Page 7 of Daddy’s Naughty Bartender (Naughty Girls Book Club #5)

T he red dress is a weapon, and I wield it with intent.

Silk wraps around curves I'd forgotten I have, the low back leaving me exposed in ways that have nothing to do with skin. Standing outside the winery's private tasting room, I smooth nervous hands over the fabric and wonder if I've lost my mind.

"Breathe, baby."

I spin to find Jason behind me, and my ability to breathe vanishes entirely. Black shirt, dark jeans that fit him like sin, and eyes that promise I've made the right choice with the dress.

"You're early," I manage.

"So are you." He moves closer, his hand settling on my lower back where silk gives way to skin. "Nervous?"

"Should I be?"

"Never with me." His thumb traces small circles against my spine. "With me, you're always safe. Even when you're falling apart. Especially then."

"Jason…"

"You look stunning." He turns me gently, taking in the full effect. "Red suits you. Power and passion and just a hint of danger."

"Is that what you see?"

"Among other things." His eyes darken. "Things I'll tell you when we're not standing in a parking lot."

He guides me inside, past the public tasting room to a private space I didn't know exists. Candlelit, intimate, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the vineyard. A single table set for two, crystal glasses catching the light.

"Dale arranged this?"

"I arranged this." He pulls out my chair. "Dale provided the space. I provided everything else."

"Including instructions on what to wear?"

"Especially that." No apology in his tone. "I wanted to see you in red. Wanted to know you'd trust me enough to follow a simple request."

"And if I'd worn blue?"

"Then you'd have looked beautiful in blue. I’d have been disappointed that you didn’t follow my directions." He takes his seat across from me. "But you didn't wear blue."

"No," I agree softly. "I wore red."

"Good girl."

Two words, and I'm liquid heat. He knows it too, his smile slow and satisfied.

"We'll start with whites," he says, as if he hasn't just melted my brain. "Work our way through to the reds. Take our time."

A server appears, one of Dale's staff, professionally invisible, pouring our first selection. Jason lifts his glass, studying the pale gold liquid.

"Tell me what you taste."

I sip, trying to focus past his intensity. "Crisp. Green apple, maybe? Something floral."

"Good. What else?"

"I don't know. I'm not a wine expert."

"You don't need to be an expert to know what you like." He leans forward. "Trust your instincts. What does your body tell you?"

Everything about this feels like a metaphor. "It's bright. Clean. Uncomplicated."

"Uncomplicated can be good," he agrees. "But sometimes we want more complexity. More depth." The server pours the next selection. "Try this."

Fuller, richer. Honey and stone fruit and something that makes me think of summer afternoons.

"Better?" he asks.

"Different. More layers."

"Like people." His eyes hold mine. "The best ones reveal themselves slowly. Each sip, each moment, showing you something new."

"Is that what you're doing? Revealing yourself slowly?"

"Would you prefer I lay it all out at once?

" He sets down his glass. "Fine. I'm forty-five, divorced, childless.

I've built a successful business but an empty life.

I have a dominant personality that's cost me relationships because most women want equality, not equity.

I believe in taking care of what's mine, in being needed, in the exchange of power between people who understand that submission is a gift and dominance is a responsibility. "

My breath catches. "That's... direct."

"You asked." He picks up his glass again, casual as if he hasn't just laid himself bare. "Your turn."

"I don't know what to say after that."

"Sure you do. Tell me who Karen is when she's not being everyone's rock."

The third wine appears. Red now, bold and complicated. I take a sip for courage.

"I'm forty-two, widowed, sometimes feel like I'm drowning in responsibility.

I used to paint, but I haven't touched a brush in five years.

I sing in the shower but nowhere else. I read romance novels and pretend they're literature when caught.

" Another sip. "And lately, I've been having dreams about giving up control.

About what it would feel like to just...

let go. To step into one of the novels I read and be a heroine who finds herself in love with a dominant man. "

"What happens in these dreams?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "Jason..."

"Tell me." Soft command. "What happens when you let go?"

"I feel free. Protected. Like I can stop holding the world together because someone else has it handled. Like I can be soft without being weak."

"You're never weak." His hand finds mine across the table. "Softness isn't weakness, baby. It's trust. It's strength in its purest form."

"How do you always know what to say?"

"Because I see you." Simple. Certain. "I see the woman behind the armor. She's magnificent."

The server clears our glasses, pouring something new. Pinot noir, earthy and sensual. Jason never releases my hand.

"Tell me about your ex-wife."

His thumb strokes my knuckles. "Melissa wanted a husband who'd be her equal partner in everything. Fifty-fifty splits, perfect equality. She paid for her own dinner when we went on dates, opened her own door. She saw my need to provide, to protect, to lead as archaic. Controlling."

"Was it?"

"Sometimes," he admits. "I'm not perfect. I can be overbearing, too intense. But mostly, I just wanted to take care of her. To be needed. She wanted independence. I wanted interdependence."

"And that's what ended it?"

"Among other things." He brings my hand to his lips. "She found someone who gave her what she needed… she moved on long before we ever separated. I'm still looking."

The weight of his gaze makes the meaning clear.

"I'm complicated," I warn.

"I like complicated."

"I have kids."

"Who needs to see their mother happy."

"I'm rooted here."

"I'm portable." He smiles at my surprise. "My business runs itself mostly. I can consult from anywhere. Chicago is right up the road."

"You'd relocate for someone you've known a week?"

"I'd relocate for the right person. Time is just a number. Connection is what matters."

"This is crazy."

"Probably." He releases my hand, but only to stand and move to my side of the table. "Dance with me."

"There's no music."

