Page 38 of Daddy's Christmas Rescue
Blake didn’t yell. He didn’t even look angry. He just exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to find the right words. Finally, he said quietly, “You think I pity you?”
I looked away. “Don’t you?”
He crossed the space between us in two slow steps, stopping just close enough that I could feel the warmth coming off him. “No, Holly,” he said, voice low and steady. “I don’t pity you. Iseeyou.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to so badly it hurt. But my voice came out small and bitter. “Then why the toys? Why treat me like a kid?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Because I want you to have things that make you happy. That doesn’t make you a child. Allowing yourself that is going to take a lot of courage.”
I blinked up at him, confused.
Blake took a breath, bracing himself like a man about to reveal a secret. “I should’ve told you sooner. I think I'm what they call a Daddy or a Daddy Dom, but I've never been to a club.”
I froze. “A… what?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but softer than I’d ever seen him. “It’s not what you think. It’s not about age. It’s about taking care of someone who needs gentleness, structure, safety. Some people call the other side of that a Little, someone who feels small sometimes, who finds peace in being looked after.”
My face went hot. “You think I’m—”
“I think,” he said carefully, “that you’re someone who’s spent her whole life trying to be perfect so no one would hurt her. Someone who was told growing up that softness was weakness. And someone who finally feels safe enough to let herself be small, to play, to laugh, to cry without being punished for it.”
I swallowed hard. “You make it sound like it’s a good thing.”
His gaze softened. “Itisa good thing. Littles aren’t broken. They’re brave enough to show the parts of themselves the rest of the world hides.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest. “But I’m not normal.”
He shook his head. “You’re perfect the way you are.”
My breath stuttered. “Perfect?”
“Yeah.” His voice dropped, gentle but sure. “Messy. Angry. Scared. Sweet. All of it. You don’t have to hide any of it from me.”
Something inside me broke, but not pain this time, but a strange, aching relief.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I whispered.
“That’s all right,” he said, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “That’s what I’m here for. To help you figure it out. At your pace. No rules. No pretending.”
I didn’t mean to start crying again. It came out in shudders—ugly, raw, too big for my chest.
Blake just held me, his hand moving slowly up and down my back, not saying anything. The warmth of him should’ve been comforting, but it hurt too. Because every word he’d said was so kind, so gentle and not at all what I wanted.
When I finally found my voice, it came out broken. “I don’t want to be your Little.”
He froze. His hand stopped mid-motion.
I pulled back enough to look at him through my tears. “I don’t. I can’t.” My voice cracked on the last word. “You keep talking about taking care of me like I’m something fragile, and maybe I am, but I don’t want that with you.”
His brows drew together, not angry, but confused, careful. “Holly—”
“I want you towantme,” I blurted out. “Like a woman. Like you wanted Amanda.”
The silence that followed burned.
His jaw flexed. “Amanda,” he said quietly, like the name tasted bitter.
I swallowed hard, words tumbling too fast now to stop. “She was beautiful. Perfect. Confident. The kind of woman you take to dinner, not hide away in your house. When she came here, she looked at me like I was some broken charity case. And she’s right, isn’t she? I’m not what you want.”
