Page 9 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

T he rehearsal and dinner pass in a blur of practiced smiles and professional efficiency. I act the dutiful maid of honor, all while hyper aware of Matt's presence.

He doesn't crowd me or make obvious gestures.

In fact, to anyone watching, we're simply polite acquaintances fulfilling our respective wedding roles.

But every time our eyes meet across the church aisle, every accidental brush of hands when reaching for the same program, every subtle nod he gives me when I manage a particularly tricky situation all feel charged with unspoken promises.

Tonight, his eyes seem to say. Tonight we begin.

By the time the rehearsal dinner winds down, my nerves are stretched to a breaking point.

I make my excuses to Catherine, promising to be available first thing tomorrow for the hair and makeup marathon, and slip outside to call a rideshare.

I need to go back to the hotel and regroup before heading over to Matt’s.

Before I can open the app, Matt appears beside me, car keys dangling from his fingers.

"Need a ride?" he asks, his voice casual even as his eyes communicate something far more intense.

I should say no. Should maintain some distance, gather my thoughts, prepare myself for whatever is about to happen between us.

"Yes," I say instead, because apparently my self-preservation instinct has taken the night off.

The drive to the hotel is silent, tense with anticipation. Matt keeps both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, maintaining a respectful distance that somehow feels more intimate than if he'd been touching me.

When we pull up to the hotel entrance, he turns to me. "May I come up?"

Three simple words that carry the weight of everything we've been circling since we met. My answer will set the course for the rest of this wedding weekend and possibly beyond. He’s asking, not demanding.

Not telling. Asking. Another green flag.

Another assurance that my gut is correct in trusting him.

"Yes," I say again, crossing a threshold I can't uncross.

In the elevator, we stand a careful foot apart, neither speaking. An older couple joins us on the third floor, chatting about their dinner plans, oblivious to the crackling tension between Matt and me.

By the time we reach my room, my hands are actually shaking as I tap the key card against the lock. The door swings open, revealing the generic luxury of a high-end hotel suite, a king bed, desk, sitting area, tasteful abstract art on the walls.

Matt follows me in, closing the door with a soft click that sounds unnervingly final. For a moment, we just stand there, the reality of being truly alone together settling around us like a physical presence.

"Would you like a drink?" I ask, falling back on social niceties to break the tension. "There's a minibar."

"No." He steps closer, eyes never leaving mine. "What I'd like is for you to tell me what you want."

Right. He'd asked me to consider what I wanted, what I needed. I'd thought about little else all day, even while going through the rehearsal and dinner.

"I want..." I begin, then pause, struggling to articulate desires I've barely admitted to myself. "I want to explore this. Whatever this is between us."

He nods, encouraging. "What else?"

I take a deep breath. "I want to feel... taken care of. Guided. But not controlled in a way that diminishes me." My cheeks heat as I force myself to continue. "I've read about these dynamics in books, fantasized about them, but I've never... It's all theoretical for me."

Understanding dawns in his eyes. "You've never actually experienced it."

I shake my head. "No. Just fiction."

"I see." He moves to the sitting area, taking a seat in one of the armchairs. Not what I expected. "Come here," he says, patting his lap. I hesitate before I join him, sitting on his lap. He turns to face me, expression serious.

"Let me tell you what I want," he says. "I want to give you what you need. The guidance, the care, the structure. But for that to work, we need trust. Absolute trust."

"I barely know you," I point out.

"Which is why we start slow." His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing. "Tonight, we talk. We learn about each other. We establish boundaries."

Relief and disappointment war within me. Relief that he's not rushing this, not assuming I'm ready to jump straight into the deep end of dominance and submission. Disappointment because my body is humming with anticipation, with the need to be touched, claimed, possessed.

"Just talk?" I can't keep the hint of disappointment from my voice.

His smile is knowing. "For now. There are many ways to explore this dynamic that don't involve getting naked right away."

"Oh." My imagination provides several vivid possibilities that make my pulse quicken.

"First things first," he says, his thumb drawing circles on my palm. "Safe words. Even if we're just talking tonight, I want you to have them."

