28. Tori
I’m barely able to get home and tidy up the few stray dirty clothes from my bedroom floor before there’s a knock on my door. I haven’t even changed out of my pencil skirt and blouse from work, though I’d kicked off my heels the moment I’d walked through my door. I scurry to the front door, a little out of breath as I pull it open, my face breaking out in a bright smile as I see the massive alpha on the other side.
Logan’s smile should be illegal, the way it makes his green eyes spark and those tiny dimples pop... My pussy is already pulsing and he’s just barely crossed the threshold.
As he steps past me, I note the grocery bags in one hand, the other loosely holding the cardboard handle of a six-pack of Abita beer. He glances around as I shut and lock the door, and I circle around him, shamelessly admiring the curve of his ass in his tight slacks.
“I can put those in the fridge?” I offer, holding out my hand for the beer.
Logan’s eyes snap back to my face, and his smile softens. “Sure. I’ll take one to drink while we’re cooking,” he says as he passes the beer to me.
I furrow my brow at him as I turn and head toward the kitchen. Logan pauses to toe off his shoes before following, setting his bags onto the island counter and unpacking ingredients. I pull one of the glass bottles out of its slot, then close the fridge, using the opener attached to the wall between the side of the fridge and the garage door.
“You put that in?” Logan asks, nodding to the device as I hand him the open beer.
I chuckle. “It actually came with the house. But it’s too convenient to take down.”
He laughs and takes a sip of his beer, setting it down beside the groceries. Leaning against the cabinets beside the sink, I glance over the spread and try to puzzle it out. Salt potatoes, asparagus, a lemon, some sort of meat wrapped in brown butcher paper.
“Got any guesses?” Logan asks, pulling my attention to his face.
I give him a shy smile. “Not a clue,” I reply with a little giggle.
Logan doesn’t answer, instead turning around to unwrap the protein. I jump as I realize it’s a whole fish, head and all. I look back at him in alarm and find he’s grinning.
“As long as you’ve got a sheet pan, I can whip us up a wicked good dinner,” he says, a little of his Boston accent coming forward.
I’m not sure what to make of the fish sitting on my counter. But I blink and then jump as I realize Logan has crossed the distance between us, and is leaning in, his arms braced on the counter on either side of me. This close, his spicy apple cider scent scrambles my brain, and my tongue seems to grow to three times its normal size.
“This all right, baby girl? We don’t have to eat Jerry if you’re not feeling fish,” he says, genuine concern in his tone.
My brain latches onto the first coherent thought and spits it out. “You named the fish? Even though you’re gonna cook him?”
Logan laughs with his whole body, leaning back and clutching at his stomach. I’m still frozen and confused, but I forget all about that as one of Logan’s massive hands wraps around the back of my neck and pulls me into a mind-melting kiss. There’s a hint of hops on his lips, but the rest is spicy apple cider, strong enough to make my head spin. I sway a little when Logan pulls away, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.
“God, you’re so beautiful. If I couldn’t hear your stomach growling, I’d skip dinner and have my dessert now,” he mutters, like he’s speaking more to himself than to me.
As soon as I open my mouth to tell him that dinner can wait, my belly twists and lets out a loud snarl of protest, a swift underline of his point. I blush and turn my gaze elsewhere, which makes him chuckle.
“I’ve got you, baby girl,” Logan purrs, kissing me gently along my hairline before pulling away.
I let out a shaky exhale, suddenly overly warm. Almost on autopilot, I find a half-full glass of wine in my hand, the ruby-red liquid gleaming in the light as I move to Logan’s side at the breakfast bar. He’s cleared the space and managed to find a cutting board without help, and he’s currently inspecting the knives in the block, pulling each out for a second, then pushing it back in when it’s not what he’s looking for. Eventually, he finds the delicate paring knife and turns back to Jerry. Which is my cue to turn away and gather that sheet pan and parchment paper he asked for.
