Chapter 8
Dwight
D addy.
That’s what she’d called me. Ever since, it felt like something was different in me. How had she known? No-one knew. Not my family, not my friends. No-one.
I barely knew. In fact, I’d lived in denial for years. When I found out that Marcus was a Daddy Dom, it had upset me so much because he was living the life I secretly wanted. I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was too scared of what people might think. And that made me so jealous of Marcus, of his courage, that I lashed out.
And I’d been regretting it ever since.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her. At all.
Her face danced in my imagination—Marie smiling, her brown eyes daring me, that damn curl always slipping free near her cheek. Then her lips, soft and warm against mine. And then . . . " more Daddy. " The words echoed in my skull like they were tattooed there. Sweet, breathy, full of trust I didn’t deserve.
I was in my motel room, trying to recover from yet another shitty night’s sleep on the uncomfortable bed. At least I’d finally registered with a local realtor with the hope of getting somewhere of my own in town.
But maybe I’d already ruined my chances to make a new life for myself in Small Falls by kissing Marie. Most likely she’d tell my brothers, and it would confirm my fears that I was some careless asshole, just here to seduce hot local women.
"Shit," I muttered into the heavy air. My chest felt tighter than it had in weeks, and I couldn’t figure out if it was guilt or longing—or both. Probably both. I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to scrub her out of my head, but she stuck like flour on wet dough.
I’d run. Like a coward. Told her she deserved better. And maybe she did, but hell if I could stop thinking about her. About everything I wanted to be for her but couldn’t. My fingers curled into the stiff motel blanket. I needed to fix this. Whatever “this” even was.
Groaning, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and planted my feet on the thin carpet. The springs groaned under my weight as I leaned forward, elbows digging into my thighs. Half my brain screamed to leave it alone. Walk away before I screwed it up worse. But the other half—the louder half—was already making plans to see her.
***
The bakery smelled sharp, like fresh paint and sawdust, with a whiff of something electrical. Wires hung down from the ceiling where the new lights were going in, and the floor was scattered with extension cords and tools. It should’ve made me proud, seeing the place coming together. Instead, today, it just made me feel hollow.
My boots crunched over wood shavings as I crossed the room. I ran my hand over the counter, the smooth surface cool under my palm.
"Hey, Dwight!" a voice snapped me back. One of the contractors, a guy named Leo, waved from across the room. "Where you want this oven vent? Over here, or closer to the wall?"
I stared at him, my mind still caught on Marie’s laugh and the way she’d tilted her head when she said my name. "Uh . . ." I glanced at the corner he pointed to, but the words wouldn’t line up in my head. "Yeah. Sure. That’s fine."
Leo frowned. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just need coffee. I’ll be back in a bit," I mumbled, already heading for the door. My pulse hammered as I stepped outside, the cool air biting at my skin. I needed caffeine. But more than that, I needed to see her.
I had to apologize, and let her know how I feel.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into The Daily Grind, and I swear my heart went straight to my throat. The place was humming with life. People huddled over mugs, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world. Must’ve been nice.
I stood there for a beat, feeling stupid. My boots scuffed against the floor as I shifted my weight. She was somewhere in here, and damn it if that didn’t make me feel both sick and alive at the same time. I scanned the counter, my eyes darting past a kid ordering something complicated enough to need two hands to hold. Then I saw her.
Hair tied back, a few loose curls escaping to frame her face. That neat little apron snug around her waist. Damn that apron was hot. Why was that apron so hot? She leaned over the counter, handing someone their change, her smile quick and polite. Not the kind of smile she used to throw my way.
And then she looked up.
Her gaze hit me like a punch to the chest. Brown eyes locking onto mine, freezing me in place. There wasn’t just one thing in her expression—it was a mess of things. Like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to tell me to get lost or ask why it’d taken me so long to walk through the door.
"Next!" someone behind me barked, and I realized I was still standing smack in the middle of the shop, looking like an idiot.
Marie handed off a paper bag to the last customer in line and motioned me forward before I could even step up. "Sam," she said over her shoulder, voice clipped, "cover the counter. I’ll be back in a few."
