Page 195 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Yeah, a while ago. Lung cancer.”
“Sorry, bold girl. I can hear in your voice how much she meant to you. Do you have any family left?”
“Nope, just me against the world, Master Mac.”
He hums in his throat and changes the subject, which is good because my eyes are watering. From the booze, of course. Not because missing my gram-gram is a boulder sitting on my chest or anything.
“I’ve been thinking about our scene tomorrow,” he says. “Logan’s playroom has every attachment point in the world. How would you feel about suspension and flogging?”
Sign me the fuck up.
“Sure, sounds good,” I say, trying for breezy instead of desperately needy. “Still no sex, huh?”
“Still no sex,” he confirms.
Fuck, why do I have to be attracted to Doms? Any other guy would be totally down for sex tomorrow. We’ve already had a goddamn date. But nooooo. I have to go for guys who want me to freakingearnsexual privileges.
It’s official. I’m insane.
“But,” he continues, “if someone’s a very, very good girl, there might be orgasms.”
“Orgasms for me or orgasms for both of us?” I ask.
Because I would be totally down for giving him a blow job or a hand job after he’s flogged me through a couple of orgasms.
“Definitely orgasms for you. I’ll consider orgasms for both of us but putting your hand on me is also something you’d have to earn.”
Yup, totally insane, because the idea of earning giving him a hand job has me rubbing my thighs together. Again.
“Could I work on earning them now, sir? We could play two truths and a lie.”
“Not familiar with that one, bold girl. Tell me how it works.”
“We each say three things about ourselves. Two are true. One’s a lie. The other person has to guess which is the lie. If I guess right, could that earn me some sex privileges?”
A deep laugh that has me squirming against the fullness in my ass and the sweet ache between my legs. “Sure. You first.”
“Okay. My favorite color is red. I was born during Clinton’s presidency. I have nine toes.”
He doesn’t even hesitate, damn him. “Your favorite color’s not red. Did you lose a toe or were you born without?”
“Birth defect. How did you know my favorite color’s not red? Did Emily tell you?”
“The blue hair told me. My turn. For the prize of your hand on my cock for one minute, I own every Black Sabbath concert tee. I want to be buried at sea. I was married longer than I was in the Navy.”
I do quick math, remembering what Emily told me about when he got divorced. “You were in the Navy longer than you were married. Also, I’m sorry, but I can’t be seen in public with someone who owns every Black Sabbath concert T-shirt. Nothing personal, sir, but that’s a deal breaker.”
His laugh rolls over me again and I smother a sigh.
“Too bad because that was right. Guess I’ll just have to sneak in and out through the back door.” His double-entendre sends a thrill of anticipation rocketing through said, plugged back door. “Oryoucould wear the concert tees.”
“I’d still know you own them all. Hard limit.” I wait until his chuckling dies down before I continue, “Okay, three about me. Since we’re doing music, I once dated the lead singer of my favorite band, Staind. My best friend is a drag queen. Oh, and the only pet I’ve ever had is a goldfish named Marvin.”
“Mmm, Emily mentioned your friend dances at ‘Just a Cigar,’ so I know that one’s true. Between dating Aaron Lewis and a fish named Marvin, I’m guessing Marvin’s true.”
“Winner, and you just totally redeemed yourself by knowing Staind’s line-up. I’ll forgive you your terrible taste in concert shirts.”
“Gunner in my last platoon was a Staind fan-boy. I think I can sing all their songs from memory. Unforgiveable waste of gray matter.” At my huff, he laughs. “Do you date, bold girl? Because I get the impression you don’t.”
