Page 21 of Bossh*le Daddy
I climbed under the covers without conscious thought, the soft sheets cool.
He studied me for a moment, head tilted slightly. Then he moved with that same deliberate purpose, pulling the comforter up to my chin with movements so careful they made my throat close up. His hands smoothed the fabric, tucking it around my shoulders, down my sides, creating a cocoon that smelled like laundry soap and a lingering hint of his cologne.
"Better?" he asked, straightening to look down at me.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The sight of him there, backlit by my cheap overhead light, taking care of me with such focused attention, was scrambling every defense I'd built.
He reached into his pocket then, a movement so casual I almost missed its significance. What he pulled out made my breath catch, my heart stuttering to a stop before racing double-time.
A pacifier.
Still in its packaging.
Pink and white, the shield decorated with tiny stars that caught the light when he held it between two fingers like it weighed nothing. Like he carried pacifiers in his thousand-dollar tux all the time. Like this was normal, expected, planned.
"Ever used one before?" The question was soft, careful, but his eyes were intent on my face, catching every micro-expression that crossed it.
My whole body went hot then cold then hot again. Because this was it—the thing I'd hidden, the secret I'd carried, the part of myself I'd thought I'd buried under adult responsibilities and bills and the constant effort of being normal. He was holding it out like he already knew, had always known, had seen through every defense to the girl who still needed her bunny, who whispered to stuffed animals, who craved something she'd never been able to name.
"Yes." The word came out as barely more than breath, but in the quiet of my room, it felt like shouting.
"Ah." The sound was pleased, knowing, completely unsurprised. He turned the package over in his fingers, studying it with the same attention he'd given to my food intake. "So you are a little."
Not a question. A statement. An acknowledgment of what he'd apparently known all along while I'd been desperately trying to hide it. The truth of it sat between us, naked and vulnerable and impossible to take back.
My eyes darted away from his, finding the water stain on my ceiling fascinating suddenly. "Yes," I admitted, even quieter than before. The word felt enormous, like I'd just signed another contract, one with implications I couldn't fully grasp.
The plastic crinkled as he opened the package with the same efficient movements he used for everything. No hesitation, no awkwardness, just calm certainty as he freed the pacifier from its prison. When he crouched beside the bed, bringing himself to my eye level, I forgot how to breathe entirely.
"Look at me," he commanded gently, and my eyes found his automatically. "Good girl."
The praise made me tremble even as he brought the pacifier to my lips. The shield was cool against my mouth, waiting. Asking. I could refuse, could turn my head, could pretend this wasn't happening. But his eyes held mine, patient and knowing and somehow proud, like I was doing something brave instead of shameful.
My lips parted without conscious thought, accepting the silicone between them. The weight of it was familiar, comforting in a way that made my eyes flutter closed. It had been so long since I'd allowed myself this—the simple comfort of regression, of being small, of not having to be anything but what I was.
"Well done," he murmured again as I settled into it, my body relaxing into the mattress in increments. His hand came up tobrush my hair back from my face, fingers gentle against my temple. "My perfect little one."
The possession in those words should have scared me. Should have sent me running from this vulnerability, from letting him see me like this—pacifier between my lips, curled small in my bed, every defense stripped away. Instead, it made me feel safe. Held. Like maybe being his meant I didn't have to pretend anymore.
He stayed crouched there for long moments, just watching me with those storm-gray eyes that saw everything. His fingers continued their gentle path through my hair, and I felt myself sinking deeper into the mattress, into the headspace I'd denied myself for so long. Small. Safe. His.
"I'll see you in the morning," he said finally, voice rougher now, like this was affecting him too. Like seeing me this way, vulnerable and little, was doing something to him that matched what his care was doing to me.
He stood slowly, reluctantly, and I made a small sound around the pacifier that might have been protest. His eyes darkened at that, and for a moment I thought he might stay. Might climb into bed beside me and hold me while I fell asleep sucking on the pacifier he'd given me.
But he had more control than that. Of course he did. This was Damian Stone, master of himself and everyone around him.
"Sweet dreams, little one," he murmured, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut with quiet finality.
Chapter 5
IspentSundaydrowninginphantom touches. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his fingers in my hair, tasted butter and herbs on my tongue, heard "good girl" whispered against my temple like a prayer.
I tried to read, but the words swam on the page. Tried to clean, but found myself standing motionless in my kitchen, staring at the spotless counter where he'd washed my dishes with those elegant hands. The pacifier sat on my nightstand like evidence of a crime, and I couldn't stop touching it, running my fingers over the smooth shield, remembering how easily he'd slipped it between my lips.
By the evening, I was wound so tight I thought I might snap. Every sound in the hallway made my heart race, some treacherous part of me hoping it was him, coming back to—what? Tuck me in again? Feed me again? Call me his good girl while I melted into nothing but need and surrender?
When my phone buzzed at 9:17 p.m., I nearly dropped it in my scramble to check. His name on the screen made my stomachflip, that now-familiar cocktail of anxiety and want flooding my system.