The air is comfortable between us as he works, seasoning and preparing the fish inside and out, before placing it onto the pan. His brow low over his bottle-green eyes in concentration, he doesn’t speak. I make myself busy, pulling out plates for us, setting out cutlery and condiments—butter, salt, pepper, hot sauce—on the table before returning to my seat. Only once the fish is in the oven does he look up at me, letting out a satisfied sigh.
“That’ll roast for about a half hour, and then we’re golden,” he tells me as he moves over to the sink to wash his hands.
“Have you made this before?” Rounding the breakfast bar, I perch on one of the stools.
Logan nods. “Mom taught me all about prepping and cooking fish growing up. My great granddad started a fishing business back in the 1800s. His kids took over when he passed, and my dad is getting ready to take over when my granddad finally decides to retire. I was supposed to train with them, but then I got good at hockey,” Logan says, turning around to face me as he dries his hands.
My eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline, completely caught off guard by that answer. Of all the origins stories I’ve heard from hockey players, this might be the first fisherman’s son turned NHLer.
Logan strides over to the island and starts cleaning up, and I take the opportunity to watch him. He’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, all the usual tension in his shoulders and around his eyes gone. He looks younger somehow, even with his darker hair streaked with gray. I take another sip of my wine, careful not to drink it too quickly on an empty stomach.
Once the counter is clear, Logan takes a swig of his beer as he lopes around the peninsula to sit beside me. He leans back against the wall, his smile soft as he looks me over. But, as he takes a deep breath and lets it out, his smile fades into a frown. I sit up, pulse picking up at his change in demeanor.
“We haven’t had a chance to be alone since...” Logan trails off, but he doesn’t need to finish the thought. I know exactly what he means.
It’s an encounter I’ve thought a lot about, especially when I’m alone in my bed with my battery-operated-boyfriend.
“I think this is a good time to have that talk, if you’re feeling up to it. I really want to make sure we’re on the same page with our hard limits if we’re going to continue playing like we have,” he says, catching me off guard once again.
My brow furrows as I reel back. “Hard limits?” I repeat, confused.
One corner of Logan’s mouth lifts in a bashful smirk. “Not everyone is into the same stuff, and I don’t want you to think you have to do anything like we did before if you’re not into it.”
“You mean the Daddy stuff?” I fire back, surprised by my boldness.
Logan’s eyes lock onto mine, heat flaring in his stare for a moment before he reins it in. “Yes, that.”
I lean sideways against the counter, crossing one leg over the other and taking another sip of wine, trying to decide how to proceed. This time last year, if someone asked me to call them Daddy in bed, I would have laughed them all the way out the door. But with Logan... there’s just something about him that makes the honorific feel right. He’s a natural dominant, and looking back at our interactions this season, there’s always been an edge of that dynamic to our relationship.
“I would have told you if I had a problem with it,” I reply, not missing a beat.
Logan gives me a stern look. “I’d still rather know your limits in advance than play kink roulette, if it’s all the same.”
After everything I discovered about myself while I was stuck inside with the boys during the hurricane, I’d done some research into kinks and the BDSM lifestyle. I didn’t dig too deep, just enough to reassure myself that I’m not some sort of sick deviant, but I do recognize the terminology Logan is throwing around.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, settling into my lounging position.
Logan studies me for another moment, and I don’t flinch away. My face remains neutrally interested, my posture open. He must find what he’s looking for, because he chugs the rest of his beer, getting to his feet and jerking his head toward my dining table. I stand as well, draining my wine before I follow, more curious than apprehensive. He takes the seat facing the kitchen, the head of the table if I choose to sit close to him. But instead, I refuse to be intimidated in my own house, so I keep my eyes on Logan’s as I slide into the seat opposite him at the square table. He gives me a smirk before leaning back in his chair.
“I can start with my preferences, and you can consent or object. Sound good?” His voice takes on a clipped, almost professional air.
I mirror his movement, crossing my legs again as I sit back, motioning for him to begin before I rest my hands in my lap.
“I like being called Daddy, and engaging in DDlg—Daddy Dom, little girl—role play,” he starts, not mincing words.
“What does the role play entail?” I’m careful to keep my face even, despite the surge of heat between my thighs.
