Page 17 of Daddy Issues

  Salt star­ted by strok­ing the cool­ing gel over the outer lips of my pussy but then I moaned and wiggled, press­ing my mound into his hand.

  “In­side,” I whispered, look­ing back at him, over my shoulder. “Please, Papa—touch me in­side. That’s where it really hurts.”

  He made a low, in­dis­tinct sound in his throat and then I felt his long fin­gers strok­ing gently over my wet in­ner folds.

  “Where does it hurt, mishka?” he mur­mured hoarsely. “Here?”

  “Mmm…yes, Papa,” I moaned de­li­ri­ously. It felt so good—so right and I never wanted him to stop.

  “And here?” he asked, the pad of one fin­ger circ­ling gently around the swollen bud of my clit.

  “Yes!” I nearly cried with pleas­ure as he fi­nally touched me ex­actly where I needed to be touched. And he was do­ing it just right too—strok­ing all around the sens­it­ive bundle of nerves without rub­bing too hard or too dir­ectly. It was like he was try­ing to be care­ful, still treat­ing me like I was a del­ic­ate, beau­ti­ful work of art that he might dam­age if he stroked me too hard. In other cir­cum­stances I would have pro­tested that I could take rougher treat­ment but in this case, Salt’s touch was per­fect—ex­actly what I needed.

  “So beau­ti­ful, my little miskha,” he mur­mured as he con­tin­ued his gentle, in­tim­ate caress. “So soft and hot and so very wet.”

  “Am I?” I moaned softly, look­ing down at my­self. “I…I guess I can’t help it.”

  “I do not want you to help it. Is beau­ti­ful how much honey your pussy makes,” he as­sured me. “I love the silky feel of you in my hand…rid­ing my fin­gers.”

  As he spoke, I be­came aware that I was, in fact, mov­ing to a rhythm all my own. I was press­ing up against his big hand, rolling my hips, try­ing to get more of the ad­dict­ive sen­sa­tion of pleas­ure. Part of me—the part that was a tough-as-nails cop who took no shit off any­one—couldn’t be­lieve I was do­ing this. Couldn’t be­lieve it was ac­tu­ally me put­ting on his wan­ton, sexual dis­play. And yet, I couldn’t seem to stop—I couldn’t even make my­self want to stop. It felt too good, too right to have Salt touch­ing me this way.

  “Oh,” I moaned softly. “Oh Papa, I’m close…so close.”

  “That’s a good girl,” Salt mur­mured, his eyes half-lid­ded with lust. He star­ted rub­bing a little harder, a little faster. “That’s a very good girl, mishka.”

  “Please,” I begged him. “Oh, God…” I was so damn close but I needed some­thing else…some­thing more.

  Salt seemed to un­der­stand my need. For a mo­ment, he stopped rub­bing my clit and then I felt two long, strong fin­gers enter me. As they kissed the end of my chan­nel, his thumb was back, tra­cing slow, ma­gical pat­terns around my aching clit again.

  I gasped at the ad­ded sen­sa­tion and bucked against his hand as he fucked into me with his fin­gers. Oh God, I couldn’t stand this much more…

  “Mishka,” Salt growled, catch­ing my eyes and hold­ing them with his own. “Come for me now—come while I touch you.” Then he thrust in hard and I felt his thumb press against the throb­bing bud of my clit.

  “Oh…Oh!” I gasped, un­able to help my­self—not want­ing to help my­self. I felt the or­gasm rush through me—as sweet and strong as wine that goes straight to your head. My toes curled, my back arched and my nipples turned into hard little points. I clamped my thighs around Salt’s big hand as I moaned and cried my pleas­ure.

  Through it all, Salt watched me with half-lid­ded eyes. I could see how turned on he was—how in­cred­ibly aroused watch­ing me come made him. Yet he made no at­tempt to do any­thing but give me pleas­ure, even though he prob­ably had the worst case of blue balls in his­tory.

  At last it was over and I fell back, pant­ing, try­ing to catch my breath. My body was still tingling all over and nor­mally by now my mind would have been in over­drive. And in­deed, I did hear an in­ner voice ask­ing me what the hell I thought I was do­ing and how I ex­pec­ted to be able to look my part­ner in the eye in the fu­ture after let­ting him get me off this way.