"Sure thing, boss," Sam replied without looking up from the espresso machine.
She didn’t wait for me to respond, just turned and disappeared through a door next to the pastry case. I hesitated for half a second before following her, weaving through the tables and ignoring the curious glances from a couple of customers.
The hallway was narrow, dimly lit with a faint smell of sugar and cinnamon clinging to the walls. Her office was at the end, and when I stepped inside, it hit me how much this space was hers. Papers stacked in messy little piles. A corkboard covered in sticky notes and receipts. There was a coffee mug on the desk that read " But First, Coffee " in bold letters.
She shut the door behind us with a quiet click and turned to face me. Her arms crossed immediately, a shield more than anything else.
"Marie," I started, my voice already betraying me. Too rough, too raw. Her eyes narrowed, and I could feel the weight of her waiting, arms still crossed like a fortress I had to break through.
"Dwight." Her tone was clipped, but there was something underneath it. A crack in the armor. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to meet her gaze. "Look, I'm sorry. For running out the way I did. For kissing you and then . . . shutting you down like that." The words tumbled out faster than I intended, each one scraping against my throat. "It wasn’t fair. To you. Hell, it wasn’t even fair to me."
Her expression didn’t change right away. Her lips pressed tight, her eyes locked on mine, unflinching. But she didn’t tell me to leave, so I kept going.
"I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. About you." My chest felt too tight, like I’d boxed myself into a corner with no way out. "That kiss, Marie—" My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. "And when you called me . . ." I swallowed hard, heat crawling up my neck. "When you said 'Daddy,' it . . . Jesus, it lit me up. Like nothing ever has before."
Her cheeks went pink. Not subtle, not shy. Full-on flushed, like I’d yanked the curtain back on something private. She bit her bottom lip and held my stare anyway, daring me to look away first. I didn’t.
"Go on," she said, quiet now. There was no bite to it. Just calm and steady, like she was bracing herself for whatever storm I was about to bring.
I exhaled, dragging my hands down my face. "You should know what you're getting into first," I said, voice low. My fingers gripped the edge of the chair in front of me, the wood creaking under the pressure. "I’ve got baggage, Marie. Big, ugly duffel bags full of it. Booze. The military. Demons I can’t shake, even after all these years." My thumb rubbed over a dent in the chair’s frame—a small distraction from the knot twisting tighter in my gut. "And Marcus . . ." His name tasted bitter, like regret and broken trust.
"Marcus?" she prompted, taking a step closer without crossing the invisible line between us.
"I let him down. Badly." The words were heavy, sticking like tar on my tongue. "I don’t talk about it. Haven’t told anyone, really. But it’s there, weighing me down every damn day."
Her brows furrowed, curiosity flickering behind those brown eyes of hers. But she didn’t push. Didn’t ask for details I wasn’t ready to give. Instead, she unfolded her arms and let them fall at her sides, open. Vulnerable. It made me ache worse.
"Marie, I’m terrified," I admitted, quieter now. "Terrified of falling into old patterns. Of hurting you." My grip tightened on the chair until my knuckles whitened, grounding myself in something solid. "There’s something between us, though, isn’t there? Something special?”
She bit her lip. Nodded.
“I just don’t trust myself. Not enough to be what you need."
"Stop," she said firmly, stepping closer again. Her voice had softened, but the steel in it hadn’t dulled. "No one’s perfect, Dwight. And I don’t expect you to be."
Her hand hovered near mine, but she didn’t touch me yet. It was an offer, not a demand. Calm, steady, assured. Everything I wasn’t in that moment.
"Everyone’s got their mess, okay? You’re not special in that department," she added, a faint tease creeping into her tone. But her gaze stayed locked on mine, serious as hell. "What matters is whether you’re willing to try."
"Try what?" I asked, though the question came out more like a rasp.
"Whatever this is," she said simply. "You. Me. Us."
“I’d like to.”
There. I’d said it.
I heard her breathing, steady but shallow, like she was working up some kind of nerve. My hands hung useless at my sides, itching to grab onto something—anything—to anchor myself. Her eyes were locked on mine, and for a second, everything slowed down. That damn pull between us was back, thick as syrup, and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to.
