Page 16 of Bosshole Daddy

It was chaos—phones ringing, emails multiplying like viruses, the Singapore contracts needing revisions before the afternoon call. By noon, my stomach was growling loud enough to be heard over the printer, but I had seventeen things to finish and lunch felt like an indulgence I couldn't afford.

I stayed at my desk, attacking the contracts with single-minded focus, pretending the coffee in my system was enough to count as a meal. When Damian emerged from his office at 12:30, I hunched lower over my keyboard, trying to look invisible.

"Isla." Just my name, but the tone made me freeze. "What are you doing?"

"The Singapore revisions," I said to my screen, not turning. "They need to be ready by two."

The silence stretched, weighted with disapproval I could feel like a physical thing. Then his footsteps retreated, his office door closing with a click that sounded like judgment.

The afternoon was worse. The Hartley files had arrived—three boxes of due diligence documents that needed cataloging before the preliminary meeting. I'd planned to leave at six, really I had. But six became seven became eight, and suddenly the office was empty except for me and the security lights.

I told myself I was being proactive. Showing initiative. Proving my worth. But underneath, that rebellious voice whispered the truth—I was pushing. Testing. Seeing if he'd notice, if he'd care, if those rules had been real or just another game.

At 8:47, his office door opened. I hadn't even known he was still there.

"It's nearly nine." Not a question. An accusation wrapped in silk.

"I'm almost done," I lied, gesturing at the papers spread across my desk like evidence of productivity rather than defiance.

He stood in his doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled to reveal those forearms that had no business looking that good. The hallway light backlit him, turning him into something mythical and dangerous.

"Go home, Isla."

An order. Clear, direct, impossible to misinterpret. I should have obeyed. Should have gathered my things and scurried out like the good girl he'd named me.

Instead, I said, "Just a few more minutes."

Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or disappointment.

“My office,” he said, quietly.

"God, I'm so pathetic," I muttered, angry with myself for disobeying. The words came out automatically, that familiar self-flagellation that felt like comfort in its familiarity.

"What did you just say?"

"Nothing," I said quickly.

"What did you call yourself?"

My cheeks burned. "It was nothing. Just . . . I forgot the rules and—"

"Pathetic." He said the word like it tasted bad. "You called yourself pathetic."

The disappointment in his voice was worse than any anger could have been. It crawled under my skin, settled in my chest, made me want to apologize for apologizing.

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes," he cut me off quietly, "you did."

"My office. Right now. We need to discuss your inability to follow simple rules."

The words should have sounded like a threat. Should have sent me spiraling into panic about job security and professional boundaries. Instead, that treacherous heat curled in my belly, that same anticipation I'd felt every time he'd looked at me with those hungry eyes.

We walked into his office together, and he closed the door behind me.

"I gave you simple rules." Each word precise, measured. "Rules designed to take care of you. To keep you healthy. To stop you from burning yourself out trying to prove something to someone who's already impressed."

That last bit made my breath catch. Impressed. I loved to hear he was impressed.

"You broke every single one of them." He stopped directly in front of my desk, hands braced on the surface, leaning forward until I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.

"Stand up."

The command brooked no argument. I rose on legs that trembled, smoothing my skirt with hands that wouldn't quite steady. The desk stood between us, a barrier that felt both protective and frustrating.

"Come here."

Two words that rearranged my entire nervous system.

I moved around the desk, each step feeling momentous, until I stood before him.

This close, I had to tilt my head back to see his face, and what I found there made my knees weak—controlled desire mixed with stern disapproval, a combination that shouldn't have made heat pool low in my belly.

"You wanted my attention?" His voice had dropped to that register that bypassed my brain entirely. One hand rose to cup my chin, thumb brushing my lower lip with devastating gentleness. "You've got it."

Then he was turning me, hands firm but not rough on my shoulders, positioning me to face my desk. My pulse hammered in my throat as understanding dawned.

"Hands on the desk."

