Page 25 of Bossh*le Daddy
Two words that rearranged my entire nervous system. I moved around the desk, each step feeling momentous, until I stoodbefore him. This close, I had to tilt my head back to see his face, and what I found there made my knees weak—controlled desire mixed with stern disapproval, a combination that shouldn't have made heat pool low in my belly.
"You wanted my attention?" His voice had dropped to that register that bypassed my brain entirely. One hand rose to cup my chin, thumb brushing my lower lip with devastating gentleness. "You've got it."
Then he was turning me, hands firm but not rough on my shoulders, positioning me to face my desk. My pulse hammered in my throat as understanding dawned.
"Hands on the desk."
The words sent electricity through me. I leaned forward slowly, palms finding the cool surface, the position making my skirt ride up slightly. I could feel him behind me, the heat of his body, the way the air seemed to thicken with anticipation.
His hands settled on my hips, thumbs brushing the curve where waist met hip, and I bit back a whimper at the contact. "You know what happens to little girls who can't follow rules?"
I nodded, then remembered his preference for words. "Yes, Daddy."
"Tell me." His body pressed closer, not quite touching but close enough that I felt caged, claimed, exactly where he wanted me.
"They—" My voice cracked, and I had to swallow before trying again. "They get punished."
"That's right." His approval rumbled through me like thunder. "They get reminded who they belong to."
One hand left my hip, and I tensed, knowing what was coming, wanting it with an intensity that should have shamed me. The anticipation stretched endless, every nerve singing, until—
The first strike landed with a crack that echoed in the empty office. The sting blossomed across my right cheek, sharp andbright and exactly what I'd been craving without knowing it. I gasped, fingers curling against the desk surface.
"Count," he commanded, voice rough with something that matched the need building in my core.
"One," I breathed.
The second strike landed on the left, balancing the sensation, and I pressed back unconsciously, seeking more. "Two."
"Look at you," he murmured, and there was dark satisfaction in his voice. "Already pushing back for more. Such a needy little girl."
The third strike was harder, making me rise up on my toes. "Three!"
His hand rubbed the sting, soothing and igniting in equal measure. "Why am I punishing you, little one?"
"Because I didn't follow the rules," I gasped out, then cried "Four!" as his hand landed again.
"Which rules?" He was relentless, making me think through the haze of sensation.
"No skipping meals. Five!" The sting was building, layering into something that made my thighs clench. "No staying late. Six! No talking down to myself. Seven!"
"And did you follow any of them?" His hand came down again, precise and controlled.
"No, Daddy. Eight!"
"Do you know why I made those rules?" Another strike, making me whimper.
"Nine! To—to take care of me."
"That's right." His voice had gone gravelly, affected by this as much as I was. The next strike made me sob. "Ten! Please, Daddy—"
"Please what?" But his hand was gentle now, rubbing the heated skin through my skirt. "What do you need, little one?"
"I need—" I couldn't finish, couldn't articulate the complex knot of want and shame and desperate arousal.
"You need to be reminded that you're mine," he supplied, pressing against me fully now, letting me feel how affected he was. "That when Daddy makes rules, he expects them to be followed. That when you disobey, there are consequences."
"Yes," I sobbed, beyond pride now, beyond anything but the need for more, for him, for whatever he'd give me.