"There's always music." He draws me to my feet, one hand on my waist, the other cradling mine. "Listen."

Soft jazz plays from hidden speakers, but that isn't what he means. Our bodies find rhythm in each other, swaying gently. His chin rests on my hair, and I let myself melt into his strength.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he murmurs.

"That this feels like a dream. That you feel too good to be true."

"I'm very real." He proves it by spinning me gently, then pulling me back closer than before. "Real enough to know this is rare. What we have."

"What do we have?"

"Chemistry. Connection." His hand splays across my bare back. "Complementary needs. You need someone to lean on. I need someone worth supporting. You want to let go. I want to catch you."

"It sounds simple when you say it."

"It is simple. We make it complicated with fear and past hurts and what-ifs." He tilts my chin up. "What if we just let it be simple? What if we trust the pull between us and see where it leads?"

"What if it leads nowhere?"

"What if it leads everywhere?"

I stare into those storm-gray eyes and see my future. See morning coffee and shared silences and someone who'll stand between me and the world when I need shelter. See myself soft and cherished and held… and dominated and spanked and satisfied.

"I'm scared," I admit.

"I know." He cups my face, thumbs stroking my cheeks. "Be scared. But be brave too. Be with me."

"I don't know how to do this."

"Sure you do." His forehead touches mine. "You've been doing it all week. Every time you let me help. Every time you trust me with your truth. Every time you choose to show up instead of run."

"Kiss me."

"Not yet." His denial makes me whimper. "When I kiss you, really kiss you, I want you to be sure. I want you to know what you're choosing."

"I'm choosing you."

"Are you?" He pulls back to study my face. "Because I don't do casual, Karen. I don't do halfway. If we do this, I'm all in. Possessive, protective, probably too intense. I'll push you. Challenge you. Punish you. Demand your honesty even when it's hard."

"And in return?"

"In return, I'll cherish you like the gift you are. I'll stand between you and anything that tries to hurt you. I'll see your submission as sacred, your trust as precious. I'll make you feel safe enough to be soft, strong enough to let go, loved enough to believe you deserve it all."

"Jason..." My voice breaks.

"Tell me yes." His hands frame my face. "Tell me you'll try. Tell me you'll trust me enough to see where this goes."

"Yes."

The word hangs between us, heavy with promise. His eyes close briefly, and when they open, something has shifted. Settled. Decided.

"My good, brave girl." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "My beautiful, trusting girl."

"Now will you kiss me properly?"

His laugh rumbles through his chest. "Demanding."

"Maybe."

"Definitely." But he's leaning down, finally, finally?—

"Mr. Schaeffer? I'm sorry to interrupt."

We break apart to find the server looking apologetic. "There's a phone call. They said it was urgent."

Jason's expression darkens. "My apologies," he murmurs to me before following the server.

I sink into my chair, heart racing, lips tingling from a kiss that hasn't quite happened. My phone buzzes.

Susie: How's it going???

Me: I think I just agreed to be his girlfriend. Or his submissive. Possibly both.

Susie: HOLY SHIT DETAILS NOW

Me: Later. He's coming back.

But when Jason returns, his expression is grim. "I have to go back to Chicago."

"What? Now?"

"Tomorrow morning. Business emergency. My partner made a mess of a major account." He pulls me to my feet, hands gentle on my arms. "This doesn't change anything."

"You're leaving."

"Temporarily." His voice brooks no argument. "Two days, three at most. Then I'm coming back to you."

"Jason—"

"I'm coming back." He cradles my face. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"I wasn't trying to get rid of you."

"Shh." His thumb presses my lips. "I see that look. You're already convincing yourself this is a sign, that it's too complicated, that you should protect yourself." His eyes bore into mine. "Stop. This is a minor inconvenience, not a cosmic message. I'm coming back. To you. For you. Believe that."

"Okay."

"Say it like you mean it."

I take a breath, choosing trust. "Okay. You're coming back."

"Good girl." This time, when he leans down, nothing interrupts. His lips find mine, and the world tilts.

It isn't the desperate passion of new lust. It's deeper, surer. A claim and a promise. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him, letting him in, letting him lead. One hand tangles in my hair while the other presses me close, and I melt into him completely.

When we finally break apart, I'm breathless and aching.

"Remember that," he murmurs against my lips. "Remember how this feels. How we fit. Remember I'm coming back."

"I'll remember."

"My brave girl." One more kiss, quick but thorough. "I'll text you when I land. Every day while I'm gone. And, Karen?"

"Yes?"

"No hiding while I'm away. No convincing yourself this isn't real. No running. Promise me."

"I promise."

"That's my good girl."

He drives me home, the air between us charged with unspoken promises.

At my door, he doesn’t ask. His hand slides to my waist, pulling me in with a grip that is just shy of rough.

I feel the heat of him, the strength in his fingers, the steady thud of his heart pressed against mine.

His gaze pins me, dangerous, unflinching, and something inside me answers, reckless and ready.

Then, his mouth is on mine. Not tentative, not polite.

It’s fierce and inevitable. His other hand comes up to cradle the side of my face, thumb pressing against my jaw, holding me exactly where he wants me.

The kiss is deep, relentless, claiming in a way that feels like a warning and a promise all at once.

When he finally breaks away, it’s only far enough to breathe the same air, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with something I don’t dare name. His hand lingers at my waist, like letting go would be the real danger.

"Two days," he says. "Three at most."

"I'll be here."

"You better be."

I watch him drive away, touching my lips, still feeling his kiss. Two days. I can handle two days.

I have to. Because somewhere between that first Manhattan and this moment, I've fallen completely.

Now I just have to trust he'll return to catch me.