"Wait here," she said, her voice quieter now but still firm enough to keep me rooted. She turned toward her desk, her curls bouncing with each step. I tried not to watch her too closely, but hell, it was impossible not to when everything about her had me on edge.
She opened one of the drawers, fingers hesitating for just a beat before pulling out a folded sheet of paper. It looked ordinary—nothing special—but the way she held it, like it weighed more than it should, made my pulse kick up a notch. When she faced me again, her shoulders were squared, chin lifted. Determined.
"Here," she said, stepping closer and holding it out.
I blinked at it, then at her. "What’s this?"
"Just . . . read it." Her tone wavered, barely. A hint of nervousness cracked through that confidence of hers, but her hand stayed steady.
I reached for it slowly, almost afraid it might bite. The paper felt warm from being in her hand. I unfolded it, my eyes scanning the bold headings: Rules. Responsibilities. Safe words. Boundaries. I froze.
"Is this—" I glanced up at her, eyebrows shooting up. " A contract? "
"A draft," she corrected quickly, her voice firmer this time. "It’s not set in stone or anything. But yeah, it’s . . . something I put together."
"Jesus," I muttered, running a hand over my jaw. The words blurred for a second before snapping back into focus. Rules. Responsibilities. Boundaries. Each one hit like a punch to the gut.
"Look," she started, stepping closer again, her voice softening, "I know this probably seems . . . extreme. But I’ve been thinking about what I want—what I need—and I realized . . . I need structure, Dwight. Clarity. If we’re gonna do this, I want to make sure we’re both on the same page."
"Structure?" My throat felt tight.
"Yeah." Her cheeks flushed pink, but her gaze didn’t waver. "I’m serious about this, Dwight. About us . And this"—she gestured to the paper—"is me showing it."
My mouth went dry. I looked back at the paper, forcing myself to actually read instead of just skimming. Every line was like stepping into a world I wasn’t sure I belonged in. Safe words? Rules? Punishments ? It was so damn... direct. Like she’d peeled open her chest and laid her heart right there on the desk.
"Marie, this is…" I trailed off, unable to find the words. My hand shot up to rake through my hair, tugging at the roots. "I don’t know if I can handle this."
"Why not?" Her tone stayed calm, but I caught the flicker of hurt in her eyes before she smothered it.
"Because . . ." I let out a sharp breath, dropping my hand. "Because I don’t know what I’m doing, alright? I don’t trust myself not to mess this up. Maybe I am a Daddy Dom. I’ve always wanted to try, to experiment. But I have no experience. I don’t want to—" My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, trying to push down the memories clawing their way up. Marcus’s face, twisted with betrayal. The weight of all the bridges I’d burned, the people I’d let down. It was all there, gnawing at me.
"Don’t want what?" she pressed, quieter now, but no less steady.
"Don’t want to hurt you," I admitted finally, the words scraping their way out. My grip on the paper tightened, crumpling the edges. "I’ve done it before. To people I cared about. What makes you think I won’t do it again?"
“I believe in you,” she said, simply. “You’ve changed—you told me that, and I believe it.”
Something about hearing her say that almost made me fucking cry.
Marie leaned forward, her elbows resting on the desk, and tapped the edge of the contract with her finger. "Dwight," she began softly, but there was steel under her tone, "this isn’t a set of demands. It’s a conversation starter."
I could feel my pulse hammering in my neck. The words blurred on the page; I couldn’t look at them anymore. "It feels like more than that," I muttered, my voice rough. "Feels like a hell of a lot more."
"Okay, then let me break it down for you." She straightened, her curls bouncing as she pushed herself off the desk and stood. She wasn’t angry—at least not yet—but I caught the flicker of determination in her eyes, the same look she had when someone tried to argue about the price of her lattes.
"Safe words," she said, ticking off the first point on her fingers. "Those aren’t negotiable. They’re not just for me—they’re for both of us. So if something doesn’t feel right, we stop. Period. No questions asked. That’s non-negotiable."
"Yeah, I get it," I mumbled, though my chest felt tight.
