Page 7

“Again?” he says. “Do I need to teach you a lesson, Ms. Christian?”

"No, Sir," I whisper, my voice trembling as I stare up at him.

But my mind screams yes, Sir, teach me a lesson.

I force myself to turn back to the keyboard, my fingers trembling as they hover over the keys.

The music is still blaring in my ears, but I barely notice it now.

My focus is entirely on him, on the way his hand is still tangled in my hair, on the heat radiating from his body just inches away.

I start typing again, my movements deliberate and slow.

I can feel his eyes on me, watching my every move.

My cheeks burn, but I don’t dare look up.

Not yet. I need to build up my nerve. I make the first typo, my fingers hesitating over the wrong key just long enough for him to notice.

His grip tightens in my hair, and I hear him growl low in his throat.

My breath catches, but I don’t stop. I keep typing, waiting for the inevitable.

The second typo comes a few lines later. This time, he doesn’t just tighten his grip—he yanks my head back, forcing me to look up at him. His red eyes are blazing, and there’s a flicker of something dangerous in them. I swallow hard, my pulse quickening.

"Again?"

I open my mouth to respond, but he doesn’t give me a chance. He drags me to my feet by my hair, his grip unrelenting, and I stumble after him as he pulls me across the office. My legs feel like jelly, and I can’t tell if it’s from fear or something else entirely.

He sits down on the couch in the lounge area and yanks me over his lap in one fluid motion.

I let out a yelp of surprise, my hands scrambling for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing.

His hand comes down on my backside with a sharp smack , and I squeal, my face burning with embarrassment.

The pain is sharp and immediate, but it’s quickly followed by a strange, tingling warmth that spreads through me.

He spanks me again, and again, each smack harder than the last. My cries of indignation and pain slowly morph into something else—something that makes my cheeks burn even hotter.

My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I can feel my body reacting in ways I didn’t expect.

The warmth between my thighs is impossible to ignore, and I hate how much I’m enjoying this.

After what feels like an eternity, he stops, his hand resting on my ass as if to emphasize his point.

He grabs a handful of my hair and pulls my face around to look up at him.

I’m sprawled awkwardly over his lap, my skirt rucked up around my waist, and I can feel the hard line of his cock pressing against my thigh.

My heart kicks into overdrive, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

"What kind of game are you playing, Ms. Christian?" he growls, his eyes searing into me. His voice is low and dangerous.

"I’m sorry," I whisper, my voice trembling with need. The sound of it makes me blush, but I can’t help it. "I’ll try not to make any more typos."

"Try not to?" he repeats, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "That would be a switch." He leans in close, his face inches from mine, and I can feel his breath on my skin. "You made those errors deliberately. Or at least, you did it on purpose the third time. Didn’t you?"

"N-no," I lie, my voice feeble. My eyes dart away, unable to meet his piercing gaze.

"Now you’re lying to me," he growls, his grip tightening in my hair. I can’t deny it; the truth is written all over my face. "I’ll fix it so you speak no more lies, Ms. Christian."

Raekon reaches under the sofa, and I feel his body shift against mine.

His thigh presses harder into my squished breasts, and the growing bulge beneath his trousers rubs into my belly.

I squirm, but his grip on me doesn’t loosen.

He pulls out a sleek black leather briefcase, the kind that looks expensive and ominous.

My heart pounds as he sets it on the sofa beside us, flicking the latches open with practiced ease.

“What—?” I start to ask, but the words die in my throat as he pulls something out. I can’t see what it is from this angle, but I hear the soft rattle of a leather strap, and I know—I just know —I’m in trouble.

“Open wide, Ms. Christian,” Raekon says, and his voice is low, commanding, with a hint of amusement that makes my stomach flip.

I shake my head, panic rising, but he’s faster than I am.

His free hand grabs my chin, forcing my jaw down.

Before I can protest, he shoves something cold and rubbery into my mouth.

It’s a ball gag. I've seen them in photos only, never up close…

and I've certainly never worn one before.

I gasp, or try to, but the gag is already deep, settling behind my teeth.

My tongue presses against it instinctively, but it doesn’t budge.

The leather strap slides around my head, and Raekon tightens it with a smooth, decisive motion.

My hands fly up to my face, fingers brushing the gag, exploring its shape and size.

It’s uncomfortable, but not unbearable—just enough to make me feel small, helpless, and entirely at his mercy.

“You picked the wrong Vakutan to play games with, Ms. Christian,” Raekon says.

His hands move to my hair, tilting my head back so I’m forced to look up at him.

His red eyes gleam with a mix of dominance and something darker, something that makes my body betray me with a shiver of anticipation.

“You’ll find that as hard as I work, I play even harder. ”

I whimper, the sound muffled and pathetic, and he chuckles, the sound deep and dark.

His hand trails down my back, caressing my ass with a possessiveness that sends sparks through me.

My toes curl in my high heels, and my fingers clutch at his trousers, desperate for something to ground me.

Just as I feel his fingers inch toward the sensitive spot between my thighs, he pulls away and spanks me—hard.

The sharp sting makes me yelp, the gag turning it into a muffled squeak. “Back to work,” he says, his tone casual, like we’re not having the most surreal moment of my life. He practically drags me off his lap, propelling me toward the desk with a series of firm swats that leave my cheeks burning.

I stumble forward, my legs wobbly, and he shoves me into the chair. My hands hover over the keyboard, trembling, as he leans over me, his massive frame crowding me in. He picks up the headphones, considers them for a moment, then tosses them aside with a dismissive shrug.

“I have a better idea for a distraction,” he says, and before I can process what that means, he grabs me by the hair and yanks me out of the chair.

I yelp again, but he doesn’t stop. He lifts me effortlessly, my legs dangling as he sits down in the chair and pulls me into his lap.

My back is pressed against his chest, his thighs bracketing mine, and his hands slide around to my front, fingers skimming my ribs.

“Now,” he says, “let’s see how well you can focus.” His fingers tweak my nipples through the fabric of my blouse, and I jump, a muffled gasp escaping me. The sensation is electric, a mix of pleasure and pain that has me squirming in his lap.

I try to type, but my fingers are clumsy, my mind scattered. The first typo happens almost immediately, and he pinches my nipple hard in response. I whimper into the gag, my body arching against him, and he growls low in my ear.

“Focus, Ms. Christian,” he says, his voice a dark purr. “Or this is going to be a very long day.”

I grit my teeth, or try to, and force myself to concentrate. But every time I make a mistake, his fingers punish me, and I’m starting to think his discipline methods are doing the exact opposite of what they’re supposed to.