by Maren Smith
How the hell had that happened, again?
Chapter Seven
Kurt taped her mattress, stuffed as much of her pillow as he could find into her pillowcase, and then found another pillowcase on a shelf in the closet and shoved the first pillow into it. He wasn’t Martha Stewart, but he made her bed and vacuumed the floor while he waited for Scotti to get out of the bath. Then he checked all the windows, tested each lock to make sure they were sound and put ‘buy new locks’ on his mental checklist for tomorrow. It would take some time, but he was going to completely change every lock before the weekend.
Then he would change her phone numbers.
Then he was going to start work on a restraining order, and he was going to make a few old friends who might not hold hostile feelings toward him aware of what was going on.
Before he was done here, he would get someone to listen.
And once she was as safe as he could make her, then and only then would he figure out a way to extricate himself from the problem he’d just made.
What. The. Hell.
God, everything that had just happened upstairs in the bathroom had just happened so damned naturally. It was the bear, it had to be. When he’d heard her walk upstairs, he’d chased after her. He’d wanted to prepare her. The last thing he wanted was for her to see what had been done to her wall and her bed and panic.
I was under it at the time, she’d said, hiding in the back of her closet, just like any Little he’d ever known might do. With tears still running down her face and that blatantly I’m so sad expression on her face, just like the last Little he’d been a Daddy to would occasionally have, especially when coming out of punishment time. And that bear cuddled to her chest… oh, that bear had been the clencher.
She’s a Little ran through his head like a skipping record. The entire time she sat gazing up at him from her hiding place in the closet, to the entire time they’d been in the bathroom—him counting out a new list of rules that would irrevocably redefine the rest of their relationship together; her, with those big, wide eyes locked on him and that teddy bear in the Bat Girl costume still clutched in her hand and her hands on her bottom as she tried not to rub, and occasionally failed.
He made up a bed for himself on the floor at the foot of hers, with his head positioned so he could see at a glance both the window and down the hallway.
Those looks of hers were going to be his downfall. He was very susceptible to Little looks. They brought out the protector in him, and damn Grams for the wily old woman she was, she knew that too.
Jesus, had Grams seen that look on Scotti before? Did she know Scotti was a Little? Did she know about the time he’d spent in his old BDSM group, back before he went to jail and back before he had a felony strike against him that would make it difficult for him to get back into a reputable dungeon from now until the day he died? Responsible dungeons ran checks on their members. Some only banned people with sex offenses. His old dungeon banned felonies period, and Kurt knew he had made that unforgiving list before he’d even gone to trial.
His friends there had turned their backs on him without even giving him a chance to explain. Dana had made sure of that.
He could never go back there.
He could never go back anywhere.
If he had Scotti, he wouldn’t have to, the devil on his shoulder whispered.
Like he’d ever just settle for a relationship with anyone for no reason other than because it was easy.
Like Scotti was easy, his devil scoffed.
He tuned that voice out and cranked up the stubborn in his soul. The only relationship he was going to have with Scotti would be the employer/employee relationship. He was her bodyguard, that was it. He was here to protect her to the best of his abilities, not to get attached.
Like he had anything to offer anyone, anyway, the devil whispered.
Exactly, he agreed.
Keep it simple. Keep it professional.
Don’t fall under the spell of those big-eyed Little looks.
“Can I get out of my bath now?” Scotti asked from the doorway, startling him.
On his knees fussing with blankets, he froze when he saw her—hair wet from being washed, her face clean of makeup, dressed in her pink bunny footie pajamas and Bat Bear dangling from its arm at her side.
Oh Jesus.
He was so screwed.
“Are you hungry?” Somehow, he managed not to sound like he was strangling on the rising tidal wave of need crashing down on top of him.
She nodded.
“I’ll make you a sandwich.” He stood up, but a part of him wanted more to open his arms and see if she’d rush to throw herself against him, flinging her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck and making herself small in that special way that brought the big, bad Daddy-wolf in him snarling to the surface.
She needs protecting like few you’ve ever known. Funny, how his inner angel sounded just like Grams.
You’re not a cop anymore, the devil replied. His protection powers were severely limited these days.
His sandwich-making powers, however, were topnotch. He led the way to the kitchen with her following like a duckling at his heels.
She had a nice, modern kitchen, with a cooking island that did double duty as a table. On his side, there was a stove and a shiny array of copper pots and pans on a hanging rack above it. The fridge was at his back, the double sinks to his left, and more than enough cupboard space to make searching for whatever he needed an extensive game of hide-n-seek until he figured out the layout. On her side, she had a row of four barstools, and she promptly parked herself on one.
“I could make you a sandwich,” she offered, as he began hunting down the bread. “On top of the fridge.”
“It’s fine,” he said, pulling it down. “It’s all part of the service.”
Her fridge was every bit as neat as the rest of her house. Things were organized—fruit in the fruit bin, vegetables in the crisper. A thin drawer below had sliced deli turkey and a wide assortment of cheeses. He dug past the Havarti and Provolone until he found Swiss. Pulling a bag of red grapes and baby carrots from their bins, and a squeeze bottle of mayonnaise from the door, he shut the fridge and came back to the island.
