Page 17 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
Structure and discipline. The combination that defines every good Daddy Dom romance, the balance between guidance and passion that makes the dynamic so appealing.
"I don't?—"
“Don’t lie to me, Monica.” The tone is conversational, not aggressive.
“I don’t crave–”
"You do." He cuts me off again, voice quiet but implacable. "Last night, when I told you to come closer to the fire, you did. When I told you to slow down, you listened, even if only for a moment. And just now, when I swatted you, your body didn't pull away. While your words spoke one thing, your body demonstrated something else altogether. You have a terrible poker face, sweetheart."
Each example hits like a revelation, forcing me to confront the pattern I've been trying to ignore. The way I respond to his authority, the way my body obeys even when my mind protests, the way I crave the structure he offers even as I fight against it.
I freeze. He's right. God help me, he's right. What do I do now? What do I say?
My phone buzzes loudly, breaking the moment. I reach into my pocket and pull it out. I hope my actions are as dismissive asI want them to be. Because I’m not ready. Not ready to talk about this with him. Not yet, anyway.
Holly: Monicaaaa. PLEASE tell me you have caught up! We have to talk about the book tonight!
Christine: She's probably too busy pretending she doesn't want her grumpy scientist to bend her over a hay bale.
Janelle: Perfect Professor is totally Daddy vibes. Calling it now.
The timing couldn't be worse or more perfectly ironic. Here I am, having the exact conversation the girls have been predicting, and they're texting me about hay bales and Daddy vibes like they have some sort of psychic connection to my love life.
Me: You're all deranged. Also, stop psychic-reading my life.
When I glance up, Brett is watching me with that knowing half-smile that makes my insides knot.
"What?" I demand.
"You didn't deny it," he says softly.
And damn him, he's right again. I didn’t deny his observations, and I didn’t deny the girl’s words either. Not that he would know what was going on in the chat. Even with them I deflected, I protested, I called them deranged but I didn't deny wanting him to bend me over a hay bale. Because the truth is, after tonight, after that swat and those commanding words and the way he looked at me when I admitted what I was reading, the fantasy doesn't seem quite so impossible anymore.
“I’m headed out,” he says. “Go to bed at a reasonable time tonight, Monica. You are working yourself too hard and I’m worried about you. Daddies don’t like it when their girls put their health and safety at risk.”
He leaves me in the barn gawking after him, my dignity in tatters. But the phantom sting of that swat lingers all the way to my bed, and when I finally drift into sleep, my dreams are full of the sound of his voice calling me good girl.
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning brings chaos in its purest form. I don’t have time to think about Brett or about the swat in the barn. I don’t have time to wonder about how he would Daddy me and if I’d let him.
This morning started early with a retirement ceremony inside of our open events barn. There’d been crisis after crisis, but we’d met each one with a smile. After they’d all left, a school bus pulled up, a day early. They’d messed up the dates, and we ended up with not one, but two entire preschools full of children running between crates of apples. Vincent Van Goat had escaped again. It seemed like no matter what I did, the damn goat would find a way out of the pen.
Ten minutes after putting him back inside of the pen, something happened and someone left the petting zoo gate open. Our two resident llamas ran free, we were missing a pig and of course, Van Goat was nowhere to be found. It took almost an hour, but we rounded up every animal and had them backwhere they belonged. Now, for the moment anyway, everything seemed to be going the way it was supposed to. For now, anyway. Vincent is running around the pen, hopping up and jumping down from the large table I’d placed in there, just for his amusement.
And me? I'm running on fumes.
And shame.
Let's not forget the shame. Because this morning I woke up with the memory of Brett's hand on my backside, the echo of his voice calling me "good girl," and the uncomfortable realization that I want it to happen again.
I've been up since before dawn, hauling crates, checking displays, smiling until my jaw aches. My body hums with exhaustion, but the rhythm of work keeps me upright. As long as I keep moving, nothing can catch me.
Except Brett.
He's been watching me all morning with those perceptive eyes, cataloging every stumble, every moment of fatigue I try to hide. It's like being observed by someone who sees straight through my carefully maintained facade to the woman underneath who's running on caffeine and stubbornness.
