Page 238 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
Emily joins me. She takes the empty bottle from me and puts it in a recycling bin, then points to the fancy beer fridge Logan has on the counter. I take two bottles of Winter Lager out of the little fridge and open them with the Hello Kitty bottle opener Emily holds out to me. She winks at me and I give her an affectionate smack on the ass before heading back to Mac.
I kneel to offer him the beer, with my head bowed and my arms outstretched, like a perfect service submissive.
He takes the beer, runs his free hand to the back of my head and fists a handful of my dreads, tipping my head back to give me a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you.”
When he releases me, I pull one of the big pillows Emily has scattered on the floor between his feet and sit down with my back against the couch. Mac shifts so his jean-clad calves bracket my arms. Nice gesture. It makes me feel connected to him. I almost tell him so before I remember the “no talking” rule.
“Spread your hair over my legs,” Mac rumbles.
I slide a hand up and lift my dreads over his thighs. I wish I’d made messing with my hair a soft limit with him the way I have at Blunts. My dreads might look like rope, but they’re not. They’re connected to my scalp by a lot of individual hairs, and a man weaving his fingers through my hair just really fucking hurts.
But Mac doesn’t try to work his fingers through my dreads. He strokes them like a blanket over his thighs, over and over, creating a soft, rhythmic tugging. It’s strangely relaxing.
Emily, being Emily, brings a tray of finger foods over and sets it on the couch between Mac and Logan before she curls back up in her daddy’s lap. Hearing everyone eating, my mouth starts to water. I should have had something to eat before I came over. That muffin I had with Ruby for breakfast is feeling like a long time ago. But, being the perfect little submissive, I don’t turn around and I don’t ask for food.
Mac’s legs shift as he leans forward and strokes his thumb along the side of my face before holding something cool and moist against my lips.
“Open,” he says.
I obediently open my mouth without even trying to sneak a glance at what he’s feeding me. He slides the whole bite into my mouth. Peppered cucumber and cream cheese on a thin wafer. It’s like a mini cucumber sandwich. Emily’s told me she likes reminding Logan of “home food” by preparing dishes that riff on traditional British food. Nuevo-Brit, she calls it.
If Logan didn’t already treat her like the most precious thing in the world, I’d have to beat on him until he did.
Mac feeds me several mini cucumber sandwiches, followed by meltingly tender chicken satays, and, finally, little pieces of a dark, gingery cake that I don’t recognize. Must be more of Emily’s Nuevo-Brit cooking. The food’s excellent; Emily’s cooking always is. But I swear each bite tastes better off Mac’s fingers.
When the match ends, Mac rests his warm hand on the top of my head. “Take the empties to the kitchen and use the bathroom, then go upstairs. I’ll meet you in the guest bedroom.”
I speak for the first time in what feels like hours.
“Yes, sir.”
He hands me his empty. “Good girl.”
When I enter the bedroom, he’s pulled the curtains, closing out the golden fall afternoon, and lit pillar candles on the dresser and bedside table. I want to make a smart remark about him being an old softie, but I’m not sure if I’m off speech-restriction yet and this isn’t the time to get the rules wrong.
“Face down on the bed,” he says. “Arms and legs spread.”
I thought he said we were going to talk, but, again, not the time to get it wrong.
I sink down onto the worn-soft quilt and flip my hair over my shoulder so it’s out of Mac’s way.
He sits on the bed beside me, his warm, heavy hand pressing between my shoulder-blades. “Remember honor bondage? Show me you want to submit to me by holding on to the bed rails until I tell you to let go.”
I nod to show I’ve heard him before reaching up and wrapping my hands around the cool, brass rails.
“Keep your feet on the bed. You can move everything in between, but hands and feet stay where they are until I tell you to let go.”
I nod again and imagine my feet are bound into the quilt with oak roots and iron bands. Since he’s given me permission to move everything between my hands and feet, I figure he’s going to beat me, maybe with his belt. While I’d normally be totally up for that, the idea of him hitting me now, when it seems like Emily’s right and he’s quiet-angry, makes my mouth dry and my palms sweat.
I roll my shoulders, trying to force my muscles to relax. Belts hurt. He can make me bleed with a belt. But I’ve takenwhippings. If I can take Master Nico and his fucking singletail, I can take a few whacks with a belt from Mac.
Hopefully I can keep still while he does it.
The mattress shifts as Mac climbs onto the bed. He pulls his blue and grey “Navy” T-shirt off and drapes it over my feet.
“Em says your feet get cold. I should have grabbed a pair of her socks for you. If you get uncomfortable, tell me.”
I guess that means I can talk. “Yes, sir.”
