Page 61 of Punish Me, Daddy

“Your bed.”

I stood first, and without a word, I reached for her. She didn’t resist—not even a breath of hesitation—as I lifted her from the bath, her skin warm and wet and flushed from the heat. She slid into my arms like she belonged there, like her body was always meant to fit against mine.

And it did.

Perfectly.

I held her close against my chest, one arm beneath her knees, the other wrapped around her back, her damp skin pressing into my shirt, making it cling to me. Her cheek rested against my shoulder, and for the first time since I met her, she was quiet. Not because she was afraid or because she was defeated, but because something inside her had softened and cracked open just wide enough to let me in.

She kept her eyes on me, still just the slightest bit wary. I shifted her gently in my arms and lowered her to her feet so that I couldwrap a warm, fluffy towel around her shoulders, the plush cotton swallowing her up. She shivered a little, even in the warmth, and I held her steady as I began to dry her off.

I took my time. My hands moved slowly across her arms, down her spine, over the pink curves of her ass where my palm had left its mark. She let out the softest breath when I passed there, but she didn’t stop me, didn’t squirm away.

I toweled down her legs, her calves, her feet, lifting one at a time, placing them back on the floor, and she just watched me with a look of awe in her eyes.

No one had ever cared for her like that—not gently, not completely, and I could feel it in the way her body leaned toward mine like it didn’t know what to do with all this tenderness. Like it was waiting for the catch, but there wasn’t one and there wouldn’t be one.

Once she was dry and wrapped in the towel, I lifted her again. She was so light in my arms it stung something in my chest. Something protective, but also brutal. I didn’t want her to walk. Not yet.

I carried her through the doorway and into the bedroom, the floor-to-ceiling windows framing her in soft light, the skyline wrapping around her like a crown. I laid her down on my bed.

Carefully. Slowly.

I pulled the towel from her shoulders and replaced it with the blanket, tucking it around her body like I was sealing her in. Like I was guarding something no one else got to touch. Ever.

Then I stripped off my shirt, undid my belt, and let my pants fall to the floor. I left my boxers on, not because I was being noble, but because this wasn’t about sex.

It was all aboutherright now.

I climbed into the bed beside her and pulled her close—all flushed skin and shaky breath and wide, exhausted eyes—and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her in against my chest. Her head fit perfectly under my jaw. Her legs tangled with mine.

And I just held her.

Her breath slowed after a few minutes, her body softening by degrees, and I ran my hand up and down her back in long, slow strokes. Soothing. Calm. My other hand brushed the crown of her head as I pressed a kiss into her damp hair.

“You’re safe now,” I murmured.

She didn’t answer, but I knew that night, I’d given her more than a punishment.

I’d given herpeace.

CHAPTER 18

Sloane

I woke slowly.

The kind of slow that only happened when I didn’t have anywhere to be. When my body felt warm and heavy and spent in a way that said I’d survived something.

Sunlight poured through the windows, casting long, golden streaks across the bed. The sheets were soft—impossibly soft—like silk, with a whisper of heat still trapped in them.

I was completely naked and my body ached.

Not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that made me close my eyes and exhale long and slow, feeling the stretch in my thighs, the tightness in my hips, the residual sting across my ass. A hum low in my belly told me I could have stayed there all day, just floating in the afterglow of everything that had happened the night before.

I shifted a little under the covers, my skin brushing warm fabric, and realized he wasn’t beside me. His side of the bed was empty—still slightly warm, but empty.

My stomach clenched before I could stop it—reflexive, stupid—feeling an old echo of being left. Of men slipping out before morning. Of waking up alone and pretending I didn’t care.

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