“One sandwich or two?” he asked, pulling out enough bread for three.
“One,” she said.
He added another pair of slices and put the bread away. “Crusts on or off?”
“Off,” she stammered slightly. “I do eat them, though. I like to pretend they’re French fries.”
He cocked an eyebrow, tried not to smile lest she think he was doing it at her expense, and made up four turkey and Swiss sandwiches, crusts off on one.
He began a search of the cupboards again.
“Top set,” she said. “Two to the left of the sink.”
He found the plates and made their suppers: a sandwich and a short stack of crust ‘fries,’ along with a handful of baby carrots and some grapes for her; three sandwiches, the rest of the small bag of baby carrots and a sprig of grapes for him.
“What did you go to prison for?” she asked, setting Bat Bear up beside her plate so the two of them could share it.
“No stuffies on the table,” he said between bites, and she stopped what she was doing and moved Bat Bear to sit on the stool beside her. She glanced at him to make sure that was all right; he allowed it. “I was stupid. I thought I could trust someone, and I couldn’t.”
“Your partner?” she said.
“You watch too many movies.” Polishing off the first sandwich and picking up another, he said, “Does the rodent know?”
She didn’t try to play stupid and pretend she didn’t know what he was referring to. He liked that about her. He also liked how she hunched her shoulders and suddenly found anything and everything in the area so much more interesting to look at than he was.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“Tell me you did not let Chipmunk be your Daddy.”
“Gopher,” she corrected. “In my defense, he introduced himself as Robert.”
“When did he become the Groundhog?”
A corner of her mouth twitched. “Our third date, I think. And the way he said it made it sound more like a job than a name. You know, like go-fer. He’d go-fer this, or go-fer that.”
“We have those in prison too,” he said, unimpressed. “They’re nowhere near as nice as Morgan Freeman makes them out to be.”
“Morgan Freeman?” She blinked at him.
“You never saw The Shawshank Redemption?”
“No.” Finishing her ‘fries,’ she started on her grapes.
“Carrots too,” he said automatically.
“I only like them when they’re candied or cooked with ham. You know, so they taste good.”
“Carrots, too,” he said again, and making a slight face, she ate one next. “The movie doesn’t matter. What does matter, is that you knew Mouse-boy was a rodent and you still agreed to date him.”
“He was still being nice back then.”
“Uh huh.” He watched her pick up a carrot, then pick up her sandwich. Taking a bite of sandwich, she tried to palm the carrot. “Not if you know what’s good for you.”
The corner of her mouth grimaced, but she put it back on her plate. She looked at him. “I really don’t like them.”
“You’ve only got four more to go.”
She made herself eat another one, and he made a mental note of her anti-preference.
“Where did you meet him?”
She voluntarily stuffed the last three carrots in her mouth and stared at her plate while she chewed, probably so she wouldn’t have to answer him.
“That’s okay. I can wait.” He ate a grape.
Her face turned a slow, hot shade of red. Halfway done with her carrots, she tried to add a bite of sandwich.
“When Daddy asks a question, he expects an answer,” Kurt warned.
She blushed even brighter, but reluctantly put the sandwich down and swallowed what was left in her mouth. “D-do you know what a munch is?”
“Yes, I do.” He didn’t at all like that answer, and he especially didn’t like the mental image it came with. He could easily see her walking into one of those dungeon meal-meetings, where old and seasoned members met with newbies for the sole purpose of inviting them to play. Often newbies were called what they were: fresh-meat. Scotti in her business-casual librarian’s clothes and Bat Bear dangling from her hand by its arm… that was mouthwatering fresh-meat, right there. Put a pair of pigtails in her hair, and he could easily picture all kinds of Doms vying one another to be the first to break her in.
And the Dom who won had been a fucking Gopher.
“You’re not going back there,” he said, finishing the rest of his grapes. “In fact, you and I are going to have a sit-down regarding dungeon safety rules, and until that happens, you’re not going to go back to any meeting, munch, or dungeon-oriented coffee get-together, I don’t care how public it is. Not until I am confident that you can keep yourself safe.”
Like he had a right to make such a sweeping decree on what she did with her life.
She called him on it, too. “Now, wait a minute—” she said, sitting up a little straighter on her stool.
“No,” he cut her off. Not because he had the right, but because all he had in his head now was the mental image of her standing in front of a bunch of salivating Daddy-wolves. Only now her librarian’s outfit was that of a schoolgirl, with her long blonde hair done up in ribbons and pigtails, and Bat Bear still dangling at her side as she twiddled her fingers and shyly introduced herself, saying, “Hi, I’m Fresh-meat.”
Hell, no.
“Oh, hell, fucking no,” he said, hotly. “You continued to date a man even after you found out his name was Squirrel—”
“Gopher.”
