He drove off. I brushed a kiss against her temple. She watched the car turn the corner longer than necessary. Too many familiar faces in one walk. Too many reminders of roots she kept insisting were temporary.
“Come on, beautiful girl. Back to the clinic.”
“Mmmmhmm.” She let me guide her.
The town carried on around us, doors opening, voices drifting, normal and steady. Mikayla stayed quiet at my side, fingers hooked into my sleeve instead of swinging free. I slowed our pace. She matched it without looking up. I didn’t ask what she was thinking but I didn’t press. I kept my attention on the sound of her steps matching mine and nowhere else.
After dinner and a quick shower, I stood behind her in the kitchen. Mikayla stirred pudding mix and milk into a bowl, nothing fancy. Slowly. Deliberately. Like she was coaxing it intoperfection. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that made me want to stretch my arms around her and stay that way. Evenings spent with her only made me want to spend them all that way.
Plucking the wooden spoon from the dishrack into my right hand, I nudged my nose into her hair and slipped my other arm around her waist. The sweatshirt she wore, one of mine from college, drowned her small frame, sleeves falling past her wrists. Paired with the tiny pajama shorts, she looked irresistible.
Mikayla melted into my side, as if my touch alone soothed and relaxed her.
“If this pudding tastes like garbage, handsome? You’re still going to eat it and say thank you.”
I chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I doubt you can mess up box pudding mix, sweetheart.”
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. She rolled them at me. “I’m following a recipe. It’s not just dump powder, add water. That I can do without instructions, you goof. I’m not completely incompetent.”
I reached out, fingertips brushing the worn fabric of her sweatshirt at the small of her back. Then I tapped the wooden spoon gently against her hip, hoping she’d give me a reason.
“Hands on the counter, brat,” I said, voice low and steady. “Now.”
She turned just enough to flash a flirty glance. “You gonna make me?”
I brought the spoon down sharply on her exposed thigh. She jerked, her smirk melting into a pout.
“Now you may call me ‘Daddy’ or ‘Sir’ for the rest of the night.”
“Good thing you don’t control my mouth, Sam,” she said, tossing her brat at me like she’d been waiting all day. Maybe she had.
“Oh, you’re asking for it now.” I traced slow circles with the spoon on her skin but this wasn’t the start of a punishment. “You think this sweatshirt makes you invincible?”
She arched her back. “Maybe it does. Maybe it protects me from spankings.”
“Not a chance.” I pressed the spoon under her chin, lifting it. “Hands on the counter, little girl.”
Her lower lip wobbled between her teeth, eyes wide as she studied mine. My little wildflower obeyed, moving herself to a clear spot. Hands flat, elbows bent, ready.
“Good girl. Bend more.”
She obeyed, ass popping up in those barely-there shorts.
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Dessert can wait, babygirl. You obviously need my attention first.”
“Please put the bowl in the fridge, Daddy? It has to be chilled to set, and I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Where did my little brat run off to? Asking me so sweetly before you’ve even been spanked.” I nibbled her ear, then did what she’d asked. When I returned, she stayed exactly where I wanted her.
“I do need your attention, Daddy. But I don’t ever know how to ask for it.”
Stepping behind her, I ran my hands over the glorious expanse of her ass, thumbs grazing her hips. “You just did, babygirl. Maybe you’ve finally been hearing all the things that come out of Daddy’s mouth.”
“I do listen, Daddy. Mostly. Don’t look at me like that. Okay, only sometimes.” She babbled, sweet and teasing. “I didn’t even brat. You have zero reasons to spank me.”
“I don’t need a reason. But I’ll give you one.” I tugged her shorts down slightly and caressed her through her panties. “When your bottom is hot and pink, your ears listen better.”
