of correcting bad language—spanking just isn’t quite effective enough for some Littles. There’s washing dirty mouths out with soap, paddling, caning in extreme circumstances. Butt plugs are valuable tools, as is figging.” He flicked his fingers at her feet. “Kick off your shoes, sweetling.”
“Why?”
“Because if I’m right about you, your Little won’t come out to play when you’re all serious and grown up. Your shoes screamadult. Humor me.”
She didn’t disappoint.
Marching in on a mission to debunk his theory, she made it three steps into the Nursery before her pace slowed… stopped.
Damn, he loved being right.
Her expression was exactly what he was expecting; it was like watching a kid running riot in a candy store before the frazzled parent rushed in to stop the impending carnage. Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, but she was fighting her Little, valiantly attempting to keep her from surfacing.
The problem with the Nursery was there were too many stimuli available to let that happen. Bright, vibrant colors lured Littles into the play areas along with a vast array of different toys and activities; the napping area was decorated in softer pastel colors designed for quieter, more peaceful downtime in the sea of beanbags, sleeping bags, chairs and daybeds.
Clay touched his fingertips to her back, eyebrow arching when he understood just how hard the two halves of her were battling each other. She was physically vibrating with the need to play, her muscles trembling with the urge to let loose.
Was the asshole ex responsible for this level of repression?
This wouldn’t do at all.
Sliding effortlessly into the role of Daddy, he lowered his voice to an octave that was both soothing and inarguable. “Sweetling, I do believe Mistress Ericka replaced the sand in the sandbox this morning. It’s all clean and soft.”
She beseeched him with those big, dark eyes as if begging him not to make the craving worse, but a good Daddy pushed his Little’s boundaries. She wasn’t his, maybe wouldn’t ever be, but she wouldn’t be anybody’s if she didn’t cut the chains restraining a vital part of herself.
Spying the newest addition to the toy inventory in the far corner, he grasped her shoulders and pointed her at it. If fresh sand wasn’t enough to pull her in, she couldn’t be strong enough to resist the adult-sized rocking horse in the corner.
He heard her gasp of delight, her small whine of pure need.
Gotcha.
“Would you like to ride the pony, Avery?”
A chain clinked free when she took a step forward.
“Look how pretty he is,” Clay coaxed gently. “That glossy gray coat with all those dapples is just begging to be stroked, sweetling. His mane looks silky-soft, doesn’t it? Bet it’ll feel real good between your fingers.”
Clink. Another step, another chain gone.
“Go on, Avery. Be brave. There’s only us here, you can be free for a little while.”
The moment she gave in was extraordinary. A visible shudder ran through her, as though shaking off the rest of the chains, then she bounced on her tiptoes and giggled. With afleeting glance at him, she darted away, running to the carved wooden horse and scrambling to climb on the leather saddle as it began to sway.
Grinning, Clay ambled over, enjoying the way the fabric of her pants stretched over her curvy ass. It was perfectly clear she’d never been on a horse in her life, but he’d be damned if he didn’t appreciate her enthusiastic efforts.
When he reached her, she was clinging to the saddle, kicking her legs and laughing at her futile attempts to get on. “Lift your left leg, Avery.”
“Don’t wanna.” Her voice was slightly higher, full of mischief.
“Do you want to ride the pony or just cling to it like a monkey?” To his delight, she cackled and started to make monkey noises. Clamping his hands on her hips, Clay boosted her up and into the saddle to save time. “There. Ride him like you stole him, sweetling.”
For a split second, adult Avery tried to make a comeback, a hint of embarrassment bringing color to her cheeks.
Clay set his hand on the polished, painted wooden rump and gave it a shove to set it into motion. The horse swung back and forth on the safety stand, and adult Avery disappeared in a heartbeat.
Gripping the mane in both hands for dear life, she squealed loudly.
He lost track of time, simply watching her. Who knew a woman surrendering to a younger version of herself could be so enlightening? For most, childhood was a fleeting memory, a rolling series of events compressed into a highlight reel of the most important.
