Page 57 of Soft Limits

“Perfection.”

“And I want to play you everything I’ve been working on since you’ve been gone.”

I straighten suddenly, thinking about his music. “Oh yes, that reminds me. You’ve got Montoni’s march backward. It should crash in wildly at the beginning, not the end, then ease up and start to build. He makes his presence felt from the moment he appears, the villain of Udolpho.”

Frederic gives me an appraising look. “Is that right?”

I nod seriously. “It is. His little figurine was telling me so the other day. I’m sewing a whole set of Udolphins. Montoni has your wickedly green eyes.” I bite my lip, wondering if this will hurt him, because he’ll never play Montoni now, nor any villain or hero ever again.

But Frederic just smiles. “I have no doubt at all that you’re right. You know, all your Gothic novels kept me going through my recovery. They were filled with you. Your handwriting in the margins. Your sticky notes. All the things you love. I had you with me, and it healed me.” Noticing me looking worried, he puts his head on one side. “Minette?”

“But are you sad, Frederic? Now that you can’t sing anymore?”

He thinks for a moment. “At first, but then I realized I was looking at it all wrong. Do you remember what I said to you when I was trying to convince you to take the writing job? I want to pay things forward. The wonderful thing is I can still do that. Coaching and composing, that will be my life now. Let others play the Montonis and Frollos and Rochesters. I had my time, and I’m proud of it.” His mouth twists into a smile. “And it seems I haven’t burned all my bridges in the theatrical world. That score I’ve written called Udolpho? It’s being turned into a show in London. I signed the contract yesterday. Your father very graciously forgave me, and he brokered the deal.”

I gape at him. “Frederic, that’s wonderful news! I couldn’t be happier for you. Which theater? Who’s writing the lyrics? Who do you think will play the leads?”

But he waves my questions aside. “Later. I want to hear about everything you’ve been doing. The stories you’ve been writing. The books you’ve been reading. I want everything, minette. Everything that you are, because I’ve missed so much and it’s all precious.”

Hearing him call me minette makes my heart turn over with longing. It’s not just Frederic that I’ve missed. A little uncertain, I ask, “Do you want me to be little with you, like before?”

He hesitates, his face becoming serious and his green eyes dimming. “Only if you do. I understand if it hurts too much, after what happened.”

I think back to his acknowledgments. Frederic was the light in the darkness for me, too, healing the hurt and shame that Adam had inflicted and helping me discover who I am. We could be content without that part of the relationship, but I, at least, couldn’t be happy. “I want that, daddy. Everything that we had before. I need that.”

Frederic makes a little groaning noise and wraps his arms around me tightly. “That has been the worst of it, these past months, worrying that I had damaged who you are with my thoughtlessness.” He pulls away and looks down at me, stroking my cheek. “Are you my sweet little girl?”

My breath catches at the sound of his lustrous voice, which warms and excites me as much as it ever did. “Yes, daddy.”

He smiles his wide, smoldering, dangerous smile, equal parts indulgent and menacing, his cobra eyes glowing. “Are you my kinky petite ange who wants to sit on daddy’s knee while he whispers all the sordid things he’s going to do to you?”

I giggle, and rub the tip of my nose against his. “Yes, daddy.”

“Then shall we?” He nods at the waiting car.

I rise up on my toes and kiss him. “Oui. Let’s go to Paris.”

* * * * *

Read on for an excerpt of LITTLE DANCER by Brianna Hale, available now!

Now Available from Carina Press and Brianna Hale

He wants to be her Dom. He wants her to call him Daddy.

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LITTLE DANCER

Copyright © 2017 by Brianna Hale

Chapter One

“Who was it? Who was the girl that missed her cue?”

His thunderous face glares around the room, and I shrink back against the wall. The girls on either side of me inch away as if my guilt is catching. We are all terrified of Rufus Kingsolver.

It was me. I’m the girl who missed her cue earlier, and then during the final number I pirouetted half a second too late. Now I’m going to feel the excoriating wrath of the theater owner.

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