Kiss Me Goodnight (Love, Daddy 4)

My eyes drop casually, away from her smile, alighting on her chest. Her ripe tits push out from under the cheerful yellow canvas of her apron. I take her in an inch at a time. The strap of her apron is sporting a new sloth button today. That makes twenty-six sloth-themed buttons, pins, and patches on her apron. I’ve counted them more than once. I’ve kept track of everything about her, everything I can see.

Some things I can’t.

“I love the zoo. I hope they still have the sloths.” She twists her hair absently again, and her brown eyes twinkle. “I haven’t been there since I was a little girl.” She does this little hop and claps her palms together three times.

You’re still a little girl. You’re my little girl. Daddy’s special girl.

God, give me strength. This is killing me. My fear lights up. Does she really still believe I’m just her sponsor?

I’m going to tell her everything in just a few hours, and I’m so sure she will be afraid of me. She’ll think I’m perverse. She’ll think I’m vile.

Daddy.

I need to hear her call me that. I imagine it in every dream. Inside each second of every day. Hearing that single word will complete me.

I notice another sniffle and turn a frown on her. “You are not feeling well. No zoo today. You need a doctor.” Without another thought, I’m pulling out my phone to make arrangements for her to be seen. Right now. She can’t wait.

The disappointment in her eyes makes my stomach tight.

“No.” Her rainbow-pastel-tipped hair spins as she shakes her head. “It’s just an allergy.” She lowers her voice to a whisper and leans toward me, making it nearly impossible not to reach out and pull her close. “Some lady in my section is wearing way too much perfume. I’m allergic to perfume, the chemicals in it, I mean. I’m fine. Really.” She lets out a little giggle. “Unless you want to go douse her with a nice bucket of soapy water for me. She’s right there. Wearing that god-awful bedazzled ball cap.”

I’d do that in a heartbeat. An

ything for you. Anything.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying that.”

I shrug one shoulder. “What’s the rule?”

“I have to tell you what’s on my mind.” I love that she no longer has to hesitate before answering.

“That’s right.” I smile, then make a show of sighing with regret. “Get on back to work, then.” I nod toward the busy central area of the restaurant. “Make me proud.”

She’s already learning the rules we will live by, and she doesn’t even know it.

Her hand darts to her face, and she presses her knuckles over her teeth, covering the smile that explodes at my words. I have to bite the inside of my cheek until the metallic tingle spreads over my tongue. If I don’t distract myself right now, I’ll have her up against the nearest fucking wall or lose it inside my goddamn pants.

I won’t. But she makes me feel like I could.

I have more control than a twelve-year-old boy finding his first Hustler. But, Jesus Christ, I could happily come. Even the innocent way she bites her lip is fuel for a week’s worth of fantasies and stroke sessions.

“Yep, I’m back to it. I won’t screw up this job. I’m thirty days from my six months. My probation will be over, and you won’t have to keep checking up on me all the time.” I see the question in her eyes, and I let it hang there, just for a moment, before throwing her a smile and watching the relief. “Okay, well, see you at two?”

I nod.

I’d burn down kingdoms before I’d miss a moment with you.

She turns on a heel and skips away, hips swinging. I take another sip of espresso, then cringe as I see her feet tangle under her. Losing her balance, she crumples left and nearly topples over, throwing her hand out to grab a chair, right into a table full of patrons. Recovering at the last second, she shoots a quick look over her shoulder, glancing at my table, humiliation already covering her sweet face.

I quickly avert my gaze, looking out the window, pretending not to see a thing. I might love her discomfort when she’s with me, but I don’t want her to feel embarrassed while she’s trying to work.

I remember the day I finally asked her about the sloth pins and buttons on her apron.

She had said, “Sloths are my spirit animal.”

When I’d asked why, she explained, “Sloths are very clumsy on land. But in the water, they are very elegant. Graceful, even. Sort of like me. I’m not sure where my feet are most of the time when I’m walking around. But...” She’d hesitated, looked over her shoulder to be sure no one could hear, then continued in hushed tones, “I am on the synchronized swimming team at the YMCA. I’m about forty years younger than everyone else, but I don’t care. I love the water. It makes me forget how clumsy I am.”

Even so, I secretly love how clumsy she is.