Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5 by E Frost (e ink ebook reader .txt) 📗

the bones distinctly. That doesn’t preclude hitting her there; I just need to be careful.

“You know what I like best on the ribs?” I ask her. When she shakes her head and looks at me wide-eyed, I say, “That stingy tawse I used on your calves. It really pops and sings against bone. Should I pack that for the cruise?”

Emily nods eagerly. “Could we use it again tonight, sir?”

Greedy little girl. Wonderful. “I have something else in mind for tonight, or tomorrow morning, depending on how good you are. You’ve had an orgasm. I think it’s Daddy’s turn now. Don’t you?”

“Yes, sir. Now?”

She looks even more eager than when we were discussing the tawse. Her little hand drifts to my thigh and strokes tentatively. I place my hand over hers and draw it upward, helping her open my fly and slide her hand in over my cock.

“Just play for now, baby doll. Explore me a little. We’re not that far from my place, so I’m not going to come before we get home and you’re not going to try to make me. Deal?”

Her lower lip juts out a little, but she nods and starts exploring very enthusiastically, feathering her fingertips all over my shaft and balls, alternating strokes from the pads of her fingers with little scratches from her short nails that have me growling and straining against her fingers. I’m not a masochist, but pain there when I’m hard absolutely turns my crank. Whether Emily intuits this or just gets lucky exploring, she starts chasing it: palming my cock softly and then closing her hand over my glans and squeezing me in an eye-watering fist, swirling her fingertips over and over my scrotum before giving the skin between my testicles a truly wicked pinch, long-stroking my shaft in between working the sensitive ridge where my cock head meets my shaft between her thumb and forefinger. I’m close to the edge when Manny turns onto my street.

“Damn.” I put my hand over hers and stop the hot torment. “We’re here, sweetheart.”

“Oh. Boo.”

I want to laugh at her cute disappointment but I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her. I peck her on the temple, straighten my clothes, and when Manny stops the car, have us both unbuckled and climbing out before he even has a chance to get out of the driver’s seat to open the door.

I lean my forearm across his open window, so he doesn’t get any ideas about getting out. He doesn’t need to see what’s going on in my pants.

“Thanks for tonight, man. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He fist-bumps me and winks. “Have a great night. You still coming for dinner on Wednesday?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Tell Jen I’m looking forward to it.”

“Anything but spaghetti, huh?”

I chuckle and slap him on the shoulder.

Chapter Six Emily

Logan shows me through the front door of his brownstone. I don’t see him use a key or anything to unlock the door. He just opens it. Surely, he didn’t leave it unlocked in the middle of the East Village? Maybe it’s a P.I. thing. Or maybe he has something really cool like a retinal scanner. But I don’t see any red light. Isn’t there a red light for a retinal scanner?

“I’m going to get us some water, baby doll,” he says. “You head upstairs and use the bathroom if you need it. Then meet me in the bedroom.”

“Yes, sir.”

He kisses me on the top of the head as he passes on the way to the kitchen. I skip up the stairs—so much easier without that damn butt plug—and into his bathroom, which is all spotless cream and blue tile. His place is really clean, particularly for a guy’s house. Maybe it’s a military thing, or maybe he cleaned up for me? That thought has me hugging myself as I use the toilet, which I’ve needed to for a while but no way was I doing it in front of him.

I look longingly at his shower: an old-fashioned claw-foot tub with a huge waterfall shower head. I feel sticky from all the sweating I’ve done this evening, particularly between my legs. I’m pretty sure we’re going to have sex now—at last—and I really don’t want to smell. That horrible possibility has me poking my head back down the stairs.

“Sir, could I take a quick shower?”

“Of course,” he shouts from somewhere below. “Use anything you want.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I skip down to his bedroom to grab my toiletry bag, then dive into the shower. I keep it as brief as possible, since I’m probably delaying his orgasm, but the shower feels so good. One of the bottles of body wash in his shower-caddy is labelled “Coconut Passion,” with an explosion of coconuts and tropical flowers on the label. I’m guessing that’s not Logan’s. I scowl at it as I use my own.

When I turn off the pounding shower and climb out, I find a pile of pink towels set on the edge of the sink. Are they for me? Did he buy me pink towels as well as a purple butt plug? The other woman’s body wash in his shower pales into insignificance. The amount of thought he puts into topping me makes me teary. Is it because he’s older than any of my previous Doms, and more mature than all of them put together? Or is it his scarily extensive experience? If it’s the latter, that number just got much less horrific.

I towel off and squeeze-dry my hair, which I’ve only rinsed since I didn’t want to take the time to shampoo and condition. Getting back into my sweat-damp uniform has no appeal, so I wrap up in the biggest of the towels, which covers me almost to my knees, and carry my clothes back into his bedroom.

Logan greets me with a smile. He’s put music on. Crazy Town’s “Butterfly,” which I haven’t heard in years, but immediately begin humming. Such a catchy, filthy tune. He’s also put