Page 110 of Hunt Me, Daddy

Her backside was deeply red. Both cheeks, the sit spots, the upper thighs where I had visited twice to ensure she would feel this tomorrow in every chair she sat in. The skin was hot to the touch. She was breathing in ragged, controlled pulls that told me exactly how hard she was working not to let me see the tears.

I had seen them anyway.

“Say it properly, little girl,”

She stalled. I felt the calculation in her pride weighing the cost, doing the arithmetic, running the numbers against the alternative.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Daddy.”

The word was barely audible. It was the quietest she had been since I met her, and it moved through my chest like something structural giving way.

“Good girl,” I said.

I heard her breath hitch.

Then I began spanking her again. I was methodical about it. Not cruel. I had no interest in breaking her—I would have walked out of my own apartment before I broke her—but there is a specific, necessary work that happens between a first sorry and a true one, and I knew how to do it.

Her bottom was bright red and very warm under my hand and she was crying properly by the end. It was the real thing, unguarded, her face pressed into the cushion and her breath coming in the halting rhythm of someone who had simply run out of defenses.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she sobbed.

The second time, it sounded different. It sounded real.

I rested my palm on her lower back.

“I know,” I said.

Then I slid my hand down. She sucked in a breath.

The heat radiating from her punished skin was intense enough that I felt it against my palm before I touched her. When I did touch her—when my fingers found the slick, devastating proof of everything her body had been doing throughout the spanking—she made a sound that I was going to remember for the rest of my life.

She was soaked.

I had known she would be. I had known it from the way her breathing had changed around the eighth smack, from the involuntary forward shift of her hips at the fifteenth, from the small, caught sound she had swallowed around the twentieth when I had paused and the absence of my hand had been, briefly, worse than the presence of it. I had known and I had kept going because the knowing was not permission and her arousal did not change what she had earned.

But now… Now she was over my knee with her punished bottom in the air, her thighs slick, and her breath ragged, I was the man who had put her there, and the restraint required to move slowly was the most significant act of self-control I had performed in years.

I wanted to take her. Right then. I wanted her underneath me, her hands pinned, her back arched, every last bit of that brilliant controlling mind surrendered to nothing but sensation while I told her exactly whose she was. I wanted to feel her come apart around my cock. I wanted to hear my name in her mouth as she came.

I wanted all of it.

I moved my fingers slowly instead.

She was responsive in a way that made going slow very difficult. Every small adjustment produced an immediate, honest reaction, the shift of her hips toward my hand, the change in her breathing, the small sounds she could not fully suppress and did not bother trying to once she understood I was not going to stop. I had always believed that the most interesting information lived in the things people tried not to show. Kit, finally, was not trying.

“Please,” she said. “Please, please, Daddy?—”

The word on her lips, the third time, in that context, with that particular desperation in her voice—I felt it everywhere.

“Good girl,” I said. “Now let go and come for Daddy. Unless you need Daddy to take his belt to your cute little ass first.”

I had not entirely planned to say that. Or rather, I had thought it, and thinking it had made my cock hard enough to be a physical problem, and the line between thinking and saying had been thinner than usual.

What I had not predicted was what it would do to her.

She came hard. Her entire body shook. Her thighs clenched around my hand. The pulse of her around my fingers was immediate and violent and prolonged, aftershock following aftershock while I held completely still and let her feel every second of it.

The image of my belt across that red, beautiful bottom had done more to her than every stroke of my palm combined.