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Six landed lower, catching the sensitive spot where ass meets thigh. "Six!" Higher pitched now, the intensity ratcheting up even though I knew he was still holding back, still being careful with me.

"Breathe through it," he coached, rubbing the spot firmly. "That's my brave girl."

Seven brought the first real sting, sharp enough to make my legs kick involuntarily. "Seven," I gasped, fingers gripping the couch cushion.

Something was happening inside me, something that had nothing to do with the physical sensation and everything to do with the act of submission itself. I was being laid bare in more ways than the obvious, and the vulnerability of it made my chest tight with unexpected emotion.

Eight landed with enough force to blur my vision. "Eight," I whimpered, and felt the first tear slide down my cheek.

Tyson paused immediately. "Color?"

"Green," I said quickly, not wanting him to stop, needing to see this through. "I'm green, I promise. It's just . . . intense."

"I know, baby. You're doing so well. So proud of you." His voice wrapped around me like a blanket, keeping me safe even as he pushed me past my comfort zone. "Two more. You can do two more."

"Nine," I managed when the next one landed, more tears flowing now. But he was right to continue—they weren't tears of pain but of release. Of finally letting go of control completely, of trusting someone else to take care of me, of being small and vulnerable and having that be okay.

"Last one, baby. You're doing so well."

The final strike landed with decisive force, and "Ten" came out on a sob that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything to do with emotional catharsis. I'd done it. Submitted to discipline, accepted consequences, trusted him to guide me through it.

And he hadn’t disappointed me. Hadn’t taken advantage of me. This felt like healing.

His hands were on me immediately, gathering me up, rearranging our bodies until I was cradled in his lap like something precious. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in his scent while he held me through the aftershocks of intensity.

"You did perfectly," he murmured against my hair, lips pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, catching tears I couldn't stop. "My brave girl. My perfect, beautiful girl. How do you feel?"

The question required actual thought. How did I feel? My ass stung, definitely warm and probably pink, but that was the least of it. Inside I felt . . . clean. Like something had been washed away, some weight I'd been carrying without realizing it.

"Safe," I admitted, the word surprising me even as it left my mouth. "And . . ." Heat flooded my face at the next admission. "Needy."

Because along with everything else, arousal had built with each strike, each word of praise, each demonstration of his control. The spanking had lit me up in ways I hadn't expected, leaving me aching and empty and desperate for his touch in other ways.

"I know." His voice had gone rough, telling me I wasn't alone in that particular response. "Normal reaction. But first, let me take care of you."

He shifted me carefully, reaching for something on the side table I hadn't noticed him prepare. Lotion, I realized, as he helped me stretch out across his lap again, this time for a very different purpose.

"This might be cool," he warned before smoothing the lotion over my heated skin.

The relief was immediate, the gentle touch such a contrast to what had come before. He took his time, making sure every inch of pinkened skin was soothed, checking in constantly about pressure and comfort. The care undid me more than the discipline had, fresh tears spilling over at being tended to so thoroughly.

"Too much?" he asked, pausing in his ministrations.

"No," I managed. "Just . . . no one's ever . . ." I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't explain how revolutionary it felt to becared for after being vulnerable, to have consequences followed immediately by comfort.

"Shh." He continued the gentle massage, working the lotion in with steady strokes. "This is part of it. The discipline and the care. Can't have one without the other."

"Tyson . . ." His name came out needy, desperate.

"What do you need, baby?"

"You," I breathed, squirming under his touch. "Just you. Please."

He helped me sit up, studying my face with those intense brown eyes. Whatever he saw there must have satisfied him because he stood in one fluid motion, lifting me with him.

"Bedroom," he said simply. "We're doing this right."

Helaidmeouton the bed like I was made of spun sugar, every movement deliberate and careful. The sheets felt cool against my heated skin, a sharp contrast to the warmth still radiating from where his hand had connected with me. I reached for him immediately, needing the anchor of his touch, but he caught my wrists with gentle firmness.