Page 27 of Tame Me Daddy

"Thank you," I whispered, the words feeling inadequate for what I wanted to express.

One of Grant's hands stroked my hair in long, gentle passes while the other kept me anchored against him. The calluses on his fingers caught occasionally on the fine strands, a friction that reminded me these were working hands—hands that could be both firm and gentle, that could discipline and comfort with equal skill.

"Here," he said after a moment, reaching to the side table without letting me go. He produced a water bottle I hadn't noticed before. "Drink some."

I took it with slightly trembling hands, realizing only as the cool water hit my throat how thirsty I was. The fact that he'd prepared this beforehand—that he'd thought about what I might need after—spoke volumes about his experience and consideration.

"You think of everything," I said, passing the bottle back to him.

A small smile touched his lips. "Part of the job description."

"Ranch manager includes aftercare skills?" I attempted a joke, my voice still a bit unsteady.

His smile deepened, creating creases at the corners of his eyes. "Different job description." He didn't elaborate, but his meaning was clear enough.

We fell into a comfortable silence. Grant made no move to release me, and I had no desire to leave the shelter of his arms. My breathing gradually synchronized with his, my body settling more heavily against him as the adrenaline ebbed.

His fingers traced idle patterns on my shoulder, dipping occasionally to follow the line of my spine. The touch wasn't sexual, but it was intimate in a way that made my skin tingle.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked, his voice a low rumble I could feel through his chest.

I considered the question seriously. "Like . . . myself. But more so. Like the person Iwantto be." I frowned, frustrated by the inadequacy of words. "Like parts of me that were walled off from each other aren't anymore."

Grant nodded, his chin brushing the top of my head. "Integration. That's exactly what this is meant to help with."

"Is that why you . . ." I hesitated, not sure how to phrase the question.

"Why I recognized what you needed? Why I offered this?" His hand continued its soothing path across my shoulders. "Yes. I've had enough experience to recognize a little when I see one, even when she's trying to hide it."

The ease with which he said it—no judgment, no hesitation—made something tight in my chest unravel further.

"My family threw me out when they found out," I admitted, the words leaving me before I could reconsider. "Said I was sick. Perverted."

Grant's arms tightened around me. "There's nothing sick about who you are, Cherry. Nothing wrong with needing what you need."

I nodded against his chest, too overwhelmed to speak. His acceptance, so freely given, was almost harder to bear than rejection had been. Rejection I understood. Rejection I'd come to expect. This unconditional acceptance was foreign territory.

"The discipline is just one aspect," Grant continued, his voice gentle but matter-of-fact. "It's about providing structure, yes, but also about creating a safe space where all parts of you can exist together. Like I said, we’ll explore Littlespace if you want to. It’s an important part of a Little’s identity."

His hand moved to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. The gesture was protective, possessive in the best possible way.

"You're safe here," he said softly. "All of you. The capable ranch hand who works harder than anyone I've hired in years. The woman with her own mind and strength. And the little girl who sometimes needs guidance and care. They're all welcome here."

I felt safer than I had in years—maybe ever. The tears that sprang to my eyes now weren't from pain or release but from a profound sense of homecoming.

"Thank you," I whispered, meaning it for everything—the discipline, the aftercare, the acceptance.

Grant's eyes dropped to my lips for the briefest moment, then back to my eyes. The atmosphere between us shifted, the comfort and care suddenly charged with something more urgent. His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone in a touch that was no longer simply soothing.

"Cherry," he said, my name sounding like a question.

I answered by leaning into his touch, my eyes never leaving his. We stayed like that for a heartbeat, suspended in the momentof possibility. His hand was warm against my skin, his heartbeat quickening under my palm where it rested on his chest.

For a moment, it felt like we might kiss.

Grant's hand cupped my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my lower lip. The touch sent electricity skittering down my spine. The comfort between us had transformed into something hungrier, something that made my breath catch and my skin flush. I'd never felt this particular cocktail of emotions before—trust and desire, vulnerability and strength, all swirling together until I couldn't tell where one ended and another began.

It would be so easy to lean into him, to push my lips against his. But something held me back.

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