Page 8 of Daddy's Rules

She opens the door and bows her head as if chastened, then follows me to my car. I open the passenger side door, usher her in, then go to my side and slide in. I could just fill her car with gas and send her on her way, but I want her to squirm a little first. I need to know what’s going on. Is she acting out because of the will? And hell, besides that, I want her near me. I want to wrap her in my arms and cocoon her from everything that can hurt her.

“Okay,” I say on a sigh. “Tell me what happened.”

“I... well...” She looks out the window and doesn’t talk. I reach for her chin and bring her eyes to mine. She blinks, surprised. I don’t usually put my hands on her, but lately it’s been happening more frequently. I want to touch her, but I want her to feel my touch more. She needs this.

My voice grows lower, deeper, as I want her attention, and she needs to answer me. “I asked you a question.”

“I... got a tattoo,” she blurts out. “With everything that happened I didn’t check the gas gauge until it was too late, then I got lost, and... well...”

I blink. I don’t think I hear anything after “tattoo.”

“A tattoo?”

“Yeah,” she says, jerking her chin out of my hand and looking away.

“Where?” I blurt out. I didn’t mean to ask that and my mind is starting to play tricks on me. I imagine a little flower on her hip, something sexy along her lower back, and before I can stop my imagination, a handprint tattooed right across her—

“Sh-shoulder,” she stutters. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo and I just... well... yeah. I finally did it.” She firms up her final three words.

I nod. I’m not sure what to say to her. I have no control over her. She’s not mine to care for, even though a part of me longs to be the one she looks to for comfort, support, and guidance. I need to get her out of my car and back to her own place. I want to put her over my lap and spank her ass for doing something so reckless and dangerous, but I can’t let Mr. Smith filter into my real life. Ever.

So I clear my throat, mumble something about being safe, and make her stay put while I put gas in her car. I come back to her side and lean in.

“Go home, Jordan,” I tell her. “I’ll follow you.”

And for some reason, her face falls. “Okay,” she whispers.

Why is she disappointed? Was she expecting something different? And why does hope rise in my chest at the sight of her disappointment? I get into my car and she gets into hers. I follow her home, watch as she parks her car, then walk her to the door with my hand on her elbow.

I don’t want to let her go.

“Good night,” I tell her. She bites her lip then impulsively turns to me and wraps her arms around my neck. My heart stutters at the feel of her in my arms, sweet and sexy and so vulnerable. I want to protect her. Care for her. Make her mine.

“Thank you, Owen,” she says. “I’m not sure what I’d do without you.” Then too soon she lets me go, enters her condo, and shuts the door.

* * *

I can’t get Jordanout of my mind. It’s been a few weeks since I talked to her last. Is she okay? Has she done anything reckless like she did the day of the reading? Will she call if she needs me? It’s earlier than I like to get up, but I’m awake and with Jordan occupying my mind there’s no hope of getting another hour’s sleep so I hit the track again, then head to the office. I have a long list of clients to see today, both the legal and the nontraditional kind. I’m distracted, though, and can’t focus on being nonjudgmental with the A-lister on his third DUI or the kid of one of the top producers who’s been charged with assault in a nightclub again.

And later, when I’m at the office as Mr. Smith, my mind’s on Jordan. I wish every woman who walks through that door is her. She’s the one girl who desperately needs my correction and care that I want to give it to. When I get up and head to the waiting room to call my next client, her profile looks like Jordan’s, but she’s turned away from me. I calm my rapidly increasing heartrate with a deep breath and tell myself it’s my mind playing tricks on me.

You’re seeing her because you want to see her.

“Miss Jones?” I call to her, but she looks away. I narrow my eyes, growing impatient. Not only does this girl need to come when I call her, but I need to make sure she isn’t the one girl I can’t possibly bring into this office.

And then she looks up with bright, terrified, oh-so-familiar eyes and pretty parted lips.

No.

It is her.

I’ve spent years schooling my features and demeanor so my job as a disciplinarian remains professional. It’s not easy. There’s a deep, abiding vibe of eroticism every time I bend a woman over my desk. There’s something undeniably seductive and attractive when they submit to my discipline.

Yes, Sir.

Yes, Mr. Smith.

I’ll obey, Sir.

---