Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Mikayla
“I don’t know,” I murmured, more to myself than him, legs swinging beneath me from the counter at Doc Weaver’s office.
Sam had agreed to handle the town’s basic medical care, within the parameters of his abilities, so that Doc could leave for his mission trip.
He couldn’t prescribe medication or anything, but he had clearance to administer most things or call for authorization from the local hospital to do so.
Plus, he could request an ambulance or medevac if someone was in the throes of a serious medical emergency.
Still, he needed an extra set of hands. Or so he said.
Recruiting me for the front desk sounded like a terrible idea.
Mrs. Weaver, who had been handling the administrative tasks since her husband started his practice, was going away with the doctor.
Asking me was a logical choice, since I was only visiting.
What Sam didn’t know was that I had plenty of leave time, as I never took any of it.
“This place smells like rubbing alcohol and responsibility.” I prattled on about nothing as I had been doing for the last forty-five minutes.
Sam didn’t look up from the file he was reading.
His sleeves were rolled, forearms flexing casually like they hadn’t worshipped my body in his bedroom a few days ago.
Like he hadn’t kissed me breathless. A kiss that left me aching in all the best ways before he carried me to his truck.
I’d been a princess even in a damaged gown but in his arms I had everything I’d been wanting my whole life. Sam.
“I wouldn’t call responsibility a bad thing,” he said, not missing a beat. “Especially when I’m responsible for you. Besides, those stitches have another week or so before they need to come out. Might as well stay so I can remove them.”
My cheeks burned, but not from embarrassment. Something about his words settled behind my ribs and stayed there. I crossed my arms, like that might shield me from the way my stomach dipped when he looked at me. Like he already knew my secrets. Well, he did.
“I’m not saying no,” I said. “I just don’t know if this place is… me. White walls and blood pressure cuffs and whatever mystery tools are kept in those scary-ass drawers aren’t my jam. Plus, anyone can remove stitches. You don’t need to be a rocket scientist.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t look up.
I lifted a brow. “Did you just ‘mmm’ me? I’m not making excuses!”
“Sure you’re not.”
“Okay, rude.”
He chuckled but didn’t rise to the bait. Just kept reading smoothly like he had all the time in the world.
“You’re lucky that you’re cute or I’d really let you have it,” I muttered, mostly under my breath.
That did it. He looked up—slow and steady—with that maddening, infuriating, panty-melting smirk.
“You called me Daddy, remember?” he said, tone low and easy. “Whispered it like it’s been on the tip of your tongue for years.”
I flushed instantly, my cheeks burning from the memory.
Why was he bringing that up right now?
“I was vulnerable. There were emotions.”
Sam tapped a pen against the clipboard and got to his feet. “Are you saying you didn’t mean it?”
I didn’t answer. Mostly because I did mean it. I meant it when I screamed it in his bed too. And he knew it. Sam walked toward the cabinet where many supplies were kept, moving like the calm before a storm. He opened one drawer. Then another.
“You’re looking a bit flushed, babygirl.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying not to let my mind wander. Sam always loved lessons and I was pretty sure he had one in mind for me. He pulled out a thermometer and not just any thermometer. A clinical glass tool with a blunt pear-shaped bulb. A bulb that didn’t go in someone’s mouth.
Sam held it up between two fingers.
“I take your health very seriously, Mickie.”
My stomach dropped into my shoes. “What? No. I’m fine. The heat is blaring in this tiny office. You’re not using that on me. I remember where that goes. No way, Sir. Not today.”
He turned back toward me, that steady authority rolling off him like heat.
“You’re sweating,” he said matter-of-factly. “Could be that you’re nervous. Could be that fire you keep trying to pretend you don’t feel when you’re around me. Could be a fever.”
He stepped right in front of me, standing between my knees. Close enough that my breath caught. Close enough to smell his cedarwood cologne. A scent that reminded me of home.
“Or it could be that a certain Little girl hasn’t quite figured out that she already belongs here. With me,” he said cupping my chin, and lifting it upward.
I blinked at him. Speechless. I opened my mouth to protest but shut it again. Because I’d been thinking of this sort of scenario for years. Not that I wanted it. Who was I kidding? I definitely wanted it.
