Page 23 of Knox's Boy

"If you need something from me," Knox continued, not slowing down, "you ask respectfully. If you're struggling, you tell me clearly. You do not throw a tantrum. Do you understand, young man?"

Tears pricked at my eyes, not just from the pain, but from the truth in his words. I had been childish. Desperate. And he was here anyway, giving me exactly what I needed: structure, discipline, consequences.

“Y-yes, D-Daddy,” I struggled to say, as he continued to chastise my ass. He didn't stop, and I didn't want him to.

The slaps came fast, relentless. My cheeks burned, each impact layering on top of the last until I couldn't distinguish individual strikes, just a constant, roiling tide of pain. It radiated, settling in my thighs, pooling in my gut, buzzing through my limbs. My ass felt like it was swelling, until it was the only thing I could think about. I tried to choke down the noises that wanted to escape, but after a dozen, then two dozen,they broke free anyway. Little whimpers, then moans, then open sobs. I was crying, hot tears tumbling down my face, soaking into the crook of my arm where I'd buried my head. I was too exposed, too raw, too pathetically grateful for the attention, the punishment, the proof that I hadn't been forgotten.

At last, the blows slowed. Knox's hand lingered on my skin, rubbing slow circles over the scorched flesh. The touch was gentle, but the aftershocks of the spanking left me shivering, every nerve ending alight.

"You will not disrespect me again," Knox said, his voice low but without malice. "If you ever need me, you tell me. If you are struggling, you reach out. You had my number, hadn't you? You knew you could have texted. Are we clear?"

I nodded, mouthing a wordless, broken "Yes, Daddy," into the seat.

He stroked my hair, the gentle touch almost undoing me. "Color?"

"Green," I sniffled, hating and loving how small I sounded.

"Good boy," Knox rumbled, and just like that, the humiliation melted into pride. I was a good boy for him.

He kept me sprawled over his knees for a long moment after, his palm still moving in gentle, possessive circles over my burning skin. Then, he shifted me upright and hauled me into his lap, so I was facing him, straddling his legs. The movement was seamless, as if he’d done this a hundred times, as if I was weightless. With one hand, he cupped the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sweat-damp hair there, and with the other, he wiped the tears from my cheeks. He inspected me, his gaze roaming over my face, searching for hesitation. I’d neverbeen looked at like that, not even by my own parents, and certainly not by anyone who wanted me. I tried to look away, embarrassed, but he caught my chin and held my eyes with his.

“You’re safe,” he told me, voice so low I could feel it vibrate in my chest. “You’re with me. And I'm never letting you go again. Please forgive me.”

The words made something inside me collapse. I nodded, not trusting my own voice, my eyes now full of tears. He kissed my temple, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth. His lips were cool. I shivered.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good boy,” he murmured. “You took your punishment so well.”

That was when the tears came again, but this time I didn’t feel embarrassed. I let him rock me gently, stroking my hair and back, and I let myself believe, for once, that I could be wanted and held. He kissed my temple, his breath warm against my skin.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, his lips against my temple. “I’ve got you now, little one.”

And for the first time in a week, I could breathe.

Chapter 12. Knox

From the twenty-second floor, the people down there were nothing more than ants. Usually, this view gave me a sense of order. Today, however, the reflection in the glass seemed to belong to a stranger. I swirled the cold remnants of an espresso in my cup, the dark liquid leaving bitter trails against the porcelain. My focus was destroyed.

My thumb hovered over the screen of my phone, scrolling back up to the conversation that had dominated my week. It had been two weeks since I picked Florian up from his campus. Two weeks since I had broken my own rules, shattered my resolve to leave him alone, and spanked him in the back of my Audi.

I looked at the phone, seeing not the screen, but the memory of his face streaked with tears, the way his breath had hitched when I held him, the absolute, shattering relief when I told him I wouldn't let go. I had tried to cut him off before that. I had spent a week in silence, convincing myself it was for his own good. I was forty-eight; he was twenty-one. He wasn't a professional sex worker, and I wasn't in the habit of exploiting vulnerable boys who needed a savior.

It had been ridiculously hard. I spent the whole week trying to forget his angelic face, his honesty, his delicious body, his bratty and witty responses, the way he shivered and moaned. Trying to convince myself that by leaving him alone, I wouldn’t sound like a creep preying. If he texted me, that would be something else, and I’d have an excuse to answer. But that hadn’t been the case. Logic had dictated I walk away. But looking at the text chain now, I knew logic had lost the war a long time ago. It had been a mistake to leave, and I didn’t intend to make this mistake twice.

Buzz.

Vibration against the mahogany desk. I shouldn't have been looking. I had a stack of acquisition reports for the new logistics subsidiary that required my signature, and a meeting in twenty minutes.

I picked it up anyway.

Florian: Daddy, I’ve been good… mostly.

A smirk cut across my face. I could almost hear his voice, that breathless mix of defiance and submission.Mostly. That single word made my cock twitch.

Me: Define "mostly," Florian.