  But mostly, I was still on an emo­tional high. Still stuck in the Little head­space I’d once scoffed at and thought was a joke or an ex­cuse to duck re­spons­ib­il­it­ies. So while the adult, re­spons­ible Andi was some­where scream­ing that I was screw­ing up my en­tire ca­reer and the best re­la­tion­ship I’d ever had, the Little me was con­tent to sigh and snuggle up to Salt’s broad chest and mur­mur, “Thank you, Papa.”

  Salt seemed happy to just hold me.

  “Mishka,” he mur­mured, gath­er­ing me close. I pressed my face to his throat and breathed him in—the scents of the ocean and his warm skin com­for­ted me and helped shut up the shrill voice of reason that was try­ing to as­sert it­self. To­mor­row…I would deal with the con­sequences of my ac­tions to­mor­row. That was soon enough.

  I’d had a very stress­ful day and now that I was fi­nally re­laxed, I just wanted to sleep where I was safe—in my Papa’s arms.

  So think­ing, I let my­self drift off and fell asleep wrapped in his strong em­brace.

  Chapter Ten

  “Wake up—we will be late. Un­less you want me to bring you break­fast in bed again?” Salt’s deep voice and the sun­light stream­ing through the cracks in the bed­room shades woke me. I took a deep, lazy stretch won­der­ing why I felt so good. My body seemed to be hum­ming with con­tent­ment and I felt looser and more re­laxed than I could re­mem­ber feel­ing for a long time.

  “Time to get up,” my part­ner said again.

  “In a minute,” I mur­mured. I rolled over, keep­ing my eyes closed, rel­ish­ing the feel of the silky sheets against my bare skin…wait a minute. My bare skin?

  My eyes flew open and I real­ized I was sleep­ing na­ked. Not only that, Salt was stand­ing over me fully clothed in an­other one of his dark, im­macu­late suits. He was watch­ing me as I writhed around on the bed like some kind of porn star.

  “Salt?” I gasped, sit­ting up and pulling the silky gray sheets up to my chin.

  “You do not have to do that,” he re­marked, sit­ting on the bed be­side me. “You do not have to be shy with me now.”

  Sud­denly everything came back to me. The way I’d let my part­ner see me na­ked. The way he’d bathed me…shaved me…and… Oh my God, had I ac­tu­ally let him touch me?

  Not just let him—you begged him, whispered a nasty little voice in my brain. Begged him to touch you un­til you came all over his hand. God only knows what he thinks of you now after the dis­play you put on last night.

  “Crap,” I groaned, put­ting my face in my hands. I couldn’t even look at my part­ner. “Salt,” I said, my voice muffled. “About last night…”

  “Last night, we did only what was ne­ces­sary,” he said firmly.

  “I don’t know what came over me,” I said, still not look­ing at him. “It was so…so weird. I just—”

  “Andi…” He lif­ted my chin gently but firmly un­til I re­luct­antly met his eyes. “There is no shame,” he said softly. “We are play­ing roles here, yes? Only pre­tend­ing.”

  “Yes…yes, of course,” I muttered, look­ing away. What would he think of me if he knew that everything I’d done the night be­fore had been real—at least to me? I hadn’t been play­act­ing when I begged him to touch me and called him “Papa.” I hadn’t been pre­tend­ing when I clung to him and snuggled close to his chest, feel­ing safe and warm and pro­tec­ted for the first time in years.

  Some­how I had hon­estly fallen into “Little-space” and had gone to a place in­side my­self I hadn’t even known was there. In that place, a hungry little girl lived—a girl who was starved for love and af­fec­tion from a strong, lov­ing man. A man she could de­pend on to never leave her, a pro­tector and de­fender. A man who would kill or die to keep her safe. Someone who could be a father…a part­ner…a lover??
?a friend.

  A man she could trust.

  You can trust Salt, whispered a little voice in my head.

  Sure I could—to be my part­ner. But he’d just said we were only pre­tend­ing. He was just play­ing his part—the part of my “Papa”—and he thought I was do­ing the same. He didn’t know that the little girl—that mishka—was real and was really a part of me. Even now I could see her, sit­ting on the curb in her pretty new party dress, the one her Daddy had bought her for the Valentine’s Day dance. Her thin shoulders slumped, her eyes red and hope­less as she looked down the street, wait­ing for a man who would never ar­rive. Wait­ing for a father who was never com­ing back.

