Page 16 of Daddy's Naughty Orchardist
"Patience," he says, flipping the device shut and holding it just out of reach. "I want to understand what makes you blush in a barn at midnight."
Patience.
Like I'm a child being taught a lesson. The word choice can't be accidental, not when he's just seen exactly what kind of book I was reading, what kind of scenarios make my pulse race and my cheeks flush.
"It was private," I snap.
His eyes sharpen, that steady authority sliding into place like it's the most natural thing in the world. "And it would've stayed private if you hadn’t taunted me."
There's that tone again, the one that makes my spine straighten involuntarily, that bypasses my conscious mind and speaks directly to something deeper. The same tone the hero in my book uses when he's correcting his heroine's behavior.
I bristle. "I didn't taunt you!"
"You did and then you hid it." His voice dips lower. "And when you hide something, it tells me you're ashamed. Are you?"
The question cuts straight to the heart of my conflict. Because part of me is ashamed. I’m ashamed of wanting things I've never admitted out loud, ashamed of the way my body responds to his authority, ashamed of how perfectly he seems to fit the fantasy I've been secretly nurturing.
"No!" I insist, though the heat in my cheeks betrays me.
"Then why," he asks, leaning closer, "are you acting like a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar? Why are your cheeks bright red? Who are you lying to exactly? Me or yourself?"
Kid. Cookie jar. The words land with deliberate precision, and I know, absolutely know, that he's choosing them on purpose. That he understands exactly what he just read, exactly what kind of dynamic appeals to me, and he's testing to see how I react. The pieces click together in a way that makes my stomach flip and my thighs clench. I was correct in my assumptions. Brett is a Daddy.
"Brett…"
"Tell me" His gaze doesn't waver. "Tell me what kind of book you were reading." The command is unmistakable, delivered in that same tone that made me obey when he told me to put down the crate, when he told me to move closer to the fire. And God help me, I want to obey now too.
I swallow hard. "A… Daddy Dom romance."
Satisfaction flickers across his face, slow and deliberate. "Good girl."
The words send heat racing through my veins and settling low in my belly. This is exactly what the heroines in my books feel when their Daddies praise them. A rush of liquid arousal in my underwear and the desperate need for more approval. More praise. More Daddy.
Instead of accepting the praise, instead of melting under his gaze, I chose to push his buttons. I decided to test him and see exactly how far he is willing to go tonight. “Who do you think you are?”
“Watch that tone.”
"You have no right to tell me what?—"
He moves before I can register what he is doing. A half step behind me and his hand lands, a quick, firm swat squarely on my backside. Not painful, but enough to jolt me forward.
The swat is exactly like the ones I've been reading about, firm enough to get my attention, controlled enough to show his restraint, delivered with the kind of casual authority that suggests this is perfectly normal behavior. My body's response is immediate and unwelcome: a spike of arousal that makes my underwear damp and nipples tighten in my bra.
I gasp, spinning around. "Did you just?—"
"Yes." He sits back on his heels, calm as you please. "One swat. A warning. Because your tone was out of line."
Out of line. Like I'm misbehaving and need correction. The casual way he says it, like disciplining me is the most natural thing in the world, makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.
"I can't believe you?—"
"Believe it." His gaze pins me. "I don't bluff, Monica. And something tells me you don't really want me to be anything less than who I am."
The accuracy of his observation is terrifying. Because he's right. I don't want him to be anything but authentic. I want him to mean it, want him to follow through, want him to be exactly the kind of man I've been reading about in the safety of fiction. My whole-body hums, caught between outrage and something darker, deeper, hotter.
"You're insane. This is insane."
"Maybe." He sets the Kindle aside, rising to his full height. "Or maybe I just recognize a woman who craves structure and discipline."
