Page 36 of Tame Me Daddy

"It needs to be," Grant replied, serious again. "Discipline in this context is a tool for growth and reinforcement, not punishment for its own sake." He pointed to another paragraph, this one emphasized in bold text: "Discipline will never be administered in anger, never intended to humiliate, and never used as a means of manipulation or control."

I looked up to find his eyes on me, steady and certain. "I've seen too many people abuse the trust inherent in this dynamic," he said quietly. "I won't be one of them."

We spent over an hour going through each section, discussing, clarifying, and occasionally amending points. Grant was patient with my questions, encouraging when I suggested modifications, and firm about aspects he considered essential for safety.

When we reached the section on intimacy, I felt that now-familiar heat rise in my cheeks again. Grant had been both thorough and respectful, outlining preferences, boundaries, and consent procedures without being crude. The clinical language couldn't disguise the implicit promises of physical pleasure, and memories of yesterday flooded back—his hands on my skin, his mouth against my neck, the way he'd whispered praise as I came undone beneath him.

I forced my focus back to the document, reading each provision carefully. Something began to nag at me—a sense that something important was missing. When I reached the end of the contract, I realized what it was.

"There's something important missing," I said, looking up from the document.

Grant raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

I met his gaze directly. "What you get out of this. It's very clear what I receive—structure, guidance, acceptance, safety. But what about your needs?"

The question seemed to surprise him; he sat back slightly, considering it thoughtfully. This vulnerability—his willingness to pause and reflect rather than having an immediate answer—made me care for him even more.

"I find fulfillment in providing what you need," he said finally, his voice soft but sincere. "In seeing you grow, in helping you integrate all parts of yourself. There's a profound satisfaction in being trusted with your vulnerability."

I shook my head gently. "That can't be all," I pressed. "No relationship works if it's all one-sided. What do you need from me? What do you get from this beyond just . . . providing?"

His expression softened, the stern lines of his face relaxing into something more open, more vulnerable than I'd seen before.

"No, it's not all," he admitted, his eyes holding mine. "I need connection too—someone who sees me beyond my role as ranch manager, beyond the Warwick name and legacy. Someone who understands that providing structure for others doesn't mean I don't sometimes need support myself. Plus," he said with a wicked smile, “you’re hot as hell.”

I smiled back, trying my best not to blush.

"Then we should add that," I said.

“You want to get, ‘The Daddy Dom finds the Little hot as hell’ down in writing, don’t you?”

"I just think it needs to be balanced—mutual care, not just you taking care of me."

A smile touched the corners of his mouth, warming his eyes. "You're right."

We worked together to add a new section addressing his needs—for honesty when I found his guidance unhelpful, for genuine connection rather than performance or people-pleasing, for the unique companionship that came from someone who understood both his strength and his moments of uncertainty.

Plus he wrote that I’m hot as hell, which made me laugh all over again.

As we crafted these additions, something shifted between us. The dynamic became more balanced, the power more equally distributed despite our different roles. I wasn't just receiving his care; I was actively participating in creating something meaningful with him.

When we finally finished, it was nearly midnight. Grant slid the revised contract into a folder and handed it to me.

"Take it with you," he said. "Read it again tomorrow with fresh eyes. Make any other changes you want. We'll sign it only when you're completely comfortable with everything in it."

I accepted the folder, holding it close like something precious. "Thank you for this. For seeing me so clearly. For caring enough to do this right."

Grant came around the desk and gently pulled me to my feet. Standing this close, I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, a reminder of our physical differences that sent a pleasant shiver through me.

"You're worth doing this right," he said, his voice low and sincere. His hand came up to brush a strand of hair from my face, the touch feather-light. "Whatever develops between us—however deep it goes—I want it to be something that helps you thrive, not just something that meets my needs."

The care in his words, the deliberate thought he'd put into every aspect of our potential relationship, moved me deeply. No one had ever been so thoughtful about my needs, so concerned with my wellbeing even at the expense of immediate gratification.

"We have time," he continued, his thumb gently tracing the line of my jaw. "No rush, no pressure. We'll take this at whatever pace feels right."

I rose on my tiptoes and pressed my lips against his, a soft, chaste kiss that carried more promise than passion. "I'll read it again tomorrow. But I already know my answer will be yes."

His arms came around me then, not demanding, just holding. I leaned into his strength, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him. For a moment, we simply stood there, connected in a way that transcended the physical.

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