“I’m being thorough,” he added, lifting the thermometer. “Nothing more.”
My eyes flicked to the desk. He couldn’t mean to do something so intimate out in the open. I swallowed more than once fighting arousal versus holding onto some semblance of control. “Not out here. You can’t be serious!”
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Are you going to listen or do I need to warm your bottom before I check your temperature?”
“Nuh-uh. You’re crazy.” Except he wasn’t. What he was planning would be a firm reminder of his presence in my life. Something I apparently needed.
“No, babygirl. I’m your Daddy,” he whispered. “And I take that job very seriously.”
He straightened, calm as ever. Like he hadn’t just unraveled me with a sentence. Sam crossed to the front door and locked it before returning to my side.
“Now that I’ve limited our interruptions. Be a good girl and bend over.”
And suddenly, this place didn’t smell like responsibility anymore. It smelled like home. Maybe it was just his cologne again. That realization didn’t move me to compliance.
“We are not sticking things in uncomfortable places,” I said firmly. It was a phrase I’d uttered more than once to him since I’d been home.
“It would be terribly reckless of me not to ensure that you’re not running a fever. Do as I’ve said or I promise this will get even more uncomfortable for you.”
But as soon as he said the word ‘or’ his eyes darkened.
When I was an out-of-control college student, bratting to brat him as it were, he’d gotten very good at leaving out the word ‘or’ in his threats.
Though I knew he was serious, I’d been needing reassurance.
Reassurance that our relationship was serious.
That we would work it out in the long run.
I wasn’t defying him. Not intentionally but I didn’t know how to beg him not to let me go this time.
Sam stepped in close and his presence wrapped around me. Calm, certain, immovable. Two of his fingers rested beneath my chin and tilted my face up so I had to focus on his.
“Where are you, little wildflower?” he asked softly.
I blinked. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” he murmured. “You’re in my care. And you’re not going anywhere.”
Then he moved—slow and deliberate—guiding me by the elbow, turning me around and pressing me down into the wooden coffee table nearby. My heart climbed straight into my throat.
“Sam!”
“Shh, Mickie,” he said gently, already positioning me. “You’re going to be very still for me.”
My palms met the smooth cherry wood surface. Cool to the touch, though my hands were sweaty. The blinds were drawn. The front door locked. Still, the space felt wide open like I was on display.
“This isn’t a punishment,” he said, stepping closer and unbuttoning my jeans. “Think of it as a reminder. Something to ground you when you start overthinking.”
His hand rested between my shoulder blades pushing down just enough to center me.
“You called me Daddy,” he said. “Not just for show. Not because you thought I wanted to hear it. You said it because you meant it.”
I swallowed hard. He read me like an open book. Wasn’t that what I’d always wanted? My palms were sweaty and I was panting as he spoke like I wasn’t about to be moaning.
“You don’t get to second-guess your gut because we had sex,” he went on. “You don’t get to pull away when this starts to feel too real. Not when I’m standing right here.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. I felt his breath at my ear, the subtle flex of his hand at my back.
He was one-hundred percent correct. I’d been a tiny bit worried that our time together was a beautiful fling.
A great time destined to be nothing else.
That when I returned to my apartment in the city it would all be a memory.
“You’re mine, Mickie. I look after you and it means you let me.” He paused, allowing his words to sink into my brain. Long enough for it to matter. “Now I’m going to take your temperature, little wildflower. And you’re going to behave while I do it.”
My pulse thrummed in my throat. “Please, Sir–”
He snapped on a glove and ran his hand up my spine.
“Daddy.” Sam corrected as he opened the tiny silver packet of lubricant. “You have your safeword and your colors. But if you stay like this then you’re telling me everything I need to know.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even pretend to resist. Because I was tired of doubting.
So tired of running. I knew the back and forth wasn’t helping us.
I knew we were supposed to be together but my crippling doubts made it so hard for me to trust. I wanted to surrender more than I wanted my next breath.
But my defenses were high as usual. “Yes, Daddy.”
“There’s my good girl,” he praised while lowering my jeans and panties to my thighs.
“I’ve thought about you doing this…” Heat flamed my face as I confessed.
“Have you?”