Page 19 of Daddy P.I. 3.0

Emily drifts to the dragons and strokes their noses. When she turns to me, her eyes are glittering brighter than any of the fairy wings. “Are they emerald dragons . . .?”

“For Laurel? Of course they are. I didn’t forget, baby doll.”

She rushes to me and I fold her into my chest. “You like it?” I ask.

“Iloveit. So much, Daddy. Everything’s so beautiful. It’s like my dreams.”

I kiss her on the forehead as I look around. I don’t usually bother patting myself on the back. If I’ve done something right, I allow myself a moment to bask and then move on to the next thing.

But with the Nursery, I can pat myself on the back. I listened carefully not just to Emily’s fantasies but to what many of our little friends wanted. I incorporated as much as I could. More than was practical, according to the architect. She had to design a retrospective structural support for the kitchen and cellar below the wet play side of the room, where the tree, fish tank, water table, and sand box add so much weight to the room that the design exceeded the building’s load-bearing capacities.

But she did a damn fine job, and so did I.

Once Emily finishes her happy cry, I walk around the room with her. Brenna’s murals pull the three separate play areas together. The waves framing the jutting corner structure—which can be made into a pirate ship or castle just by spinning the center-mounted “planks”—lead to the clouds butterflies, and steampunk dirigible of the reading and napping corner, with its adult cradle. The clouds roll away from the corner toward the wet play area, turning into a rainbow bridge that unicorns and pegasi dance across, framing the two tables for coloring and artwork. The last unicorn has a fish tail, leading to the underwater mural with curious tropical fish, laughing dolphins, and mermaids that peek around the actual coral reef tank and tactile discovery wall, wet play corner, and sand box.

I show her some of the hidden features of the room: the bins of dress-up clothes concealed as wooden casks on the pirate ship; the “cannon” that converts into a spanking bench; the huge cupboard between the pirate ship and napping corner that opens into a changing table and curtained-off cage beneath; the built-in bookcases that Twitch has stocked with everything from Beatrix Potter to Cynnie’s bumblebee books; the rolling carts of art supplies. Emily touches everything with light fingers, her eyes shining.

“Daddy, can we go upstairs?” she asks, peering up through the cut-out into the second floor of the Nursery.

“That’s a space for bigger girls. Wouldn’t you like to be very little tonight?”

She glances at the cradle and I see the longing in her eyes. Oh, baby doll, try it. Show me that very little soul that keeps trying to break free. I sidle in that direction and pull out something I’ve been keeping in reserve for this occasion.

A pacifier with her name on it, edged in pink rhinestones.

She swallows and edges toward me. “Daddy? Is that for me?”

“It is. Would you like a spanking on the table here?” I open the diapering cabinet. “And then I could rock you with a hot bottom?”

Her breath catches. “I could see upstairs tomorrow.”

“You could,” I agree.

She nods.

I undress her reverently. If there was a time when I thought Emily was anything less than the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, it’s long past. Every curve, freckle, dimple, and fold of her body has become the table at which I feast, the altar at which I worship.

“I adore you, baby doll,” I tell her, as I kneel to unlace her boots.

Would my friend Sean, who pokes his head into the Nursery as I’m easing off the first boot, think I’m submitting to Emily, given our relative positions? Maybe. If he does, Sean’s too distracted by the wonder of the Nursery, as he leads his submissive in, to comment. Moon trots straight to the pirate ship.

Emily places a soft hand on my shoulder to steady herself as I take off the second boot. “I adore you, too, Daddy,” she whispers.

“Look around,” I say to her. “This is for you. This is because of you. Look at all the magic you’ve brought to my life, little wonder.”

She glances around, then back at me, and smiles tremulously. I flick my fingers across her cheek to catch a tear that spills.

“Good tears?”

She nods. “The best tears.”

I unzip and slip off the dress she’s worn and the black lace thigh-highs underneath. When she’s standing in just a black lace bralette and tiny knickers that make her skin glow like marble, I say, “Put your hands on my shoulders. I’m going to pick youup. That’s the last time you stand on your feet until we leave. My baby girl crawls for Daddy tonight.”

Her eyes are so huge and round, they encompass my world. “Yes, Daddy.”

I lift her onto the changing table. It has a thick pad, much thicker than on a child’s changing table. More like a mattress. It’s sized for an adult and Emmy can stretch out on it. It’s at the perfect fucking height. There are several shallow drawers built into the walls on either side, where the supplies are kept. I open one and take out a cloth diaper and a pair of diaper pins.

I’ve read about diapering in every parenting book and online guide I could find since finding out about Olivia. Reading doesn’t prepare me for the reality of it. The warmth of Emily’s soft curves as I draw her knickers off and run my fingertips reverently over her hips. The weight of her legs as I lift them over my shoulders. The sweet musk that rises to me as her thighs part naturally.

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