Daddy PI: Book 1 of the Daddy PI Casefiles by Frost, J (reading eggs books TXT) 📗

I sniff, swallowing my tears. “Sir, are we done?”

That’s not what I want to ask. I want to beg him to get off me so I can go take a shower. I don’t want to lie under him anymore, feeling the roughness of his clothes against my skin. I don’t want his rubber-coated dick in me. I don’t want to touch him. I want to get away, hide in the bathroom, and wash whatever the fuck that was off me.

But if it was me and I was suffering like he is, I’d see that as abandonment. I’d sink, maybe when I’d just started to swim.

“Yes. It’s over now,” he says against my temple.

Thank fuck for that. I touch him tentatively, brushing my hands over his shoulders. He shifts, and more of his weight settles onto me. He was holding himself up, preventing us from connecting the way we did in New York, his wonderful weight controlling me. I slide my hands down his back until I reach his skin. Clammy, and that’s nothing to do with the hotel room’s air conditioning.

“Do you feel better, Sir?”

Please, please, let that horrible fuck have exorcized whatever demon is riding him.

“No,” he says, his breath warm in my hair. “Now I feel as hollow as they do.”

Was it for nothing? Did I endure that for nothing? My eyes and nose sting and fresh tears slide down my temples. I keep rubbing his back, not sure what else to say or do.

“I’m going to get rid of the condom,” he says finally. “Put your panties and a hotel robe on, go sit on the couch, and wait for me.”

“Yes, Sir.” I’m sure he can hear the relief in my voice. Not just because I really want him out of me, but also because his rasp is gone. He’s speaking in his normal voice again. Hopefully, everything will go back to normal now. Because I really don’t want to meet that demon again.

He slides up onto his forearms and looks down at me, his dark eyes intent. “Are you okay?”

Kinda not, but I’m holding it together for him as best I can. I nod.

He leans in and kisses my wet eyes. “Can you keep going? I can tell this is upsetting you.”

“Yes, Sir.” I’m not sure why I’m agreeing. It’s upsetting me. I hate everything he’s done. But he’s much, much more upset than I am, and if this is what he needs to do to cope, I’ll take the train with him to the last stop. “If I need to, I’ll use my safe word.”

“Good girl, Emily. Thank you for that. And thank you for doing this with me.”

The praise and the thanks heal the gouges he’s been carving in my heart. I manage a smile for the first time since he told me to close my eyes. “You’re welcome, Sir.”

He pulls out and goes to the bathroom to deal with the condom. When he comes back out, he hands me a robe and I look a question at the bathroom door. Although plane trips usually leave me dehydrated, his schedule required that I drink eight ounces of water every hour, which I did religiously. I need to pee.

Logan nods and I take that as permission. He hasn’t told me I need permission to use the bathroom, and it wasn’t in his contract, but maybe that’s because I told him watersports was a hard limit. Controlling my bodily functions isn’t quite watersports, and I don’t mind asking permission to use the toilet, particularly when we’re in scene. I’m glad he gave me permission, though, because I’m not sure how long I’d be able hold it if he said no, and peeing anywhere but the toilet is a total, complete, Great Wall of China hard limit.

The bathroom’s gleamingly tiled and huge, nearly as big as the downstairs of my whole house. I pee and wash up, using the opportunity to soap off the film of travel and the slight stickiness between my legs, before I shrug into the fluffy, white bathrobe Logan’s given me.

When I emerge, I hear Logan rather than see him. He’s in yet another part of this huge suite, and he’s on the phone, although I can’t tell who he’s talking to.

I move to the couch and sit, looking out through the panoramic window at the dusk-draped city. He texted me a picture of this view this morning, while I was sitting in his kitchen having breakfast. That feels like a really long time ago now. It should be good to finally be here, with him, taking in this view, but everything’s so weird and strained that it doesn’t.

Maybe this was all a huge mistake.

Logan pads around the rippled glass partition and sits down across from me. He’s only wearing jeans. Barefoot and shirtless, he should be less intimidating, but he doesn’t need the armor of clothes to intimidate. His formidable will is more than enough. As he looks me up and down, he’s not smiling, but his eyes are hot and intent. That look makes me sit up straighter. He’s back. Just his dominant presence makes me want to kneel.

“Do you remember the things Mrs. Black said to me?” he asks.

I nod as I replay everything he told me about Mrs. Black in my mind. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’re Mrs. Black. You’re angry. You’re boiling with grief. You want someone to blame. Today, that someone is going to be me. We’ll go through the interview and when you begin ripping at me the way she did, I’m going to tell you to stand up and take off that robe. You refuse, repeatedly, and when I insist, you try to leave. I catch you, throw you over my shoulder and carry you back to the couch where I spank the ever-loving fuck out of you. Got it?”

I nod again, repeating what he’s told me in my head. This is much more along the lines of what I thought we were going to do, and I’m