“Oh.” Huh. That was thoughtful, and why am I surprised? Everything he does is thoughtful. “Thank you, Daddy.”
I finish all my eggs without complaint, and my mouth starts watering as I watch Daddy toast the waffles and prepare me a dish of syrup. When they pop up, he snags them out and puts them on my plate.
Daddy grabs a knife and then glances at me. “Will they taste the same if I cut them into strips so they’ll be easier to eat? Or will that ruin the experience?”
I stare at him. I’m speechless. He’s so serious.
I love him.
I didn’t know I could love someone as much as I love Blade. Andres Phillips. That’s his real name. Absolutely no one calls him anything but Blade, including me. I didn’t even know his real name until several days after I moved in with him. It suddenly occurred to me that Blade was a nickname, and I asked.
Daddy didn’t hesitate to tell me. He says it’s not a secret. It’s just not a name anyone has used for a long time. I like it. But the truth is I don’t even call him Blade very often.
He cocks his head to one side, a quizzical expression on his face as he holds up the knife. I’ve nearly forgotten he asked me a question.
“You can cut them up, Daddy. Thank you.”
He turns back to his task.
I’m choked up as I watch him. He never makes fun of my food quirks. He sometimes goes way out of his way to make sure I get veggies and fruits, but he doesn’t reprimand me for not liking broccoli. Nor does he flinch when I tell him certain foods are gross because they crunch too much or they’re too mushy or too dry or too cold or too spicy or any number of irrational things my mind tells me.
Daddy humors me just like now. He genuinely wants me to enjoy my waffles and doesn’t want to ruin the experience by cutting them if it’s going to upset me.
When he brings me my plate, there are eight strips of delicious goodness spread around like spokes with a saucer of syrup in the middle. He even arranged them artfully.
Yes, I love him.
The words are stuck in my throat in case he’s not ready for me to make that kind of declaration.
Also, we have not had sex yet.
Daddy wanted me to heal for a few weeks first. He didn’t want me to wince in the middle of making love to me from the throbbing pain in my arm. It doesn’t hurt anymore, though, and I’m done waiting.
I need to confront him about his sex ban far more than I need to declare that I love him.
The man worships my body. He gives me an orgasm more than once a day. He has made it abundantly clear that my pleasure is his top priority and always will be. I think he was initially worried I might doubt his intentions toward me if he actually made love to me.
The thing is that he’s nothing like my ex. There’s not even a shred of resemblance. I’m fully aware that he adores me. I will never think he’s taking advantage of me. And it’s time to end this dry spell.
Now, I just need to find the guts to tell him and hope he doesn’t turn me down because, at this point, if he denied me, I might crawl into the back of the closet and cry my eyes out.
Today.
I will insist on him getting naked today.
But first, I’m going to enjoy every bite of my delicious toaster waffles.
Twenty-Four
June
* * *
The idea comes to me while I’m eating my waffles. Daddy is cleaning the kitchen, and I wait until his back is turned to intentionally pour syrup all down the front of me. In fact, when letting it drip off the stick of waffle doesn’t seem like enough, I pick up the small dish, tip it too far, and let all the rest run down the front of my dress.
“Uh oh…” I mutter as I eat the last bite of my waffle.
Daddy turns around. “What’s wrong?”