I nod, having read enough romance novels to understand the concept. "Green for keep going, yellow for slow down, red for stop?"

"Perfect." His approval sends a little thrill through me. "And you use them if anything, and I mean anything , makes you uncomfortable. Clear?"

"Clear."

"Good girl." The simple praise makes my stomach flip in the most delicious way. "Now, tell me about Jackie Lawrence. The real one, not the professional bridesmaid."

The request catches me off guard. I'd expected... well, I don't know what I expected. Something more physical, certainly.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

"Everything." His eyes hold mine. "Start with why you became a professional bridesmaid."

I hesitate, then realize there's no reason not to share this. "I was always good at events. Organized, detail-oriented. And I genuinely love weddings. There’s something about the joy, the tradition, the whole spectacle of it, that I just love."

"But?" he prompts, sensing there's more.

"But the event planning industry is cutthroat.

Competitive. And I didn't want to be responsible for planning entire weddings, all the tiny details.

It started by accident. A friend asked me to step in when her bridesmaid dropped out last minute.

I was good at it. Word spread. Eventually, I realized people would pay good money for someone who could handle the chaos without adding to it. "

He listens with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions about my business model, my typical clients, and my most memorable weddings. It's... nice. To be heard like this. To have someone want to know the details of my life.

"And the book club?" he asks eventually, a slight curve to his lips. "How did that start?"

Heat floods my cheeks. "That also started with a friend. Valerie. She loaned me a book. A romance that was... spicier than what I usually read. I loved it. We started trading recommendations, then she introduced me to her favorite author who ran a book club for Daddy books."

"And you're the president."

"Unofficial title," I admit. "I just host most of the meetings and keep us on schedule."

"Organized even in your personal life," he observes. "Do you ever just... let go?"

The question cuts deeper than he probably intended. "Not often," I admit. "My mom was... chaotic. Emotional. Unpredictable. I learned early that someone had to keep things running, make sure bills were paid, food was on the table."

His expression softens. "You became the responsible one."

"Someone had to be." I shrug, uncomfortable with the childhood memories. "What about you? How does a Marine end up chasing hurricanes for a living?"

He accepts the change of subject, telling me about his military service, his deployment, his struggle to adjust to civilian life afterward. "The military gives you purpose, structure, clear mission objectives. Civilian life is... messy. Undefined. I’m a man who likes to be in charge."

"So you found a new mission," I say. "Predicting storms, saving lives."

He nods. "There's clarity in crisis. All the noise falls away, and you're left with what matters."

"Is that why you like the Daddy Dom dynamic?" I ask, genuinely curious. "Because it provides structure? Clear roles?"

His eyes darken slightly. "Partly. But it's more than that. It's about protection. Guidance. Creating a safe space for someone to be vulnerable. To surrender control without fear. Earning a woman’s submission and not demanding it."

The way he describes it makes something inside me ache with longing. To surrender without fear. To be strong and independent in the world, but have a space where I can just... be. Let someone else take the weight for a while.

"And what do you get out of it?" I ask.

"What don’t I get out of it? Knowing someone is trusting me that much," he says without hesitation. "Having someone strong enough to handle the world on their own but choose to give me their submission. It's... there's nothing like it."

The raw honesty in his voice sends a shiver through me.

"Enough talking for now," he says, sensing my reaction. "I want to try something. Will you trust me?"

I nod, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Say it," he instructs gently.

"I trust you," I whisper.

"Good girl." He shifts to sit at the end of the sofa. "Come here. Lay down with your head in my lap."

It's such a simple request, but it feels monumental. Intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with vulnerability. I hesitate only briefly before stretching out on the sofa, resting my head on his thigh, looking up at him.

"Close your eyes," he says softly.

I comply, heart racing.

His fingers slide into my hair, gentle but sure, massaging my scalp in slow, rhythmic movements. The tension I didn't even realize I was carrying begins to melt away beneath his touch.

"That's it," he murmurs as I exhale deeply. "Let go. I've got you."