Page 244 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Yes, that’s my good girl. You can come. Remember, no noise.”
She gasps and bucks against my hand on her nape as her body contracts around my fingers. I hear her gurgling as she swallows her orgasmic cries, but she does exactly as I’ve instructed. Which I’ve instructed for no other reason than I wanted to control her voice; the other people in the house certainly aren’t disturbed by her noises. Pride swells my chest.
When she slumps bonelessly across me, I shift so she’s not on her bad hip and cuddle her to my chest. “Before you pass out, sweetheart, suck my fingers clean.”
She mumbles but opens her mouth and when I slide my pussy-wet fingers in, suckles them sleepily.
“Yrssur?”
“More consonants, girl.”
“Wha’ about you, sir?” she asks around my fingers.
“Us geezers are good on two orgasms a night.”
“Can I kiss it goodnight?”
She wants to kiss my cock goodnight?
“Sure.”
She kisses my fingers first, then wriggles down the bed to give my cock three, sweet, little kisses. She pulls my boxers upand settles them in place before sliding up to nestle against me again.
I’m shaking. My throat’s gone tight and my eyes sting as I gather her in.
“Could we make that a ritual, sir?” she asks sleepily.
“’Course.”
She lifts her head. “Everything okay, sir?”
“Everything’s fine, girl.” The truth of that settles deep in my chest. “Everything’s just fine. Go to sleep.”
Her head drops back down onto my shoulder. Her weight settles into me as warm and good as our reconciliation, that achingly, unbelievably sweet gesture, and the knowledge that in this moment, everything really is just fine.
She drifts off slowly, her long fingers playing up and down my arm. I smile up at the ceiling when I realize what she’s doing: tracing tattoo designs on my skin.
With a soft tick, the Tchaikovsky I’ve had playing ends. The room fades as my phone screen dims. Once my eyes adjust to the gloom, I pick out the light fixture on the ceiling and trace the flutes of the antique-y glass cups around the unlit bulbs as I turn over today in my mind.
My day started badly, in this bed, staring at the same light fixture. Only then the bed was empty, and I was mulling over what I’d do if Brenna wasn’t softened up enough by my grand gesture to forgive me. It got worse after breakfast when Amy called to say she’s coming up when Naomi can have visitors. She “expected” to stay with me, an expectation I firmly squashed. I haven’t always been wise—or even sane—when dealing with Amy. I’ve let anger and desire rule me. I believed her even when I knew in my gut she was lying. I forgave her when I had proof she’d been fucking around behind my back. But one thing I have not and will not ever do is help a married woman cheat. Nowthat Amy’s remarried, we’re never going to sleep in the same room again. Not if I can avoid it.
Because the last time we did, she somehow ended up falling on my dick. Seventeen times over three days. Like we were fucking teenagers again.
Neither wise nor sane.
But my day improved dramatically when Brenna walked through the door. Even more dramatically when she crawled to me. It took me most of the game to get my cock under control and not grab the back of her neck, bend her over into a cushion, and claim the ass I want so damn badly.
When I brought her up here to talk after the game, I had no plans for a scene. I just wanted to apologise and make sure she was open to trying again. But I can’t keep my hands off this girl. The bottle of almond oil on the dresser that I’ve been using to work on my knee sparked one idea, having her lie face-down on the bed while I rubbed her sparked another, and her mention of a belting sparked a third and before I knew it, she was cuddled on my chest like she is now, wearing my marks and sleeping the sleep of a satisfied submissive.
I slide my hand down her back and over the still-warm skin of her ass, fingering a welt very lightly so I don’t wake her. I hope she sleeps that same sleep tonight. I want her to sleep so well she craves sleeping with me. Because I’m already craving sleeping with her.
When she wakes, I’ll have to deal with what she’s told me tonight: the truth I dragged from her with nearly an hour of edging because she was struggling to pop the seal on her secrets. I’m not put off by her history, although some would be. Having had my own spate of acting out when I was a teen, having a pair of addicts in the family and knowing that as much love as I’ve poured over them, it hasn’t fixed them, helps me understand why she’s as fiercely independent as she is.
Her parents were alcoholics who neglected her. After an event she dodged telling me about, but I suspect is behind the scars on her back, she was taken into foster care in her early teens. I know my beloved country has some fucked up immigration laws and Brenna caught the wrong end of them when her grandmother was denied custody because Bebe J wasn’t an American citizen. Bren languished in foster care, bouncing from home to home, until a woman called Mother Kay who ran a group home took her in. There, Bren met the girl she calls her “soul sister,” Ruby. Ruby was not the best influence on my bold girl, initiating Bren into a Bronx street gang. The gang may have given her a family, but it also gave her a criminal record and, after she was ambushed by a rival gang, the hip injury that took several surgeries and years of physical therapy to repair. Bren’s lucky she was underage when it happened, and her medical care was on the state. If we were living in the Dickensian era that so fascinates Amy, Bren would still be in the workhouse paying off her medical bills.
I don’t want to take away Brenna’s independence. Her strength and sass are part of the package that turns me on like nothing I’ve felt in twenty years. But I do wantinand hearing about her childhood gives me the missing piece to the puzzle of why this beautiful, bold girl hasn’t been collared by any of the many Doms she’s played with.
She’s never let them in.