  He had failed me so badly—my bio­lo­gical father. He’d aban­doned me when I needed him the most and that pain was still in­side me. The little girl cry­ing on the curb was still there too, hold­ing onto it. Pain…dis­trust…fear…an­ger…she held them in her arms like a bou­quet of toxic flowers. They poisoned her—poisoned me—but what could I do? How could I ever let go of them? Let go of the hurt and doubt I felt when I re­membered that first, most im­port­ant be­trayal?

  “Andi?” Salt said, pulling me out of my mor­bid thoughts. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” I sat up straighter and tried to smile. “Just fine.”

  “Are you cer­tain?” He put his hand to my face and his fin­gers came away wet. “You are cry­ing,” he mur­mured. “Tell me if this be­comes too much to bear. I know it is…dif­fi­cult.”

  “For you too,” I poin­ted out, swip­ing at my eyes. “I mean, it can’t be easy hav­ing to pre­tend to be my ‘Papa’ and tak­ing care of me like I’m some idi­otic little girl who can’t fend for her­self all the damn time.”

  “I never said I minded tak­ing care of you,” he said softly.

  “Well, you cer­tainly did a good job of it last night,” I re­marked acerbically. “I mean, your act­ing skills are amaz­ing, Salt—or should I say Papa? You should get an Oscar—bravo.”

  Salt got a pained look on his face.

  “Andi—” he began but I was already jump­ing out of bed. Keep­ing the sheet wrapped firmly around me, I went to dig around in my suit­case. “I have an­other dress for you hanging in the closet,” Salt re­marked, watch­ing me.

  “What? An­other little girl party dress?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so. It’s time to change the game, Salt. Time to es­cal­ate. And I can’t do that dressed like I’m go­ing to an Alice in Won­der­land themed tea party.”

  I pulled out the naughty school­girl out­fit—the see-through white blouse, the tiny red and black plaid skirt, the white knee socks and Mary Jane shoes—it was all just as I re­membered it.

  “What are you do­ing?” Salt’s face had darkened. “I do not want you wear­ing that.”

  “Well that’s just too bad, isn’t it?” I flared at him. “But you’re not my ‘Papa’—you’re my part­ner. So I’m go­ing to wear what I God­damn please.”

  “Andi—” he began but I held up a hand to stop him.

  “No. No more of those stu­pid little girl dresses. You’re go­ing to have to face the facts, Salt—if we’re go­ing to crack this case your sweet little mishka is go­ing to have to grow up and play with the big girls.”

  “I do not like this,” he said frown­ing. “I do not think it is safe for you to act and dress in this way, Andi. Bad things will come of it.”

  “The only thing that’s go­ing to come of it is that we’re fi­nally go­ing to make pro­gress on the case and get the hell out of here,” I snapped.

  Then I went into the bath­room, slammed the door be­hind me, and tried not to cry.

  Stu­pid, I told my­self over and over as I pulled on the clothes. Stu­pid to think Salt was into it last night the way you were. He’s your part­ner—your friend. Not any­thing else. And he won’t even be that if you don’t pull your­self to­gether and stop act­ing like a hurt little girl that skinned her knee and is cry­ing on the side­walk. Get hold of your­self, Andi!

  The pep-talk helped—at least some. By the time I had the naughty school girl out­fit on, I was dry-eyed and I had my head back in the game. No more fall­ing into the role I was play­ing, I lec­tured my­self. No more call­ing Salt “Papa” when we were alone to­gether. From now on I was go­ing to be all busi­ness all the time.

  But what kind of busi­ness?

  Look­ing at my­self in the big bath­room mir­ror, I knew what kind of busi­ness any­one who saw me dressed like this would think I was in. They would think I was hook­ing or strip­ping or mak­ing a porno—there was no other con­clu­sion any­one could draw, see­ing me like this.

  The blouse seemed more see-through than I re­membered but maybe that was be­cause, after some de­lib­er­a­tion, I had left my bra off. My breasts were bare be­neath it, my nipples tight with ten­sion as they pressed in two stiff pink points against the trans­lu­cent silky white ma­ter­ial.

  The skirt seemed shorter than I re­membered too but at least there was a pair of panties with it, which I hadn’t no­ticed be­fore. Not that they covered much. They were tiny white lace things with an in­no­cent white bow at the top. The bow con­cealed a small zip­per which pulled down to split the crotch wide open, re­veal­ing my freshly shaved pussy. I re­solved to keep the panties zipped up. I might be play­ing the naughty school girl, but there were lim­its. The white knee socks and Mary Janes com­pleted the look.

