Page 5 of Daddy!

Bette sighed as I read it out loud to her. Then she frowned. "Have you still not said it back to him?"

I frowned in return. "He knows I have a lot of baggage that makes it hard for me to say that to him as easily as he does to me. He doesn't push about things like that."

She snorted. "Obviously not, since you're still wearing another man's collar, too." Bette shook her head. "Do you know what you have in him? He's absolutely unreal. He does housework without having to be asked—you're the messy one, for fuck's sake! He cooks for you and packs a lunch for you when you're going to work from his place. He was the first to say 'I love you'. I know I've asked you this before, but does he have a brother?"

"No, sister."

"Uncle? Father? Stepbrother? Nephew? Second cousin, twice removed? I'm not picky—I'm desperate, here!"

"You're married!" I pointed out to her as I always did when she asked this question.

"But I'm not dead! I can dream, can't I? Evan hasn't quite killed those yet, and that's a good thing, isn't it? Do you know how long it's been since he said 'I love you' before I did? And he's never either cooked me a meal or put a dish into a dishwasher in his life. I owe a big thank you to my bitch of a mother-in-law for that."

"Yes, you do." I leaned towards her. "Now, what kind of drama is going on in your life? And, more importantly, are we ordering dessert?"

Chapter 2

Another of the Lt. Commander's many annoyingly good points was that he was punctual. TV—especially the old black and white sitcoms—always had the female characters being notoriously late. Well, apparently, women's liberation liberated the male of the species from having to learn time management—as well as manners—too. Fellow employees were late, friends were late, and when I dated—which I did rarely, granted—I always seemed to end up waiting for some man to grace me with his presence.

But not Mane.

He'd said he'd pick me up about five. I knew he was realistically leaving some wiggle room just in case anyone in his unit had a problem or he got caught in a conversation with his commander or whatever. But he was there at five on the dot.

I'd been wearing a path in my carpet since I'd gotten home after my lunch with Bette, worrying myself to a frazzle. So, when he drove into the spare parking space I was allotted at my apartment complex, I was already waiting for him out on the doorstep. Normally, I dressed to see him—even if it was just nice jeans and a cute top—but, since I figured I'd be back here, devastated, in no time at all, I wore the grubby clothes I'd been wearing all day—a tank top that had seen better days, no bra and old, comfortable shorts that, since I'd been hanging around him, were getting quite big on me.

I wasn't usually quite so anxious. He always came to the door, escorted me to his car, opened that door and helped me in, then closed it behind me. His mama had taught him how to treat a woman right.

He wasn't in his uniform—black jeans and a teal golf shirt was certainly nicer than what I was wearing. I have to confess that I missed it, but then he wouldn't have been able to do what he did if he was wearing it, I suppose. It wasn't as if anyone here was going to rat on him about PDAs while in uniform, but again, he was a stickler for rules—and didn't I know that!

Mane met me on the walkway, tipping my chin up so that our eyes could meet. I hadn't noticed that I was looking down as I walked towards him, but he had. He did have that tendency to notice small things about me that no one ever had, and it always made me feel very cherished and looked after—both things that appealed to the submissive—as well as the well-hidden, I had thought—little side of me.

"Smile, beautiful," he whispered, actually waiting for me to do so.

All I could give him, though, was a rusty, nervous one, my eyes darting away from him.

He chuckled softly and gathered me to him. That was the only way to put it. His arms closed around me very gently, tightening until our bodies were pressed together, holding me there while he used his other hand to bring my lips to his. His kiss was as warm and welcoming as the hug was. There was nothing rough or insistent about it whatsoever, and it succeeded in relaxing me more than anything else he could have done.

But he kept it short—deliberately—I thought, stepping away from me, but keeping his arm around my waist and me close to his side.

"How was your afternoon, babygirl?"

I'd never had such a dichotomous reaction to an endearment before in my life. He was pretty good at using them, too, but it was generally "sweetheart" or "honey" or occasionally "darling". The fact that he had called me "babygirl" had very important parts of me melting—making my panties wringing wet—although the rest of me kind of tensed up.

"Fine, thank you."

Formality had never—and would never—be my thing, so that answer got me a look from him that said he didn't believe me.

"And is there any carpet left in your apartment from your pacing?"

I glared up at him. "It's a lousy apartment. There was barely any carpet to begin with." Smacking him sharply on the arm, I complained—knowing I had no right to about this, "And how did you know I was pacing, anyway?"

"Because I know you better than you know yourself, Tahlia," he answered all too smugly.

We were at the car, and he opened the door for me, which he always did. What was glaringly different—to me, anyway, even though he managed to accomplish it very naturally—was that he beat me to reaching for the seatbelt, bringing it across me to latch it.

Then he kissed me again, tenderly, cupping my cheek in his big hand, before rising to close the door.

When we were on the road, I said what I had planned ahead to say to him, "Look, you don't need to go through the bother of cooking for me. In fact, we don't have to have dinner at all. It's not necessary."

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