“Ideally, I’d be in charge of you and your care in most aspects of your life. Making sure you’re fed, hydrating, taking whatever medicines you need. Sometimes picking out your outfits, or what you wear under them,” he rattles off, like he’s reading me his grocery list.
The omega part of me melts at the idea of letting someone have control of my life for a change. But the stronger part of me has my upper lip curling for a moment before I catch it. Logan chuckles as his smirk morphs into a fond smile.
“What has you making the face?” he asks, still chuckling.
I huff, rolling my eyes. But it’s hard to put my feelings into words. In theory, it sounds great. But there’s a part of me screeching and trying to run for the hills at the mention of taking both hands off the wheel and letting someone else drive.
“I wasn’t raised to be a biddable omega, and I’m not sure I would be able to just... roll over when you tell me to…”
Logan tilts his head, examining me closer. Then his grin turns wicked, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” he practically purrs.
I sigh, confusion and irritation taking over. “I’m too hungry to play word riddles, McQueen.”
Logan growls low in his chest, and I freeze, not sure how to interpret the sound. He’s still smiling, which is good, but his eyes are dark and predatory.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you want me to earn your submission. You aren’t going to hand out ‘yes, Daddys’ just because I ask. If I want you to act like a good girl, I’m gonna have to make you. Does that sound about right?”
My breath catches in my throat, eyes going wide. I don’t know how, but he’s pulled the words right out of my mind and laid them out between us. Mouth slightly agape, I nod.
“In the world of kink, a submissive like that would be called a brat. And their dominant is called a brat tamer,” Logan states.
Heat swirls in my chest, my chin lifting proudly. I like the idea of being someone who needs a tamer, like I’m a wild lioness who will only yield to the bravest and strongest keeper.
Logan opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by the klaxon alarm he’d set on his phone. I move to get up with him, but he holds out a hand, his palm facing me. The heat from moments ago is gone, the relaxed alpha returning. I stay on my guard as I watch him plate up portions of the fish and potatoes, trying to figure out what his angle is. Is this a test? Am I supposed to do something?
He catches my incredulous stare before I can hide, and he gives me a lopsided grin.
“I’m not going all Jekyll and Hyde on you, just trying to keep daytime and playtime separate until we get things hammered out,” he explains, not that it clears much up.
I don’t answer, and he gives me another easy smile. He comes back to the table with our plates, setting mine in front of me and his beside me, then goes back into the kitchen, returning with another beer, my glass from earlier, and the bottle I’d poured from. I reach for it, but he holds them outside my wingspan, pouring me a glass and placing it beside my plate before he finally sits down.
“Daytime, to me, is when we do this sort of thing. We share a meal, or a drink, or each other’s company, and there’s no hierarchy. You’re just Tori, the best social media manager I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with in the NHL, and I’m just Logan, a guy from Boston who knows a thing or three about hockey,” Logan says, leaning slightly toward me.
My stomach flutters, his scent swirling around me and sucking the moisture from my mouth. I swallow and wait, not sure what else to do when he’s looking at me like I hung the moon or something.
“And when it’s playtime, I’m your Daddy, and you are my bratty baby girl. You’ll have rules to follow and consequences for breaking them. Though, that’s half the fun, isn’t it?”
Logan’s voice drops nearly a full octave, and I have to suppress a moan that tries to fight its way free. I don’t have to think too hard about what sort of consequences he has in mind, which only makes my pussy throb that much harder.
Logan leans back and starts to eat, effortlessly extracting the tiny bones from the filet. I take a deep breath and do the same, glad to have something else to focus on besides how soaked my panties are. As I take my first bite of the fish, I smile, feeling it almost melt on my tongue, and then burst with flavor. The potatoes are just as delicious, and I make a conscious effort not to scarf the meal down like an animal.
“So, the first thing we should establish is a safe word. Something we can use if we want to end a scene early for whatever reason,” Logan says after a few minutes, taking a sip of his beer.
I nod, not unfamiliar with the concept thanks to my research. “Houston,” I supply, taking another bite of fish.
