The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The First Collection by Frost, J (i love reading txt) 📗

with Rachel was over months ago and I trained her better than that. If she makes things uncomfortable because I’m with Emily, I’ll be disappointed in her, and I’ll make sure her current Master hears about it. “She’s exclusive with Sante now, so don’t bother asking for her.”

Rick spreads his hands, and his knees. His pants are too tight for me not to notice how much he likes the idea of having Rachel for the night. “C’mon, not even for you?” He looks to Daisy. “You will not believe this girl. The mouth on her. And she looks like a cross between Beyoncé and JLo. Fucking rocket.”

Daisy rolls her eyes and goes back to whatever she was saying to Emily.

“You’re wasting your wood,” I tell Rick. “Lucy’s a bombshell. And available. Ask for her when you get downstairs.”

Rick shrugs. “Guess I’ll have to, if you won’t share.”

I ignore his jab. Rachel hasn’t been mine to share in months, and I’m never sharing Emily with anyone. Ever. How strongly I feel about that takes me by surprise. I haven’t been possessive with my bottoms before. If they wanted to be shared, I’ve been happy to share them. Maybe it’s the daddy-thing, but I’d honestly take the hand off anyone who tried to touch Emily.

The subject of my primitive line of thought sits relaxed against my side. She’s continued her quiet conversation with Daisy while Rick’s been yanking my chain, but it’s probably too much to hope that she hasn’t been listening. Should I prepare her for meeting Rachel? No, she knows I have a past, just like she does. There’s no reason it should be weird or awkward for her to meet one of my former bottoms. Would I be uncomfortable meeting one of her old tops? I don’t think so. If anything, I’d like to shake Matthew’s hand; he trained her well and didn’t commit the sin of sticking his dick in her.

“When are you leaving for L.A.?” Rick asks, pulling me back to the conversation.

“Flight’s Thursday afternoon. Are you going out any time soon?” Rick’s a native New Yorker, but he splits his time between coasts.

He nods. “Next Wednesday. Shooting starts Friday.”

“What’s this one?”

He grins, flashing his brilliant white veneers. “Sexmanji.”

“Like Jumanji only with kink?”

“You got it.”

That doesn’t quite fit together in my head, since Jumanji involved Robin Williams, or The Rock, if you’re into remakes, and rampaging animals, none of which is synonymous with kinky sex for me, but I’ve learned not to ask. For all I know, it’s porn with balloon animals.

Before I have to think about the potential uses for balloon animals, Manny pulls up in front of the long brick frontage of my club. On the weekends, we have valet service and one of the valets immediately descends to deal with the car. I unbuckle Emily and help her out. Manny falls in on her far side and I’m pleased to see she doesn’t shrink away from him this time. We herd Rick and Daisy in front of us up the two steps to the club’s entrance.

There’s no red carpet, no awning, no neon sign. The only identification is a brass plate beside the front door: Blunts, Founded 1864, Members Only.

Through the revolving door, there’s a marble atrium big enough for maybe a dozen people. The large reception desk is staffed twenty-four-seven, but I’m surprised to see that it’s Maude behind the desk. She’s more usually found at a spanking bench than a security desk. She looks like someone’s granny, and she does bake a mean cupcake, but put a whip in the woman’s hand and she becomes one of the strictest tops I’ve ever met. When I was on the training committee, I turned the most wayward bottoms over to her for discipline. They came back humbled and ready for instruction. I have no idea what she did to them, only that I’d never want to be on the receiving end of one of Mistress Maude’s lessons.

Despite the fact that I’ve known Maude for over seven years, and have been naked in front of her dozens, if not hundreds, of times, she greets me like I’m a complete stranger. That’s one of the club’s safety protocols. As are the passwords I give her, which we change weekly. The last thing any of us want is a reporter getting through the inner door.

Maude lines up four tablets on the reception desk’s marble surround. After she explains the non-disclosure, waiver and electronic signature, she ignores Manny, Rick and Daisy, but smiles warmly at Emily.

“Welcome to Blunts, dear,” she says. “I hope you enjoy your dinner. Leave a little room for the tiramisu. It’s fabulous.”

I shake my head at Maude. There’s no reason she’d know that I made dinner reservations except that she’s an incorrigible busybody.

Emily smiles shyly at her. “I love tiramisu.”

“Excellent. So nice to meet you, dear. If you need anything at all while you’re here, just ask for Maude.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Emily hands the tablet back.

Maude collects the other three and waves us toward the inner door, where two of our security guards are standing like a pair of black bookends.

“Logan, just a moment.”

Maude’s voice grabs me like a noose. Damn that woman.

I return to her marble pedestal. “Yeees?”

Her eyes, two flints behind a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses, track to the door. When Emily lingers, eyes on me, good little sub, Maude flicks her fingers to shoo Emily through and waits until the inner door closes.

“One, I’m glad to see you’ve moved on,” she tells me. “Miranda never was any good for you.”

“Last check, you still weren’t my mother,” I say, keeping my tone gentle. Maude’s a friend, a good friend, even when she’s sticking her beak where it is very much not wanted. “And two?”

“Two, Rachel is manning the desk upstairs. She’s seen the dinner reservation. She’s the one who brought it to my attention. She’s upset. You should avoid her.”

Ah-ha. That explains Maude’s presence on the door. She was waiting for me.