I didn't have words for it then.
I do now.
And then Zander came into my life.
I was twenty when I met him…a junior at Arizona State, still reeling from the knee injury that had ended my soccer career the year before. He was twenty-eight, a graduate student in sports psychology, and he saw something in me I was only beginning to understand about myself.
He gave it a name.
Daddy.
The first time he said it—come here, little girl—something clicked into place so hard my heart stopped.Yes. This is what I've been looking for.
For a while, it was everything I wanted. The structure. The authority. The feeling of being held and guided and taken care of. I threw myself into it headfirst, desperate and eager and so fucking grateful to finally have a word for the ache I'd carried my whole life.
But Zander taught me something else, too.
He taught me the difference between dominance and control. Between care and possession.
He pushed my limits—which I had wanted at first—but he didn't respect them. He dismissed my boundaries asbratty.He got cold and angry when I used our safeword. He made me feel small in all the wrong ways, and when I tried to talk about it, he told me I was being too sensitive. That I didn't really understand the dynamic. That agood girlwould trust her Daddy without question.
It took me months to realize that what he was doing wasn't part of the relationship I craved. It was just abuse with a sexy name.
I left. It was hard. I second-guessed myself for a while afterward, wondered if I was broken, if I'd ever find what I actually needed or if I'd just keep getting it wrong.
But I learned.
I learned what real authority looks like…how it protects instead of controls, how it earns submission instead of demanding it, and how a man who actually deserves the titleDaddywould never make you feel small for having needs, he'd make you feel safe for voicing them.
I'm not a naive young girl anymore. I know exactly what I want, and I know exactly what I don't.
Ike Thurman, in our brief conversation, hit every single marker on my list.
The quiet command. The protective instinct. The way he talked to Riley—firm but gentle, present without being overbearing. The way he looked at me like there was more than I was letting him see.
And underneath all that composure, I saw it…the hunger…the longing…and the aching loneliness of a man who's been keeping himself caged for years.
I want to get to know every part of him.
He's like me.He just doesn't know anyone else who speaks his language.
I sit up in the tub, water sloshing over the edges, bubbles clinging to my skin.
Valentine’s Day is a week away. I've seen the decorations around town, the red and pink hearts in shop windows, the cheesy cupid cutouts at the grocery store. I've been ignoring it because I didn't have anyone to celebrate with.
But now...
A man like Ike isn't going to respond to obvious flirting. He's too controlled, too guarded. If I walk up to him and sayhey, I'm into you,he'll probably shut it down immediately. He'll convincehimself I'm too young, that I don't know what I'm really asking for, that he's being noble by rejecting me.
No, I need to get under his skin first. Show him I see the real man—the parts he keeps hidden—without putting him on the spot.
I’ll send anonymous valentines.
My heart starts beating faster just thinking about it.
Not the cutesy cards with cartoon hearts and generic compliments, orroses are red, violets are bluecrap. I'm going to write him valentines that speak directly to the thing he's buried. The desires he thinks no one understands. The needs he's probably convinced himself are shameful or wrong or too much for anyone to handle.
I'm going to tell him I know what he is. That I want exactly that. That I'm not afraid of it—I'mhungryfor it.
