Page 9 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
His voice cuts through mine, firm and low. "Stop."
I freeze. The single word stops my rant mid-sentence. It's not loud, not harsh, but it carries an absolute authority that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to something deeper. My body responds before my brain can protest, going still and attentive in a way that should alarm me. I am not the obedient type.
"Take a breath," he says, softer now. "You're worked up."
The command is gentle but unmistakable, delivered in that same tone that made me obey when he said "don't move" over the cider press. And God help me, my lungs obey him again, drawing in air without my conscious permission.
“Good girl. Now another.”
The gall.
The absolute gall of this man, telling me to breathe like I'm a toddler throwing a tantrum. My pulse spikes, heat flaring in my chest, but the worst part? The absolute worst part is that my lungs obey.
One inhale. One exhale.
He opens his mouth again, but I interrupt him before he has the chance to speak.
"Don't," I whisper, furious at him and at myself.
Don't what? Don't tell me what to do? Don't make me want to listen? Don't look at me like you can see straight through to the exhausted, overwhelmed woman I'm trying so hard to hide? The protest is too weak, too late, and we both know it.
“Don’t tell me what to do.” I protest, the words lacking in strength.
His gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching. "Someone needs to tell you when to pause. You can't carry all of this alone."
The words sink past my armor, landing somewhere raw. I want to argue. To laugh. To tell him he has no right.
Instead, I turn on my heel and storm away.
But even as I flee, I can feel the truth of his words. Someone needs to tell me when to pause. The thought should terrify me. The idea of surrendering that much control to another person. Instead, it sends a dangerous warmth spiraling through my chest. I love the books we read each month. The ones with Daddy Dominants who take a woman into his arms and over his knee. The ones who spoil their women but also spank their asses when they are naughty. The ones who put her first and yet still encourage the woman to have her own mind, her own thoughts… But those are fictional. Books that allow me to lose myself for a while into a world without bills, without chaos, without chores. Real life is not a romance novel and this man? This… stranger? He has no right to tell me what to do.
This is my orchard. This is my world I’ve built. Blood, sweat and tears. No one is going to come in and tell me what to do.
By sunset, the fight is still buzzing under my skin. I should be over it. He's just a man, an outsider, a nuisance with opinions that shouldn't matter.
But the memory of his voice saying "stop" keeps replaying in my head, along with the way my body responded without hesitation. It's the kind of detail that would make the Naughty Girls Book Club lose their collective minds. I can’t stop thinking about his quiet dominance, the effortless authority, the way he made me want to obey even while I was furious with him.
But when I catch sight of him by the fire pit, helping a little girl toast her marshmallow without letting it catch fire, steady and patient, something twists in my chest. It’s not anger. It’s… something else entirely.
I hate it.
I hate that I notice.
I hate that he looks natural there, crouched down to a child's level, his big hands gentle as he guides her stick over the flames. This is the man who just commanded me to breathe like he had the right, and now he's being tender with a six-year-old like it's the most natural thing in the world. The contradiction shouldn't be appealing. It absolutely shouldn't make my stomach flutter with awareness.
The lanterns glow soft around the barn. Families laugh, sipping cider, sticky with sugar. And there he is, framed in firelight, looking like he belongs. Like he’s a part of my world. Like he’s not a stranger that is only here for a short period.
I take a step closer before I can stop myself.
"Truce?" I say, voice tight.
He looks up, surprised. "Truce."
The word settles between us like a peace offering, fragile and tentative. But there's something in his eyes, relief, maybe,or satisfaction, that suggests this isn't over. That whatever's building between us is just getting started.
We stand in silence, the crackle of fire between us. His face is shadowed, his expression unreadable.
Then he says, almost gently, "You're allowed to lean on someone, you know."
