Page 34 of Tame Me Daddy

The rest of dinner passed in a blur. I joined a conversation about a local rodeo coming up next month, laughed at the right placesduring a story about a city visitor who'd tried to take selfies with the bulls, and avoided Maya's knowing gaze as much as possible.

I walked back to my quarters alone, the night air cool against my heated skin. Stars punched through the darkness overhead, impossibly bright away from city lights. The ranch spread around me, buildings casting long shadows in the moonlight.

As I reached my door, I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets, feeling for my key. My fingers brushed against something unexpected—a folded piece of paper that hadn't been there earlier. My heart skipped as I pulled it out, stepping into my room before unfolding it.

The handwriting was bold and precise, the pen pressed firmly into the paper: "My office. 9 PM. If you want to."

There was no signature, but none was needed. I traced the words with my fingertip, feeling the slight indentations in the paper. "If you want to." Not a command, but an invitation. A choice that was entirely mine.

I checked my watch—8:30. Enough time for a quick shower, to change into clean clothes. Enough time to decide.

But I already knew my answer as I clutched the note against my chest, my heart drumming an excited rhythm against my ribs. Of course I would go. The pull toward Grant was magnetic, inevitable as gravity.

*

The main house stood quiet in the blue-black Texas night. Most windows had gone dark, the remaining few spilling yellow light in neat rectangles across the packed earth. I checked my watch—8:55. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free. The walk from my quarters to Grant's office had never felt so long or so significant. Each step carried me further from who I'd been yesterday and closer to who I might become tomorrow.

At his door, I hesitated, smoothing my hair and straightening the simple button-down shirt I'd changed into after my shower. I'd deliberately avoided anything too feminine or revealing, wanting this meeting to feel substantial, not just physical. With a deep breath, I raised my hand and knocked softly.

The door opened almost immediately. Grant stood before me, as if he'd been waiting just on the other side. He'd removed his work jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His usual pressed shirt had been exchanged for a soft henley that clung to the broad planes of his chest. A day's worth of stubble shadowed his jaw, and his hair was slightly mussed, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

"You came," he said simply, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" I asked, suddenly uncertain.

He stepped back to let me in, and that rare smile transformed his face, creating crinkles at the corners of his eyes that made something in my chest tighten.

"I hoped you would. But I meant what I said about your choices always being your own."

The office looked different in the evening light—warmer, more intimate. A single lamp cast a golden glow across his desk, where papers were neatly spread out. Every detail registered with heightened clarity, as if my senses were determined to memorize this moment.

We stood just inside the doorway, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, yet not touching. After yesterday's intensity, this moment felt tentative, almost shy.

"I've been thinking," Grant said finally, gesturing toward the leather couch against the wall—the same couch where I'd fallen apart in his arms, where his hands and mouth had brought me toheights I'd never experienced before. My cheeks warmed at the memory.

"About yesterday," he continued, his voice quiet but steady.

My stomach clenched with sudden apprehension. Did he regret what happened between us? Was this his way of letting me down gently?

"Do you regret it?" I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.

"No," he answered immediately, reaching for my hand. His palm was warm and slightly rough against mine, his grip gentle but sure. "Not for a second. But I do feel I may have let you down."

Confusion replaced my fear. "Let me down? How?"

His thumb traced gentle circles on my palm, a small point of contact that sent warmth spiraling up my arm. His eyes—dark brown with flecks of amber in the lamplight—held mine with unwavering focus.

"Things progressed quickly between us," he said carefully. "While I don't regret where we ended up, I feel I rushed the process. There are conversations we should have had, boundaries we should have established more clearly before we became intimate."

I studied his face, trying to understand. "You mean about the Daddy Dom/little girl dynamic?"

He nodded, his expression serious but not stern. "It's a complex relationship with many facets. What we experienced yesterday was powerful, but it was just one aspect. If we're going to explore this fully—and I very much want to—we need a clearer framework."

My heart stuttered at his words. Not rejection, then, but care. Not regret, but consideration. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly.

"What are you proposing?" I asked, curiosity replacing anxiety.

He released my hand to reach for a folder on the coffee table. It was a simple manila folder, unmarked, yet somehow it seemed significant in the way he handled it.

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