Page 1 of Daddy’s Rules

1. BENJI

Sometimes a fantasy was all it took.

I worked hard, every single day, adult mode on.

A paralegal suffering from eye strain and an obedient smile.

Life had never been on my side.

Life kept me living with loud roommates.

Life forced me into burning out.

But it also presented me with a gift, as if to say I’m sorry, but that place you always search online is having an open night where you don’t have to be a member or pay an entry fee.

Playhouse.

Or the Playhouse, or Playhouse Club, whatever they were going by. I knew it had changed, and the locations had been switched around several times already. It wasn’t like I could afford it, so I’d only ever seen pictures from the official Playhouse posts. Guests never posted.

And now I knew why.

They took my phone at the coat check, placing it inside a lockbox with the understanding I could only reclaim it when I was leaving. But minutes before handing my phone over, I received a gut punch of a text.

My friend Theo was supposed to be here too, but he’d flaked, leaving me to enter alone.

Before the velvet curtain entryway, there were rules in pink neon along the wall. I’d seen them before on their website. All about consent and acknowledging they were a safe space.

I stood at the bar alone while men walked by—some in suits and others half dressed, being walked around on leashes or dancing in onesies, throwing glitter from shakers in glowing wands.

It was then I realized I could’ve brought my onesie, and a teddy. Instead, I was stuck in a pair of black jeans with ripped knees and a cream knit sweater over a navy shirt buttoned up to the collar. The urge to tear it off and be in my fun polka dot briefs was strong.

For years, I’d eyed the Playhouse. They moved every so often, bigger buildings, more expensive membership fees. And a few times a year, they had these open nights, like a recruitment drive where Doms and subs could meet up for free—except it wasn’t free.

“Twenty-five dollars,” the bartender said, pushing the strawberry daiquiri across to me. It came with a funky swirly straw and some jelly candies on the top.

I stared at him, my brain having a meltdown. My eye twitched. I expected fifteen dollars, at the most. I pushed a hand into my tight jeans pocket, grabbing my wallet. I’d brought fifty bucks with me, a generous amount, I thought.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” a man said, catching my attention from the right.

Holy fuck. Men buying me drinks never happened. And he was hot. “I—uh—thank you,” I said, pushing my wallet back down.

He held out a hand. “Maxwell Grant, but I go by Max,” he said. He was dressed in a suit, no tie, but he looked expensive, like one of the partners at Thompson & Richmond, the law firm I was a paralegal at. He even smelled like it too, that specific musk of money.

I wiped my hand down my sweater, but it was still damp as I reached out to shake his firm hand—and I knew a firm handshake was supposed to tell you everything about a person, so I held firm. “I’m Benji, short for Benjamin, but I absolutely hate that name.” A shudder went through me as I pulled my hand back.

“I kinda saw you standing here, and you looked lost.”

Through the funky straw, I sucked up the strawberry daiquiri slush, my eyes rolling at the hit of alcohol. “I’m not lost,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just evaluating the room.”

Max raised a brow; he looked older now with that expression. “It’s okay to be lost,” he said. “It gives you an excuse to discover, and this place is perfect for that.”

With the straw in my mouth, mid-suck, I couldn’t help but speak. “Perfect,” I let out, almost inhaling the slushie.

He chuckled, the corner of his lips twitching with a smile. “You wanna find somewhere to sit before it gets busier?”

I stared with pinched brows and my lips nearly numb from the cold, deciding how to move. “I—”

“Just until you’re comfortable to get out there and mingle,” he said. “Slow and steady.”