  I stared at my­self in the sexy get-up feel­ing in­cred­ibly ex­posed. And yet, as vul­ner­able as I felt, I was still glad I was wear­ing this and not an­other little girl dress. I couldn’t take play­ing that age any­more. It was driv­ing me crazy—put­ting me into a frame of mind that was much too easy to slip into and in­cred­ibly hard to get out of.

  And what age were you play­ing last night? whispered a little voice in my head. What age were you when Salt was shav­ing you and mak­ing you come with his big fin­gers bur­ied in your tight little pussy?

  Well, not the age of the little girl dresses, that was for sure. But neither had I been think­ing of my­self as the re­bel­li­ous teen­ager I was now dressed as.

  Hon­estly, I was be­gin­ning to think that the ap­par­ent “age” I was play­ing didn’t mat­ter as much as the mind­set I got into when Salt and I “played” in the first place. When I called him “Papa” and let my­self feel open and trust­ing with him, I went to a dif­fer­ent place—a place of ul­ti­mate vul­ner­ab­il­ity and weak­ness. The place where the hungry little girl lived—the one who missed her father’s love and ap­proval so des­per­ately.

  I couldn’t let my­self go there any­more. Couldn’t al­low my­self to be that vul­ner­able for any man—not even Salt. I made stu­pid de­cisions when I was in that place—like let­ting my­self trust…let­ting my­self feel and re­mem­ber all the pain­ful memor­ies of my bio­lo­gical father I’d bur­ied so long ago.

  No more, I prom­ised my­self. From now on I’m go­ing to be tough and no-non­sense. I’m only here to do my job and once it’s done, Salt and I are out of here and back to our former re­la­tion­ship.

  Think­ing of my part­ner made me won­der what he would think when he saw me in the naughty school girl out­fit. Ima­gin­ing those pale blue eyes rak­ing over my nearly bare body sent a shiver down my spine. He prob­ably wouldn’t like it at all but that was just too damn bad. I was in charge of my own des­tiny here and I re­fused to back down for any­one—even Salt.

  Lift­ing my chin, I stepped out of the bath­room…and found my part­ner gone.

  Chapter El­even

  Salt was already seated down in the din­ing room, eat­ing ba­con and eggs and mak­ing con­ver­sa­tion with Berkley and the other Dad­dies and their Baby­girls. I walked in slowly and heard the con­ver­sa­tion fal­ter as the oth­ers sit­ting at the table no­ticed my new out­fit. My breasts might not be as big as Mandy’s, but they were still full and perky and my
nipples were little pink points, clearly vis­ible through the thin ma­ter­ial of my blouse. The skirt I was wear­ing nearly showed my panties—in fact, it would show my panties if I bent over, even a little.

  The cool breeze from the air con­di­tioner swept over me, send­ing a shiver down my spine and mak­ing my nipples so tight they ached but I lif­ted my chin and walked up to the table any­way. I felt my stom­ach flut­ter with ap­pre­hen­sion as I ap­proached Salt’s chair. He’d seen me in this be­fore—hell, he’d seen me na­ked. But that had been in private. We were in pub­lic now—how would he re­act to the new mishka?

  “Well, well, well.” Berkley’s gray eyes swept over me ap­pre­ci­at­ively. “It looks like your Baby­girl is all grown up today, Mr. Saltanov.”

  “Hmm?” Salt spared a glance over his shoulder at me but his ex­pres­sion of mild bore­dom didn’t change. “Oh yes, she is wish­ing to try new clothes today.” He shrugged as if to say it was no big deal.

  I felt a surge of ir­rit­a­tion. How dare he act like he was bored when he saw me dressed like this? It was hard go­ing out in this get-up, damn it! The least he could do was say I was pretty.

  “Hello, Papa,” I mur­mured, go­ing up to him. Lean­ing over so that my breasts were pressed against his arm, I stole a piece of ba­con from his plate and took a tiny nibble. “It’s nice to see you this morn­ing,” I told him in a high, breathy voice.

  “Is nice to see you too, mishka. Now have a seat and eat your break­fast.” Salt still soun­ded faintly bored, al­most like a real father who had to deal with a tire­some teen­ager.

  Ir­rit­ated, I star­ted to sit on the chair be­side him but someone had for­got­ten to put the stu­pid booster seat I needed to reach the table on it. Hav­ing a sud­den in­spir­a­tion, I ducked un­der Salt’s arm and in­sinu­ated my­self into his lap.