“I am making a point,” he told her. “And that point is, your decision-making process—if you even have one, considering you made him your Daddy—is suspect. If I find out you’ve gone back before we’ve had that talk, I don’t care if I’m your bodyguard then or not, I will bust your butt so hard, you won’t sit for a week. A month. A month of damn Sundays, do you understand me?”
She frowned. She also squirmed on her stool, that single swat he’d given her in the bathroom no doubt giving her an inkling of what he’d just threatened her with.
“If I’d known you were going to be this bossy, I’d have found another bodyguard,” she grumbled.
“No one else would take the job,” he reminded. “You’re stuck with the bossy, hard-up convict who busts ass. If you think for a second, I’ve got any problem busting yours again tonight, I seriously suggest you think again.”
She cast the frown she meant for him at her plate. He let her keep her mutinous thoughts to herself, and they finished the rest of their supper in absolute silence.
Chapter Eight
It was the strangest and yet the most comforting thing in the world to be lying in her bed with a brand-new Daddy she’d only just met stretched on a pallet of blankets on the floor near her feet. Her bedroom door was wide open. She could see the bright colors of her Disney princess nightlight splashed up on the walls and ceiling of the hallway. That was comforting. But there was also this big ol’ yawning darkness down by the stairs leading out into the rest of the house, and the last time she’d been lying here, staring down that hallway, Gopher had been walking up it with his knife in his hand.
Lying on her side, Scotti drew her knees to her chest. She picked at the edge of the duct tape holding her blanket together. After asking whether she had the money for it, Kurt had told her tomorrow they would stop at the store to buy a replacement. Honestly, though, she wasn’t in a hurry. She really liked this blanket. It was soft and warm, even in winter, and the perfect blend of stark black and pale pink blossoms, just like the blossoms on an ornamental Chinese cherry tree. She liked pink. Pink was her favorite. She liked flowers too. Pick after nervous pick, she shredded the edge of the duct tape.
Quiet though she thought she was being, with a heavy sigh, Kurt said, “Do you want your Bat Bear?”
“No stuffies in bed,” she said automatically. “Beds are for other things.”
She could have bit her tongue, but the damage was already done. Already Kurt was sitting up far enough to look at her over the foot of her bed. The dim light of the nightlight had no problem illuminating his irritation.
“Is that the Gerbil’s rule?”
She worried the edge of the fast-shredding duct tape, although not for the same reason as before. “Yes.”
“Who’s the Daddy in this house right now?”
“You are,” she said, soft as a whisper. Soft or not, her stomach did crazy acrobatics when she said it. Complete with a flush of warm heat that lit up her insides and flowed, like a river of warm, slow chocolate, down into parts of her that wouldn’t at all have minded being eaten. Her thighs tensed, and then tensed again when Kurt got up off the floor. He didn’t need any extra light to locate Bat Bear from amongst the other stuffies she had stacked up on her dresser. When he held it out to her, she took it and hugged it to her chest.
“In this house, stuffies are allowed in bed,” he said.
God, he was good.
Scotti closed her eyes when he pulled the edge of the blanket up to her chin, tucking her and Bat Bear in together. She thought she felt him touch her hair, but when she opened her eyes, he was only looking at her and he was doing that marble statue thing with his face again. After a moment, he went back to his blanket and laid down.
The floor could not have been very comfortable. Her bed was a queen-sized, so it wasn’t as if they couldn’t share it. The river of chocolate grew just a little more molten and flowed just a little faster. Slow thumps of pressure were building up between her thighs, no matter how tightly she squeezed them.
Hugging Bat Bear, she said, “Do you want to sleep up—”
“No,” he said.
Now she really couldn’t sleep.
Picking at Bat Bear now instead of her blanket, Scotti asked, “Is there someone out there missing you because you’re sleeping here?”
“Grams has late-night TV to keep her company,” he said. “She’ll be fine.”
“No, I mean someone like me.”
“I already told you, I’ve never done this before. You’re my only client. Go to sleep, Scotti.”
“No,” she persisted. “I mean, do you have someone… like me.”
“People who just get out of prison don’t get the luxury of having somebody,” he said. “They get to get their lives back together first.” His tone dropped into those low notes of warning that she was starting to recognize as preceding a threat to her sitting abilities. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
She closed her eyes, but her mind wouldn’t quiet, and so they only drifted open again a few seconds later. “You did have someone, though, right?” she asked, and even though he sighed again, added, “Someone like me? Once upon a time?”
“Scotti…”
“But you’re too good a Daddy not to have had somebody!” she protested.
She could practically feel the waves of disapproval rolling off him and that frustrated her. She was just asking a question. That he wouldn’t answer and satisfy this one niggling curiosity was killing her! He’d jumped on the Daddy train without her saying one word; there had to be a past Little out there who, once upon a pre-prison time, had looked up to this aggravating lout and felt safe because she was his.
Or maybe the Little was a boy?
“Was your Little a guy?” she asked. “Is that why you don’t want to talk about it? I’m not a mean person. I promise I don’t kink shame or judge.”
He sat up again. “Do you need a hot butt?” he asked, evenly.
