Page 251 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
She grins up at me. “You can definitely wangle an invite into my space, sir. My apartment’s upstairs.” She tips her chin at the ceiling.
“Alrighty-then, girl. I’ll pack a bag while I’m at Logan’s and plan on staying tonight at least. You tell me if you get sick of me invading your space.”
“Okay, sir.” She wriggles a little closer. “Can I have a kiss before you go?”
“That’s a big affirmative.” I reel her in and claim her mouth. She melts against me and I can’t keep my hands from straying down to that smackable ass, perfectly encased in warm leather. When the door opens, I release her, but not before I give that ass a good, hard, very satisfying squeeze.
Bren moves back with a little squeak and rubs her butt. “Ouch, sir. I think I might be sick of you invading my space already.”
“Sure, girl. See you at seven. Call me if you need anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
I leave her grinning.
nine
BRENNA
Ineedhim all day.
I need a tuna on rye from the deli for lunch. I need a cup of coffee to restore me after an hour-long telephone interrogation by Theo over who might have a grudge against me or Missing Ink. Once Mac arrives with my coffee, I need a hug every five minutes, although I limit myself to only asking for them after he’s finished shuttling back and forth from Logan’s with enough bags to stay for a week and parks himself on the reception couch with a huge hardback to read while I work. Am I being selfish and sappy? Damn right. But seriously, how often do I get a Dom at my beck and call?
Besides, he lightens my whole day. He eats lunch with me—bringing his own meatball sub when he delivers my tuna on rye. After I tell him about a meme I saw online about the existence of a meatball sub implying the existence of a meatball Dom, he pulls each meatball out of the bun and wiggles it at me, talking dirty in falsetto, before he pops it in his mouth. He gets his test results just before I call him for the coffee run, so he brings along a box of bourbon brownies to celebrate and then steals most ofthem, stuffing them into his mouth as I try to grab them away from him. That leads to a wrestling match on the kitchen floor, which I let him win just for the feeling of him pinning me down. Knowing that he’s safe—and I can finally have his freaking dick—makes me crazy and I end up begging to give him a blow job. He drags me into my office, which has a lock on the door, and lets me suck him for five minutes, with the promise of earning an anal orgasm if I can make him come. I try every trick I know, working my tongue piercing into that sensitive spot where his head meets his shaft, playing with his balls, deep throating him until the tears run down my face, but he has too much damn control. It becomes a game for the afternoon, with us ducking into the office between each client. I realize he’s using my mouth to edge himself, which makes me desperately horny.
Do I think of the skinhead and what he’s done to my shop? Nope, not even once.
We’re late heading out to dinner because Mac decides that brownie wrestling’s made us dirty and we need a shower. I expect him to fuck me in the shower, but he just teases me, playing with my breasts and pussy and ass with his warm, soapy hands, until I’m so desperate for him I’m can’t think. He bends me over the sink as he’s toweling me dry, lubes up my ass and works in a butt plug with what has to be a three-inch neck. Once it’s seated, he pats my ass.
“Let that open your sphincter, girl, because it’s all the prep you’re getting tonight.”
I whimper at his words, and the stretch of the plug, and the mini orgasm that shoots through me.
“Can you sit down with that wide boy in?” Mac asks.
“I think so, sir.” I give him a shaky thumbs up.
“Good girl. How long d’you need to get ready?”
“Give me fifteen minutes, sir?”
“Ah, that’s my girl.” He bends over and kisses the curve of my ass then sets his teeth in it until I yelp. He chuckles and pats my sore cheek before pulling me upright, drying off the rest of me, and tucking a few stray dreads back into my messy bun. Then he snaps the towel at my ass until I run away into my bedroom.
As I pull on soft cotton tights, a sweater mini-dress and my Docs, I wonder if this is what Mac’s always like—this see-saw between playful and utterly evil—or if he’s just trying to keep me distracted. I hope he’s always like this. I kind of love it.
I wolf-whistle when he emerges from the bathroom. He’s such a snappy dresser. He’s wearing a shiny, midnight-blue dress shirt that makes his eyes look electric, an abstract white, blue, and black tie, and tailored black pants. Instead of that expensive-looking coat he wore into my shop when he came in the first time, he’s carrying a leather jacket. He’s clean-shaven; his ashy hair slicked back to show the gray at his temples. He’s not trying to youth it up. It’s a classic look, and it absolutely suits Mac. Not that I’m fixated on his looks. Much. It’s more that he’s made the effort for me: to look nice, to take me out, to get to know me.
My insides tighten, which makes me supremely aware of the plug, and I feel my face heat. Mac moves into my space—which isn’t hard in my tiny apartment—cups my chin in his hand and rubs his thumb over my lower lip.
“What’s got you blushing, bold girl? You thinkin’ naughty thoughts?”
“The naughtiest, sir.”
“Good, you can tell me about them later. Uber’s here.”
“Thank you, sir.” I push everything I’m grateful to him for, including that he’s not making me walk to the restaurant when I’m plugged, into my words and those blue eyes glow with pleasure.
Okay, hibachi is a little kitschy. Edz wouldn’t be caught dead here. But he’s missing out. We’re too late for the reservation Mac’s made, but once he turns those killer blues on the hostess, she seats us anyway, smuggling us into two spare seats at the grill. The chef gives us the full show as he cooks our dinners in front of us: tossing my shrimp up in the air with his broad cleaver. When I keep telling him to throw on more hot sauce, he makes a game of it, cupping his hand to his ear to encourage the diners on either side of us at the long counter to shout “more” as he splashes on drop after drop of the bright orange hellfire. I’m laughing so hard my cheeks ache by the time my shrimp and veggies land in front of me.