"Rules," she continued, ignoring my half-hearted reply. "These aren’t about controlling you or boxing you in. They’re about keeping this healthy—for both of us. They’re about clarity. About knowing where the lines are so no one gets hurt."
"That sounds good. This is so you, Marie.”
She smiled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a confident woman, and you know what you want, don’t you?”
She nodded. “It’s taken me a long time to work it out, but now, yeah, I think I do know what I want. I want you, Dwight. To support me. To punish me. To do—” her eyes flashed with lust “— things to me.”
“Things, huh?”
“Mmhmm,” she said, practically squirming. “And you can read exactly what types of things in the ‘punishments and kinks’ sections.”
My mouth went dry. “Can I indeed?”
“You can. Indeed.”
“Are you . . . a naughty girl, Marie?”
“I guess I am. A little bit. Daddy.”
There it was, that word again. I felt the heat rise in me. I could barely believe that someone as perfect as her would be interested in someone as damaged as me.
I gripped the back of the chair like it was the only thing keeping me upright. My knuckles burned white against the dark wood, and my chest felt tight—too tight to get a full breath.
"God help me," I rasped, the sound barely scraping out of my throat. "I want this."
The room went dead quiet except for the faint hum of the mini-fridge in the corner. Marie’s lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Her breath hitched, just enough for me to catch it, and her brown eyes widened before she pulled it together. That flicker of surprise, of hope—I hated how much I wanted to hold on to it.
"I want this," I said again, louder this time, though my voice cracked on the last word. My gaze dropped to the floor. The beige carpet blurred under my boots as the shame crept in. "And I want you. I want to be your Daddy, and claim you when the time is right. If you give me your trust, I won’t let you down.”
She swallowed, and when I forced myself to look up, her arms were crossed tight over her chest, like she was trying to hold herself together. "If you’ll give it everything you’ve got, so will I."
"Okay." My fingers finally unclamped from the chair, stiff and aching. I flexed them, feeling the blood rush back. "What now?"
"Now," she began, stepping closer, her tone shifting to something more practical, "we start slow. Just a few things from the contract for now. See what works. Adjust as we go."
"Slow sounds good," I muttered. My shoulders sagged with the weight easing off them. For the first time since walking into her office, I felt like I could breathe without choking on it.
"Safe words," she said, ticking off the first point on her fingers. "One for stop, one for slow down. You okay with ‘red’ and ‘yellow?’"
"Yeah, works for me."
"Good. Next—" Her lips twitched like she was fighting a grin. "Phone check-ins. Daily. Even if it’s just a text."
"Sounds perfect," I grunted. "Next?"
"Stress cuddles." Her expression softened. "If I’m overwhelmed, I need to know I can come to you. Just for that. No fixing, no questions—just . . . being there."
"Yeah, I can do that. Of course." My voice came out rough, but steady. My brain scrambled to keep up with how fast this was all moving, but the idea of holding her, just holding her, settled something jagged inside me.
“And I want to know what you want from me. I’ve left the section on limits. I figured we could do that together some time. Have a real discussion about it.”
I eyed her. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
“It’s all I’ve been thinking about.”
“You think you can give up some of that control?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” she said, giving a little shrug.
“We will,” I said, “because you’ll find that I’m a stern, exacting Dom. And I won’t tolerate a Little who answers back, or tells me how to be.” I felt myself growing into my Daddy persona. Somehow, it felt like I knew what to do.
“Of course, Daddy. I wouldn’t dream of it, Daddy.” She gave me a look like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
Fuck, that mouth. Those plump, pink lips.
“Good. I’d hate to have to punish you.”
“Oh me too. I’d hate to have you punish me.” She gave me a filthy look. “I guess I better be good.”
“Now,” I said, “I’m going to take this contract and let you go back to work. I’m going to go through it and make some changes. Then, this evening, you’re going to come to my motel room. I’m going to go through the changes in the contract, then, I’m going to kiss your pussy til you come your brains out. How does that sound, Little Girl?”
I saw her breathing shift.
“That sounds . . . good, Daddy.”
“Good. Now. Back to work.”
Somehow, I knew exactly what to say.