Page 187 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
She reaches for my bowl, but I shake my head.
“Give me your spoon, bold girl.”
Other than depriving her of panties, I haven’t tried to top her, yet. She told me she doesn’t live the lifestyle twenty-four-seven. I want to show her I can be flexible. She’s shown up for lunch in a date outfit: an off-the-shoulder, baby-blue sweater paired with a leather skirt that hits just above the knee. Her dreadlocks are bound up in a huge bun and she’s wearing a little makeup. She’s definitely treating this like a date.
So I’ll give her a date. Mostly.
Brenna hands me her soup spoon warily. I behave myself, feeding her my soup spoonful by spoonful, careful not to drip it on the table that Emily’s left so prettily set. I love the sensuality of feeding my sub. The movement of her lips and throat. The softnoises that speak to her enjoyment of each taste. I sure enjoy the hell out of every spoonful. With the last one, I tease her, running the tip of the spoon along her lower lip before sliding it onto her tongue. When I take the spoon away, she’s grinning.
The main course is a dipping bowl of lamb cubes in a dark brown sauce, strongly scented with ginger and garlic. I tear up the flatbread and use a small piece to scoop up some lamb. She opens her mouth and takes the bite delicately between her teeth. Her eyes widen when the spices hit her palate.
“Good pick, Master Mac,” she says after she swallows the mouthful.
“Thanks.” I chew my own bite and clear my throat against the kick of the hot peppers and ginger. “Whew.”
“Too hot for you?” She winks at me.
“Nothing’s too hot for me, bold girl. When’d you discover spicy food?”
“Birth.” She purrs around another bite. “My grandmother’s from Jamaica. She put chilies in my baby formula.”
I chuckle.
“Where’s the rest of your family from?”
“Not Ireland, Master Mac,” she says with a smart-assed grin. “Dad’s side was from Italy. Ma’s side, Jamaica and Canada.”
That explains the golden-pale skin with the black eyebrows and the dreadlocks.
“What led you into tattooing?”
She shrugs. “A friend of mine wanted one of my sketches as a tattoo. When the tattoo artist asked who did the sketch, my friend dragged me into the artist’s shop. He offered me a job on the spot. I worked for him for three years before he retired, and I went out on my own.”
“Where’d you learn to draw?”
Another shrug. “I always have. Since I could hold a crayon.”
“Any of your tattoos your own design?”
“All of them.” She pauses to take another offered mouthful. “Totally enough about me.”
I have been interrogating her, I admit, but only because I’m interested in what makes her tick.
“You caught me, bold girl. Anything you want to know about me?”
“Why’d you invite me to lunch?”
“The pleasure of your company.”
“Try again.” Her eyes search mine. There’s that direct eye contact that sends blood rushing straight to my dick. “You don’t need to wine and dine me before a scene.”
“Your Doms don’t feed you before they flog and fuck you?”
Her eyes widen, and warm. “Is that what we’re doing?”
“Flogging, maybe. Fucking, no. Not for our first scene.”
“Why not?” Two spots of color bloom on her high cheekbones. “I’m clean. I get tested twice a month. Everyone at Blunts does.”
