Page 96 of Painted Scars
“Which are?” His hands tighten on me.
“If you lose, you perform a dramatic Celine Dion ballad of your choice for Josh.” I poke where I think his nose is under his visor. “Full sincerity. No skipping the high notes.” And I know every one of them by heart.
He groans like I’m taking him for a root canal. “Why do I feel like I’m being hustled?”
He is!
Once we finish dinner—me blindfolded while he eats—I take his hand and lead him into the living room, taking a seat diagonally from him, close enough for him to clasp my leg or play with my hair.
Despite the new order of stock lining one wall, my house feels cozier than it ever has. Josh claims the ottoman like the overlord he is. My muscles ache from carting all the boxes inside, but there’s a delicious empowerment of my building my business.
Daddy’s shirt rides up as he leans forward to set up the board and letter trays, and I drag my nails along his side. This man is dangerous in more than one way. Damn. I notice everything like that, because of my pastimes, and my libido doesn’t respect the concept of a board game break when I know he’ll satisfy me later.
“You’re staring,” he says, without looking up from spreading out the tiles in the box lid.
“You’re seriously misled.” I quote a little Celine and give him a final stroke and pick out upside down tiles. “And imagining things with that stalker ego.”
He snorts at me and grabs his own set. “You’re drooling on the carpet.”
“Stop trying to disarm me, Daddy.” I set the letters in my tray.
He wraps his fingers around my neck and forces me to look at him. “Some of us don’t need to spell orgasm for triple points.”
I mock indignation and lift my tray, holding it close to my chest. “Stop peeking at my letters.”
I love this version of him. Gruff, teasing, but with soft edges when no one else is watching. Screw the triple points. This man is a triple threat to my heart.
“Prepare yourself, Daddy,” I say. “Your heart and performance will go on.”
His hand tightens on my throat, a sort of kiss he can’t make with his mask on. “Don’t get too cocky, Glitter Bomb. You don’t know what tiles I’m packing here.”
He releases me and organizes his tiles into a word, his tattoos shifting with the flex of his arms.
The game soon devolves into chaos. Silly words. Make-believe words. Dirty words. I set downlust, he dropskill, and Josh barks when one of us laughs. By the time I spring glitter on him, Daddy curses under his breath like he’s reconsidering agreeing to this.
He crawls over and pats me down like a cop. “Are you hiding a secret stash of letters?”
“How dare you accuse me of cheating!” I smack his shoulder. “I won’t forgive you until you kiss me.”
He covers my eyes, removes his helmet, and more than earns exoneration with his teasing little tongue flicks with brief kisses. Visor back on, he releases me and falls back into place.
“Nervous?” I tease him, squeezing his knee, and his hand pinches mine, and I squeak.
“If you win here, I’ll win up there.” He lifts his gaze to the ceiling, hinting at the bedroom, and I know he’s going to tie me up, drape me over his lap, and paddle my ass until its pink, my eyes are watering, and I’m wet and begging for him to take me.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m resting on my knees, recording Daddy giving the performance of his life… or death. He stands in the middle of the living room, arms spread wide, mimicking the scene from the Titanic movie, belting out Celine with a pained growl that is bound to upset my grouchy neighbor. Daddy’s gravelly voice isn’t bad, and he commits to the dare with tortured sincerity that hurt my abs in the best way.
Josh can’t help himself and howls along, probably declaring us part of his little wolf pack.
I wheeze into a pillow. “Josh! I can’t. Your dad is sinking this song.”
Daddy drops to one knee, clutching his chest, pretending to hold a microphone, serenading me with the end of the song like he’s been shot with Cupid’s arrow. Wow, he even nails the high note and collapses onto the rug, resting his helmeted head in my lap.
“Never again, Glitter Bomb,” he pants.
I stroke his heaving chest in the absence of his face.
Breathless from laughter, I say, “Oh, Daddy. That was… art. I think you summoned Celine’s spirit to personally knight you.”
