Page 194 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I endure my throbbing feet as I click down the hallway, past the kitchen, bathroom, and tiny back office, through the security door and up the stairs to my apartment, where I can finally kick my stupid shoes into a corner. I would regret wearing them except that Mac couldn’t take his eyes off my legs. And the heat in those blue eyes ...
I shake myself. I will not turn into mindless goo just because the guy has freaking Brad Pitt blues. It was just a date. This is just phone sex. And whatever we do tomorrow night will be just a scene. I’ve done literally hundreds of them, so there’s no reason for my stomach to be fluttering.
I tell myself that several times as I strip and find my favorite plug, a spiral glass monster that Rob gave me for my birthday last year and I thought meant something. It didn’t. Even though that stung for a while, it’s still my favorite plug. Thick and cold going in. So cold. And fuck, fuck, fuck, it makes me feel so full. I shudder and lick my lips as I seat the plug, then totter into the bathroom and run a bath. I love the weight as I move around. That heavy fullness. Fuck, so good. My thighs slip against eachother as I get myself a Corona before sinking into the hot bubbles.
Mac calls at quarter past. Just long enough to make me wonder if he is going to call. Not long enough for him to be playing mind-games. He said he was a straight-shooter, and I think he is.
“How was the rest of your day, Bren?” he asks warmly after we exchange hellos.
“Good, until the end. A skinhead showed up and badgered me to give him a swastika.”
Mac chuckles. “You told him to fuck off.”
“Now, that wouldn’t be very professional, would it? I just scared him a little.”
“You threaten him? Do you have combat skills that I should know about?”
I do, but I don’t want to scarehimoff.
“I have Nicky skills. He’s six three and looks like he eats wannabe Neo-Nazis for breakfast. Skinhead scooted out with his tail between his legs.”
Another deep chuckle, which makes me press my thighs together under the water.
“Did you put your favorite plug in after you scared the skinhead off, bold girl?”
“I did, sir.”
“Describe it to me.”
I do, omitting the part about how it was a birthday present from another Dom.
“Good girl.” I swear his voice drops nearly an octave and makes me melt into the bathwater. “If you’re struggling with it overnight, text me. If I don’t answer in ten minutes, call me. I’m not usually a heavy sleeper, but I’ve had a glass of wine or two tonight.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“Logan’s. You didn’t think Emily would let me leave after only one meal, did you?”
I laugh. “Of course not. Mexican?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“It’s Tuesday. Emily knows better than to screw with the time-honored tradition of Taco Tuesdays, even if she doesn’t eat tacos.”
“Mmm, do you eat tacos?”
“I eat pretty much anything that you can put hot sauce on.”
“Next date, bold girl, we’ll go to your favorite restaurant. I want to see how hot you can go.”
Next date? There’s going to be a next date? I rub my thighs together harder. Stop-stop-stop. Just a date. Just a scene. If we ever fucking get there, just sex. Doesn’t mean anything.
“My favorite restaurant’s the Trattoria at the club,” I tell him. “But the chef refuses to let me incinerate my taste buds. Really, you’d think he’s a Dom or something. Anyway, if you don’t mind slumming, I’ll take you to Miss Eve’s in Bed-Stuy. Even Bebe J approved of Miss Eve’s.”
Mac’s warm chuckle rolls over me. “Translate that for me, New York girl. Bed-Stuy? Bebe J?”
“Sorry. Bed-Stuy is Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn. Bebe J was my Jamaican grandmother.”
“Was. You lost her?”