Logan chuckles. “Works for me. Either of us says Houston , and whatever’s happening stops.” Logan nods to himself.
“What’s stopping me from using the word in the middle of one of your punishments?” I ask, speaking the thought as it occurs to me.
Logan meets my stare, his mouth set in a serious line. “Nothing. But I hope you’ll learn to trust that, while I might push your limits, I’m never going to ask you to do something I don’t think you’re capable of doing, Tori.”
I consider that for a moment, my mouth curving down into a thoughtful frown. Safe words, from what I’ve read, are like pulling an emergency eject handle in a fighter jet. They’re meant to get you out of a crashing plane safely, not a quick escape from momentary turbulence. And it’s not that I don’t trust Logan, but we’ve only been together once. Having an out is the right move, but probably one I shouldn’t abuse if I want to give us a fair chance.
I nod firmly, popping another piece of potato into my mouth and washing it down with wine. “You mentioned rules and consequences. What does that mean?”
Logan pauses before answering, and I feel his gaze on the side of my face like a sunbeam. “Rules are what they sound like. We negotiate what behaviors we’d like to have in our play, and then—”
“Negotiate? I thought you make them, and I just follow.”
Logan snorts a laugh under his breath. “So you’re telling me that if I made it a rule that you have to go commando under your skirts on game days, just so I could have free use of your pussy whenever I felt like it, you’d be okay with that?”
I reel back, my heart jumping for a whole new reason. “What? No! I’d never—”
“That’s why it’s a negotiation, Tori,” Logan says smoothly, cutting off my protest. “Ready to start?”
My mouth snaps closed hard enough for my teeth to clack together, my shoulders dropping from their bunched-up, defensive position around my ears. As I take a deep breath, my heart rate slows, and I realize Logan’s scent has shifted. It’s lost the edge of alcohol from earlier, now much heavier with cinnamon and cloves. I can almost feel the warmth of the hot apple cider sliding down my throat to pool in my belly, and I let out a relaxed sigh before nodding.
The rest of our meal is much less stressful, both of us going back and forth about what a dynamic would look like between us. He will check in with me in the mornings to make sure I’ve taken my meds and had something for breakfast—something I’m actually grateful for, because it’s so easy to miss meals with my schedule. He can’t use his position as my dominant to make me do or not do things directly related to my job, and I won’t use it as an easy out when he inevitably has to tell me no. Intentionally riling him up or teasing him will be remembered and punished later, but I can’t be punished for wearing pencil skirts and blouses that show cleavage, because it would be suspicious if I suddenly changed my entire style and started dressing like a nun.
By the time the kink checklist comes out, and we’re discussing what sex acts I’m interested in, I’m a squirming mess. Frustration and arousal mix in my gut with Jerry the fish, the wine only adding on a buzz since I finished my glass around the time he finished explaining the different types of sensation play. My imagination works on overdrive as I picture more of the scenarios, getting more turned on by the second.
“And last, but certainly not least, watersports. That’s not my thing, but if you want a golden shower, we can—”
“No. Hard no. Are we done?” I snap, words coming out harsher than I would have liked, but I don’t take them back.
Logan looks up from his phone for the first time in a while, and his expression changes in a way I now understand. He’s shifting from daytime to playtime, and I can already feel myself sweating under the renewed heat swirling in his inky green eyes.
“With the negotiation? For now. Am I done with you?” Logan purrs, cocking his head to the side slightly. “Not even close, baby girl. In fact, we’re just about to get started.”
My spine straightens, and my heart pounds, anticipation making my insides twitch.
“Daddy has to get something from his truck, and when I get back, you’re going to be in your bed, naked and presenting that sweet cunt for me. Do you understand?”
The omega part of me wants to strip bare right here, but the defiant part of me is already plotting. So, with the sweetest smile I can muster, I nod and get to my feet.
“Yes, Daddy,” I simper, already walking toward my bedroom.
Logan’s growl as I turn my back makes me shiver, but I don’t turn around, swaying my hips purposefully on my way down the hall. No time like the present to test if Logan is all bark and no bite.