Page 358 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
“Doms know no fear,” I say with a smile that he kisses off my face.
“This Dom is feeling a little fear?—”
I put my finger over his lips. “I did not expect you to ask me to marry you, Sir. Not in a million years. And I don’t know if our ideas of marriage are even in the same galaxy?—”
“We’ll work that out,” he says against my finger.
“Yes, we will.” If he loves me, and can say it, then we can work anything out. “And, yes, Master Mac, my Sir, I will marry you.”
“Thank fuck for that,” he mutters against my finger before he pushes it aside with his chin to drown me in kisses again.
He takes me right there in the blanket fort to seal the deal, and, yes, he gets his daily anal.
epilogue
As I walk upthe stairs from my shop, I hear the faint strains of Clair du Lune, this classical piece Mac’s crazy about, and smile to myself. Nights that start with Clair du Lune are guaranteed to be good nights.
I don’t smell any of the cooking smells that often greet me as I transition from shop to apartment. Mac’s taken up cooking, real gourmet shit, to fill his spare time. I gave him the ancient, grimy collection of index cards that Bebe J gifted me when she passed, containing our family recipes. Mac’s been cooking his way through them, alternating them with dishes like pan-seared Cajun scallops and fried snapper Vietnamese style. If we didn’t kickbox nearly every day, I’d have gained fifty pounds in the last three weeks.
The absence of dinner smells tells me we’re going out tonight. Mac wasn’t kidding about showing me off. He takes me out to dinner often, at seafood shacks up and down the coast where we share baskets of greasy fried shrimp while we walk along the cold sands, at Miss Eve’s where he manages to wrangle another recipe out of her every time, at restaurants where my dreads and piercings draw more than one disapproving glance. No matter where we go, no matter what we do, Mac’s gaze isnever anything but approving; his treatment of me in public is never anything less than an A-list celebrity would demand.
In private, he treats me like his hole to fuck. And his goddess. And his snuggleslut, which is what he had engraved on the metal tag to the blue leather collar I wear now. I get misty every time I catch sight of the collar in my reflection. Mac makes me such a melt.
He tells me he loves me every day, and never gives me a reason to doubt it.
I open the door and step through into my apartment. The living room’s hemmed in with boxes. Mac moved all his stuff over from his apartment in Brooklyn the weekend after he proposed to me. It’s still in boxes while we wait for the renovations on Logan’s townhouse to be finished. I haven’t decided what to do with my apartment yet. I have a surprising number of options: from keeping it for myself, to letting Naomi stay here after she leaves rehab since she’s decided to take a gap year while she figures out what she wants to do with her life, to renting it to my new apprentice, Taco. His left arm’s still in a cast, and he’s still an Oidhri prospect, but four days a week, I teach him my trade. He has plenty of natural talent and is already showing a real flair for portraits. He’ll be better than Nicky before long, which has Nicky riding him mercilessly. The kid’s still in a hero-worship phase, but the way Taco’s eyes follow Nicky when Nicky’s not looking, it could well be more someday.
Mac rises from the couch when I enter. He’s wearing black jeans, a deep rust sweater that makes his blue eyes freaking glow, and his Oidhri leather cut. The bikers didn’t waste any time patching Mac in, particularly not after their trip to the hospital. Mac won’t tell me exactly what happened—club business, he says, and to be honest, I appreciate that I won’t have to lie if someone like Theo questions me—but Mad Bob came out of the hospital with more broken bones than he went in with.The ulna at each wrist, to be specific. It will be a long time before Mad Bob can hold a tattoo gun again.
Of the other Black Mask and Skinhead Kevin, there hasn’t been another whisper, although Mac spends a lot of time reading in the reception area of my shop on the days Taco isn’t around. Missing Ink is busier than ever, with a nearly five-star rating on Google after all the fake reviews were taken down. We’re so busy that when Taco finishes his apprenticeship, I’ll be able to offer him a chair full time if he wants it.
Mac holds his arms out to me, and I melt into him. He clasps me lightly, at shoulder and hip, and begins to move. He’s taught me the dance that goes to this music, which at first had me shuffling awkwardly in his arms but is becoming so natural that the next time he suggests we go out dancing, I’m going to take him up on it instead of challenging him to another Frogger-off. I let my head fall to his shoulder and close my eyes, trusting him to guide me around the furniture and between the boxes and to all the places our future leads. All the places my Sir and I will explore, starting with wherever we’re going riding tonight. I roll my cheek on his shoulder, drawing in his warm Mac-scent, nuzzling his throat, and letting the serenity of this moment, of all the moments Mac gives me, fill me.
The world isn’t always sweetness and light. There are dark parts. Parts that leave scars. But I’ve found my own sun. The man who brings light to the dark parts and holds my hand as I navigate the shadows.
Master Mac and his DirtyGurl return in Daddy P.I. 3.0.
