Page 51 of In Too Deep

I let out a shaky exhale, suddenly overly warm. Almost on autopilot, I find a half-full glass of wine in my hand, the ruby-red liquid gleaming in the light as I move to Logan’s side at the breakfast bar. He’s cleared the space and managed to find a cutting board without help, and he’s currently inspecting the knives in the block, pulling each out for a second, then pushing it back in when it’s not what he’s looking for. Eventually, he finds the delicate paring knife and turns back to Jerry. Which is my cue to turn away and gather that sheet pan and parchment paper he asked for.

The air is comfortable between us as he works, seasoning and preparing the fish inside and out, before placing it onto the pan. His brow low over his bottle-green eyes in concentration, he doesn’t speak. I make myself busy, pulling out plates for us, setting out cutlery and condiments—butter, salt, pepper, hot sauce—on the table before returning to my seat. Only once the fish is in the oven does he look up at me, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“That’ll roast for about a half hour, and then we’re golden,” he tells me as he moves over to the sink to wash his hands.

“Have you made this before?” Rounding the breakfast bar, I perch on one of the stools.

Logan nods. “Mom taught me all about prepping and cooking fish growing up. My great granddad started a fishing business back in the 1800s. His kids took over when he passed, and my dad is getting ready to take over when my granddad finally decides to retire. I was supposed to train with them, but then I got good at hockey,” Logan says, turning around to face me as he dries his hands.

My eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline, completely caught off guard by that answer. Of all the origins stories I’ve heard from hockey players, this might be the first fisherman’s son turned NHLer.

Logan strides over to the island and starts cleaning up, and I take the opportunity to watch him. He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, all the usual tension in his shoulders and around his eyes gone. He looks younger somehow, even with his darker hair streaked with gray. I take another sip of my wine, careful not to drink it too quickly on an empty stomach.

Once the counter is clear, Logan takes a swig of his beer as he lopes around the peninsula to sit beside me. He leans back against the wall, his smile soft as he looks me over. But, as hetakes a deep breath and lets it out, his smile fades into a frown. I sit up, pulse picking up at his change in demeanor.

“We haven’t had a chance to be alone since...” Logan trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish the thought. I know exactly what he means.

It’s an encounter I’ve thought a lot about, especially when I’m alone in my bed with my battery-operated-boyfriend.

“I think this is a good time to have that talk, if you’re feeling up to it. I really want to make sure we’re on the same page with our hard limits if we’re going to continue playing like we have,” he says, catching me off guard once again.

My brow furrows as I reel back. “Hard limits?” I repeat, confused.

One corner of Logan’s mouth lifts in a bashful smirk. “Not everyone is into the same stuff, and I don’t want you to think you have to do anything like we did before if you’re not into it.”

“You mean the Daddy stuff?” I fire back, surprised by my boldness.

Logan’s eyes lock onto mine, heat flaring in his stare for a moment before he reins it in. “Yes, that.”

I lean sideways against the counter, crossing one leg over the other and taking another sip of wine, trying to decide how to proceed. This time last year, if someone asked me to call them Daddy in bed, I would have laughed them all the way out the door. But with Logan... there’s just something about him that makes the honorific feel right. He’s a natural dominant, and looking back at our interactions this season, there’s always been an edge of that dynamic to our relationship.

“I would have told you if I had a problem with it,” I reply, not missing a beat.

Logan gives me a stern look. “I’d still rather know your limits in advance than play kink roulette, if it’s all the same.”

After everything I discovered about myself while I was stuck inside with the boys during the hurricane, I’d done some research into kinks and the BDSM lifestyle. I didn’t dig too deep, just enough to reassure myself that I’m not some sort of sick deviant, but I do recognize the terminology Logan is throwing around.

“What do you want to know?” I ask, settling into my lounging position.

Logan studies me for another moment, and I don’t flinch away. My face remains neutrally interested, my posture open. He must find what he’s looking for, because he chugs the rest of his beer, getting to his feet and jerking his head toward my dining table. I stand as well, draining my wine before I follow, more curious than apprehensive. He takes the seat facing the kitchen, the head of the table if I choose to sit close to him. But instead, I refuse to be intimidated in my own house, so I keep my eyes on Logan’s as I slide into the seat opposite him at the square table. He gives me a smirk before leaning back in his chair.

“I can start with my preferences, and you can consent or object. Sound good?” His voice takes on a clipped, almost professional air.

I mirror his movement, crossing my legs again as I sit back, motioning for him to begin before I rest my hands in my lap.

“I like being called Daddy, and engaging in DDlg—Daddy Dom, little girl—role play,” he starts, not mincing words.

“What does the role play entail?” I’m careful to keep my face even, despite the surge of heat between my thighs.

“Ideally, I’d be in charge of you and your care in most aspects of your life. Making sure you’re fed, hydrating, taking whatever medicines you need. Sometimes picking out your outfits, or what you wear under them,” he rattles off, like he’s reading me his grocery list.

The omega part of me melts at the idea of letting someone have control of my life for a change. But the stronger part of me has my upper lip curling for a moment before I catch it. Logan chuckles as his smirk morphs into a fond smile.

“What has you making the face?” he asks, still chuckling.

I huff, rolling my eyes. But it’s hard to put my feelings into words. In theory, it sounds great. But there’s a part of me screeching and trying to run for the hills at the mention of taking both hands off the wheel and letting someone else drive.

“I wasn’t raised to be a biddable omega, and I’m not sure I would be able to just... roll over when you tell me to…”

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