Daddy’s Fiery Little by Scott Wylder

CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

 

 

 

 

Micah

I am not surprised my analysis is correct, but I am definitely thrilled.

She’s a little girl.

She doesn’t know that, but she will.

She’s a thrilling little girl, too. I am amazed at how absolutely she fits the stereotype of a fiery redhead. She may as well be Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man.

I imagine how incredible it will be to give her a spanking after a tantrum.

I imagine how incredible it will be when she calls me Daddy and gives me the gift of her submission, the precious gift of allowing me to care for her, protect her, and help her to achieve all of her dreams.

I have only had one little girl, and it turned out the entire relationship was based on a lie.

This is the first time in almost four years I want a girl to call me Daddy. No, I suppose I want it all the time, but this is the first time in years I actually want someone specific and I’m actually willing to entertain thoughts about it. She is so filled with life and passion, and it is impossible to look at her without wanting her, needing her.

Later, she surprises me on stage.

She sits at the piano and plays.

I didn’t even know she could.

I don’t know the song she sings but it is captivating in the same sultry, almost impossible way. Her voice floats in the air like smoke, filling the room so everybody breathes it in, is overpowered by the strength and beauty of her tone. I’m so utterly taken by this girl, and I try to figure out when it will make sense to make a move, to start the process that will end with her crying out beneath me. I glance at the club patrons.

Everyone seems just as enraptured by her as I am.

I imagine many of the men in the audience are thinking along similar lines as well. I can’t imagine anyone seeing her and not wanting her. I especially can’t imagine anyone who saw her and heard her sing who wouldn’t want her desperately.

But this girl is mine, and she’s going to discover that in short order, as soon as I can formulate a plan of attack. I think about how her face looked before Rollie and Helen left. How when they talked about thinking about being a little her eyes almost glazed over with need.

She is mine.

This little girl is mine.

God, she’s perfect. As I watch her sing, it seems like the notes flow effortlessly from her but somehow also take an extraordinary amount of energy and strength. The contradiction makes no sense to me at all, but it is all part of the spellbinding way her singing impacts me and, from what I can tell, everyone else as well.

When the song ends, there is tumultuous applause, and she blushes slightly as she stands to let Titus sit down on the piano bench. I remember I have to get some paperwork done, and it might be the hardest thing I’ve ever done to walk over to the office and then go inside instead of listening to the rest of her set.

I sit at the desk and go over the orders for next week. I end up checking them twice because I’m completely distracted by thoughts of Vanessa. This girl is…

I take several deep breaths and force myself to focus. I get through half the orders before I find myself thinking all about her song and her presence on stage. Naturally, I end up focusing on the look in her face, the ethereal look of her perfect oval face framed by her lustrous flame-red hair and somehow intensified by her wide, expressive, striking green eyes.

It really is like she’s not a human being but some kind of goddess, or some nymph or fairy; a magical and otherworldly creature people aren’t really equipped to experience. The girl is beautiful and brilliant and, most importantly, the girl is going to be mine.

I can feel it.

I can feel it like I can still feel her voice affecting me.

I finish the first stack of paperwork and move on to the next. By the time I finish everything, I’m afraid her set is already done. I step back into the bar, though, just as she starts her last song. It’s a great American songbook classic, and how she manages to take an upbeat song and turn it into an enchanting, smoldering, smokey, sexually charged wave is anybody’s guess.

I’ll wager every single couple in the bar is getting laid tonight.

When it ends, the audience explodes with applause and she thanks them, kisses Titus’s cheek, and steps down from the stage. I stare at her in wonder as the patrons stop her along the way. She’s gracious and sweet with them, always pausing to smile, caress a face or even to plant a kiss on a forehead or cheek. She’s one of those entertainers who can make people believe she sings just for one person.

I’m impressed with everything about how she enthralls an audience, and by the time she gets back to me, I’m grinning like an idiot.

She looks at me and scowls. “Why are you smiling like an ass?” she snarls. “You look like a complete fool!”

If she wasn’t so damned cute when she’s angry, I might be hurt.

“I’m smiling because your song was great.”

“Oh really?” she says. “I would have thought if you liked my singing, you wouldn’t have disappeared for my set.”

“There’s work I had to do,” I say with a smile. The fact that I’m not fighting back is killing her, I can tell. He eyes narrow and she looks like she might just spontaneously burst into flame. I pass a glass of wine to her. She bats it away, spilling some on the floor.

“I can get my own damned drink!” she says.

“Watch your tone,” I say sternly. Her face grows flushed and she lets out a sigh at the command but then she scowls.

“Don’t you dare tell me to watch my tone!” she says. “Don’t you dare!

I look at her and say what is likely the most frustrating thing for her to hear. “That’s enough!” I say.

Again, she reacts as though it’s the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard in her life and again she scowls. She turns around swiftly and stomps her way back to her dressing room and, I suppose, into her apartment.

This is going to be fun.

It isn’t how I envisioned the conversation starting but it’ll do. I finish the night at the club happily and when all the customers and employees are gone, I make my way through the dressing room to her door. I take a deep breath and for just a brief moment consider whether or not a confrontation now is the right thing to do. In the end, I can’t help myself. I knock firmly.

It doesn’t take long before it opens. She looks so damned lovely I almost forget what I intend to say. I manage, though.

“You aren’t going to talk to me like that and then walk away.”

She scowls at me and backs up. “Oh yeah?” she asks belligerently. “Is that so?”

“Get back over here, little girl,” I say.