Page 59 of The Sadist and the Brat

Jack lifted his bare feet to the hearth, letting the dancing fire warm his toes, and sipped his drink. “Oh, yeah.”

“And on that note…” James rose, glass in hand. “I’m going upstairs to fuck my wife.”

“Enjoy,” Jack said with a smile. “And thanks for playing DM.”

“Happy to help.” James headed for the stairs. “Feel free to help yourself to anything you need in the kitchen and ignore any noises coming from the second floor.”

“Will do. ’Night.”

Alone, Jack turned his gaze to the flames dancing in the fireplace. He was loose and relaxed from the scene and the sex, but his mind felt almost painfully alert, and he wouldn’t sleep for several hours yet. He didn’t feel like turning on the television, so he settled back into his chair, inched his feet closer to the fire, and went over the scene in his mind.

She’d liked the pain, he mused, staring into the flames. He’d given her plenty, with the ass beating and the breast torture, and though it had shocked and scared her, she’d soaked it up like a dry sponge. He’d forced himself not to push her too far, too fast, but he’d wanted to see how she’d react to real pain, and couldn’t be more pleased with the result. There was no doubt in his mind she could take more, though he didn’t know if she realized it, or would believe him if he told her so.

She didn’t trust him yet, and though it was frustrating, he couldn’t blame her. As an unattached submissive, she was smart to be careful, though he thought most of her reticence had more to do with a desire to keep him at a distance rather than any real concerns about her safety. Still, her boundaries were hers to set, and he would respect them.

Which is why he hadn’t objected to her demands for a neutral play space, or her insistence on having James act as DM. Building trust was a process, one that couldn’t be rushed, and he already knew building Sadie’s trust in him was likely to be a long, complicated one.

It didn’t bother him. Whatever she needed to feel safe, he’d make sure she got, and hopefully, she’d eventually realize her safety and well-being was as important to him as it was to her. It might take a while, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

He’d been waiting for this chance for too long to waste it.

“Hi.”

He turned at the soft sound. He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn’t heard the door open, and she was already halfway across the room. She was wrapped in the thick green robe he’d left draped over the foot of the bed, so big it all but swallowed her up. Her hair was loose, hanging past her shoulders in tangles and snarls, and her eyes were sleepy. Her cheeks were free of the tear tracks and makeup smears she’d been sporting when he tucked her in, so he surmised that she’d managed a trip to the bathroom before seeking him out.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice coming out gruffer than he’d intended. She looked so vulnerable and small, wrapped in his robe with her face scrubbed and glowing, and he was struck by the competing urges to cuddle and comfort, or tie her down and fuck her up again.

He cleared his throat and reminded himself that he was tryingnotto spook her. “Having trouble sleeping?”

She shrugged, lifting a hand to brush at her hair as she shuffled closer. Her sleeve fell away, revealing the soft white skin on the underside of her forearm. “I dozed, but I’m not really tired.”

Her voice was husky and thick, but she didn’t sound distressed. “Did you drink the water I left for you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Careful,” he warned. “I don’t care how bruised your ass is, I’ll still paddle it.”

“The hell you will,” she warned him, eyes flashing. They were hazel right now, he saw, and soft with contentment despite the bite in her tone. “I’m going to be lucky to be able to sit tomorrow as it is.”

He chuckled, unfazed. He’d gotten a good look at her butt when he’d tucked her in, and he’d bet a bottle of fifty-year-old Scotch that she’d be eating standing up through Monday. “I know.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was shy. “Um, Amanda invited me to stay here tonight.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“Are you staying?”

“I was planning on it,” he said, treading carefully. He couldn’t read her face. “But if you’d rather be home, I’m happy to drive you.”

“I was going to stay,” she told him, and he let out a quiet breath of relief. “Is it okay if I hang out here for a while?”

“Sure,” he said, and kept his hands at his sides when she came closer. He wanted to reach for her, but her eyes were wary. “I can move to a chair.”

“You’re fine,” she told him, and lowered herself gingerly to the cushion at the other end of the sofa. She lay on her side, curling up in a loose fetal position, and he saw her feet.

“You found the socks.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She lifted her foot, wiggling her toes inside the fuzzy tiger-striped socks.

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