Page 70 of Punish Me, Daddy

She moaned softly, eyes fluttering shut.

“Keep them open,” I growled. “I said I want towatch.”

She lifted her gaze to mine, shame and lust warring in her expression, but lust was winning.

She rode my thigh harder now, her breath coming faster, little whimpers spilling from her lips every time she dragged her clit across the thick fabric of my pants. Her body was shaking. Her fingers grasped at my shirt.

I leaned in, mouth at her ear.

“Come for Daddy like this,” I whispered. “Like a good girl who doesn’t want her daddy to take her back over his knee and spank that bare little bottom until she’s sore and sobbing and very, very sorry.”

And she did.

With a choked sob, her hips jerked, her legs tightening around me as she fell apart again—hot, wet, grinding through the orgasm like she was chasing something she’d never had until me.

I held her while she came, and while she trembled long after that. And I knew that this time she hadn’t just given me her body.

She’d given meeverything.

CHAPTER 22

Sloane

I couldn’t believe I had just done that.

I could still feel the heat of him between my thighs, the slick, shameless mess I made on his lap, the way his thigh flexed under me like it was put there to ruin me. I had done everything he told me to. I came when he said, like a good girl.

Jesus Christ. What thefuckwas happening to me?

He was holding me now, his arms wrapped securely around my waist like I was something fragile, something he was keeping safe. His chin rested against the top of my head, and I could hear the slow rhythm of his breathing, steady, like nothing was wrong, like what just happened between us was perfectly natural.

Maybe for him it was, but not for me.

My heart was still racing, not from arousal anymore, but from the sudden, crushing awareness that I had just let him see toomuchof me. I’d let him crack me open, strip me down, and whisper the kind of words I hadn’t even known I wanted to hear.

Now he was acting like I belonged here.

Like I washis.

I should have felt powerful. This was the part where I should have smirked, rolled my eyes, slipped out of his lap and found some way to take back the upper hand.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t, because my body was still trembling, my skin was still singing, and somewhere deep in my chest, there was a soft, traitorous little ache that wanted him to hold me tighter.

I hated that. I hated that when he called me ‘baby girl’ I melted. Hated that I let him pull pleasure out of me like a confession, like he had already known it was there.

Most of all?

I hated that I was starting to forget who I was.

I was Sloane fucking Kingsley.

I was a goddamn hurricane. A razor blade in heels. I made headlines, not wedding vows. I ruined men, I didn’t let them take me apart piece by piece and tuck me into their lap like a prized possession. I was chaos wrapped in couture, and no one—no one—told me where to sleep or what to wear or who I belonged to.

Yet… here I was.

Wearing the red silk dress he chose. Wearing no underwear beneath that dress because he didn’t want me to. Still wetbetween my legs from grinding against his thigh like I was a fucking cat in heat because he told me to.

I pressed my forehead against his chest and closed my eyes, the scent of him surrounding me again: leather, woodsmoke, and pure masculinity. He smelled like control. Like permanence.

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