Page 253 of Double Daddies
“I can’t… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for shoving you.” Her breath hitched brokenly, jerking her body. “I-I’m sorry for swearing at you.” Tears slid down the side of her nose. “I’m so, so sorry for kicking you, Daddy Clay.”
“That’s a pretty apology, sweetling, thank you.” Rubbing light circles over her red, heated flesh, Clay let approval color his words. When she shivered and relaxed, surrendering as though she thought he’d forgiven the remaining four strikes of herreprimand, he tapped his fingers on the side of her ass where her skin was untouched. “Just four more to go, Avery, then it’s all over.”
It was the straw that broke her. Before his hand connected again, she started sobbing as though her world was ripping apart at the seams. He doubted she felt the final four spanks land on her ass, she was crying so hard.
He let her cry as he inspected the result of his labor—hot flesh, slightly swollen where her ass had taken a higher percentage of the punishment, an incredibly appealing shade of dusky red. There was no obvious bruising, but sitting down over the next day or two would be a stark reminder not to piss off a Daddy Dom.
“I’m sorry for being a bad girl, Daddy Clay.” It was barely a whisper through the sobs, yet it meant more to him because it came without prompting.
In that soft, broken, childlike whisper, it dug deep into his heart.
Carefully, Clay eased her panties back into position, tsking under his breath. It really was a shame to cover that glorious pussy up, especially when it was visibly yearning for some attention. Her labia were swollen and plump, glistening with her juices.
Bad girls, even repentant ones, didn’t get a reward.
When her pants were secured around her hips, he gently helped her down off the counter. Before she could shove him away and regroup, locking her Little back into the dark, he hefted her up onto his hip.
She was small enough to make him feel protective, heavy enough to satisfy his craving to hold a woman. Her yelp of pain when her ass settled on his supporting arm made him smile—yes, she was going to remember this the next time she tried to declare war. “No! Put me down!”
“Shush, sweetling. We’re going to find somewhere nice and quiet where you can finish getting those tears out. Don’t argue,” he said gently, feeling a surge of victory when she went limp, pressing her wet face to the side of his neck as her body jerked with more sobs. “There we go. Cry it out, Avery. I’ve got you, every step of the way. Trust me.”
A low, mournful keen was her reply. “Can’t trust anyone anymore.”
Being a Daddy wasn’t his natural milieu, Clay could admit, but right now… hell, it felt more natural than wearing his own damn skin. Rubbing his cheek over her hair, he murmured, “Feels that way now, Avery. The hurt is still raw, your emotions are open and bruised. There are so many people you can trust here when you’re ready.”
He found himself rocking side to side, his hips swaying as he comforted her. It was oddly therapeutic, the rhythm slow and easy. If he didn’t move, he’d stand here all damn afternoon doing just this.
Pressing a kiss to her hair, sniffing the cinnamon and vanilla scent of her shampoo, Clay carried her out of the kitchen, exchanging a silent, knowing look with Allan. He jerked his chin up, indicating they were going upstairs, and Allan nodded in reply.
A couple were waiting by the reception desk when he pushed through the doors from the empty dining room; he could hear Jennifer rummaging around in the tiny office behind the welcome area.
A tall blond man exited the bar, staring at Avery as though he’d never seen a woman carried in such a way before. Strangely mercurial eyes weighed her up, then measured Clay a lot like a pedigree stud getting the down-low on a stray hound.
He didn’t say anything, but Clay felt those eyes drilling into his back as he ascended the stairs with Avery still crying into hisneck. Ignoring the itch on the back of his nape, he knocked on the clinic door and waited for Doc Isaac to answer.
The gray-haired doctor was the temporary replacement for Doc Linnie, who’d apparently had a personal emergency several weeks before Clay’s arrival and taken leave from the club to deal with it.
When she was due to return, no one knew—or was telling, if they did.
The door swung open and Isaac, dressed in a blue sweater and beige slacks, filled the doorway looking like someone’s grandfather. His smile was warm and welcoming even as his light-blue eyes filled with concern. “My goodness. Come on in, Master Clay. How can I help?”
“It’s not an emergency, Isaac.”
“Nevertheless, you’re here.” He stepped back, gesturing them in with his hand. “Does the young lady require an examination?”
Clay laughed and stepped inside. “Eager, Isaac?”
The door closed quietly. “Bored would be the operative word. Since the construction work began, it’s been quieter than anticipated. I’ve almost conned myself into believing I’m retired,” he joked, ushering Clay toward the table. “Only a few more weeks though and we’ll be back to full capacity, I imagine. It can’t come too soon—there are only so many times I can take inventory when I’m hardly using the stock.”
“Then we’ll be complaining how busy it is.”
“True, true. Now, what seems to be the problem?”
Crying down to sniffles now, Avery snuffled softly against Clay’s throat.
“A bad case of spanked ass-itis following a nasty bout of temper tantrum,” Clay answered somberly. “I need some ibuprofen and aloe gel.”
Steel-gray eyebrows formed a shallow vee on his wrinkled forehead. “Most Masters keep their own personal supply of both in their cabins.”
