Page 313 of The Daddy P.I. Casefiles: The Second Collection
I want to scream at him. Rage. Let out all my fear and frustration in words that bite and tear and push him away.
Instead, I grip the rug with my toes, pushing my heels wide.
His hand circles over my ass, once, twice. I expect a warm-up, the way he has when we’ve done impact scenes.
Instead, the block of wood he calls a hand slams into the crease of my ass hard enough that tears spring to my eyes.
“Ow, fuck!”
“Up on your toes. No kicking.”
I wasn’t even aware of kicking. I grab the carpet again with my toes.
His impossibly hard hand slams into the crease of my ass again. Does he soak his damn hands in salt water to toughen them?
“Fuck!”
“That’s it. Let it out.”
I don’t for several more stinging, eye-watering smacks, just to spite him. I’m a masochist. I can take whippings, for fuck’s sake. I’ve taken his damn whipping. I’m still wearing his marks a few inches above where he’s hitting me. I can handle a little spanking.
Only Mac really knows how to make it hurt. More than it should. He smacks the crease and my upper thighs, over and over, side to side, without a pause, with that ridiculously hard hand. I swear the ridge of his palm is made of steel, not skin and bone. My thighs must be purple by now.
“Enough, Sir!”
“Told you, bold girl, we’re done when I say we’re done. Is that beginning to smart?”
Beginning? The backs of my thighs are on fire. Not in a good way. This isn’t fun. This isn’t sexy. It hurts. A-fucking-lot.
He angles his hand for the next series of smacks, back on the crease of each cheek. It feels like he’s ripped off the top layer of my skin and is slamming straight into muscle and bone, the sting shoots so deep. The angry tears standing cold in my eyes heat and spill. I sniffle.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Let it out,” he coaxes.
“Fuck you, fuck you, Sir!”
“’Least I got a Sir this time.” Mac releases my wrists, only to gather my dreads in his hand and squeeze. He controls myhead, holding me with my back slightly arched, while he keeps slamming his damn hand into my thighs. “Keep your hands where I left them. Curse me all you like. Let it all out.”
I curse him as the hits keep coming, grinding the pain further and further into me. My voice thickens and my words lose shape. The tears burn and flow. I sob out all my turmoil as he peppers my upper thighs with strokes that feel like he’s flaying the muscle right off my bones.
Finally, there’s a stroke that doesn’t fall. His burningly hot palm cups my ass cheek. He rubs, switches cheeks, and rubs again.
“Still hate me, bold girl?” he asks softly.
I don’t hate him at all. I’m calm and empty and strangely grateful to him. When was the last time I felt grateful after a punishment?
“Totally hate you,” I sniffle.
“Yeah, I can tell. I’m going to help you sit up and you’re going to let me get a cloth and wipe your face and then we’re going to have a cuddle. And if you keep locking me out, I’ll turn you around and go at you with the other hand. Your ass will wear out a lot faster than my hands, trust me.”
I do. I trust him. “Yes, Sir.”
“That’s my bold girl.” He helps me off his lap and walks me over to the couch where he lies me on my side, so my tormented thighs don’t touch the couch. He returns after a minute with a damp paper towel that he uses to wipe my face and holds over my nose until I blow. Then he slides onto the couch and pulls me on top of him. His jeans are rough against the fronts of my thigh, but there’s no bulge biting into me. Didn’t the spanking get him hard?
His hand settles at my nape and he tucks my face into his neck. His spicy, clean scent, flavored with the salt of sweat,rushes up my nose, down into my lungs. It fills me with a sense ofrightness.
“Now that you’re calm, tell me how you’re going to recreate your design book,” he rumbles, his heavy chest rising and falling beneath me.
I settle into him, fitting my curves into the planes of his body. “A lot of hard work. I have pictures on my phone. They’re not as good. I will redraw everything. It’ll just take time.”