The words sent electricity through me. I leaned forward slowly, palms finding the cool surface, the position making my skirt ride up slightly. I could feel him behind me, the heat of his body, the way the air seemed to thicken with anticipation.

His hands settled on my hips, thumbs brushing the curve where waist met hip, and I bit back a whimper at the contact. "You know what happens to little girls who can't follow rules?"

I nodded, then remembered his preference for words. "Yes, Daddy."

"Tell me." His body pressed closer, not quite touching but close enough that I felt caged, claimed, exactly where he wanted me.

"They—" My voice cracked, and I had to swallow before trying again. "They get punished."

"That's right." His approval rumbled through me like thunder. "They get reminded who they belong to."

One hand left my hip, and I tensed, knowing what was coming, wanting it with an intensity that should have shamed me. The anticipation stretched endless, every nerve singing, until—

The first strike landed with a crack that echoed in the empty office. The sting blossomed across my right cheek, sharp and bright and exactly what I'd been craving without knowing it. I gasped, fingers curling against the desk surface.

"Count," he commanded, voice rough with something that matched the need building in my core.

"One," I breathed.

The second strike landed on the left, balancing the sensation, and I pressed back unconsciously, seeking more. "Two."

"Look at you," he murmured, and there was dark satisfaction in his voice. "Already pushing back for more. Such a needy little girl."

The third strike was harder, making me rise up on my toes. "Three!"

His hand rubbed the sting, soothing and igniting in equal measure. "Why am I punishing you, little one?"

"Because I didn't follow the rules," I gasped out, then cried "Four!" as his hand landed again.

"Which rules?" He was relentless, making me think through the haze of sensation.

"No skipping meals. Five!" The sting was building, layering into something that made my thighs clench. "No staying late. Six! No talking down to myself. Seven!"

"And did you follow any of them?" His hand came down again, precise and controlled.

"No, Daddy. Eight!"

"Do you know why I made those rules?" Another strike, making me whimper.

"Nine! To—to take care of me."

"That's right." His voice had gone gravelly, affected by this as much as I was. The next strike made me sob. "Ten! Please, Daddy—"

"Please what?" But his hand was gentle now, rubbing the heated skin through my skirt. "What do you need, little one?"

"I need—" I couldn't finish, couldn't articulate the complex knot of want and shame and desperate arousal.

"You need to be reminded that you're mine," he supplied, pressing against me fully now, letting me feel how affected he was. "That when Daddy makes rules, he expects them to be followed. That when you disobey, there are consequences."

"Yes," I sobbed, beyond pride now, beyond anything but the need for more, for him, for whatever he'd give me.

One more strike, harder than the rest, making me cry out. "Eleven!"

Then his arms were around me, pulling me up and back against his chest, holding me as I shook. His lips found my ear, breath hot against my skin.

"You're such a good girl when you're properly reminded who you belong to," he murmured, and the praise after the punishment broke something open in me. I sagged against him, letting him take my weight, feeling safe and small and thoroughly claimed.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whispered, meaning it now in a way I hadn't before.

"I know, little one." His arms tightened. "You took your punishment so well. Such a brave girl for me."

The praise washed over me like warm honey, soothing the sting and shame alike. The sting across my backside had transformed into something else—a warm, persistent ache that made me hyperaware of every place our bodies touched.

When he finally turned me in his arms, his hands were impossibly gentle, cupping my face like I was something precious. His thumbs brushed across my cheeks, and I realized I was crying—not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being exactly where I belonged.

"Look at you," he murmured, gray eyes tracking the path of tears with something like wonder. "My beautiful girl, all flushed and needy."

His thumb caught another tear, and then he was kissing me—not the desperate claiming of the balcony but something deeper, more possessive.

His tongue swept into my mouth with devastating precision, swallowing the whimpers I couldn't contain.

I clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the anchor of him while the world spun off its axis.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me effortlessly onto the desk.

The cool surface against my heated skin made me gasp into his mouth, and he swallowed that too, taking everything I offered and demanding more.

His hands slid down my sides, finding the hem of my skirt, pushing it higher until it bunched around my waist.