Page 182 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
Her hip piece is big, covering the whole of her hip and right ass cheek. It’s eye-popping. Pale lilies and roses on heavily inked black and gray scrollwork. There are eyes and numbers worked into the scrolls.
“What are the numbers?”
“Dates,” she says.
She doesn’t explain further, and I don’t press. I’ll explore these hints she’s given me when we’ve built more trust.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks.” She begins to pull up her pants, but I stop her with my fingers on her wrist.
“Can I touch it?”
She nods and I slide my palm over her skin until I feel the ridges the tattoo conceals.
“Surgical?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. Three ops before they told me I’d reached the ‘end point’ of what they could do to repair my hip.”
“What happened?”
“Not something I talk about.”
I file that away for later.
“Surgeons told me the same thing,” I tell her, to create a little more connection between us. “Four ops on my knee and they said there was nothing more they could do. There’s more scar tissue in there than cartilage. It’s why I left the service. I wasn’t up to deployment anymore and the idea of a desk job.” I shake my head. “Not for me.”
“Maybe I should tattoo your knee,” she says wryly.
“If I like your design for the mermaid, I might be up for that.”
She makes a little snorting noise. “Anything’s better than the flounder with boobs on your back.”
“Are you shaming my tattoo?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay-okay, I agree with you. What’s your favorite food?”
She purses her glossy lips. “Anything spicy. Thai, Chinese, African, Caribbean.”
“The hotter the better, huh, bold girl?” I capture her chin again. “Give me your panties.”
Her pupils expand until her irises are just a thin brown rim. A man could drown in those eyes.
“I’m at work,” she whispers.
“That’s why I’m taking your panties instead of your bra. Take them off.”
She only hesitates a moment before her hands drop to her hips and her fingers tug at the bows.
“You’ll go commando until I give you these back,” I tell her quietly, as I watch her untie her panties. “You may not touch yourself except to clean until after our scene tomorrow.”
“I don’t really do the twenty-four-seven thing,” she whispers.
I haven’t. Not in a long time. Not since Amy. But with this girl, I feel the itch for that level of control. The rightness of it settles in my gut. Something to work towards.
“If I was controlling you like that, you’d know,” I say. “I’m just setting the stage for our scene. Can you obey me that much, bold girl?”
