Page 19 of Bratva Daddy (Underworld Daddies #1)

She didn't move. Stood there in that pink silk nightgown that had become armor and vulnerability wrapped in one, feet bare against marble that cost more than most people's cars.

The afternoon light streaming through the bulletproof windows caught the silk, making it almost transparent.

I could see the outline of her body, the way her chest rose and fell with quick breaths, the tension in her thighs.

"You’re gonna spank me?" Her voice cracked slightly. "Like I'm a child?"

"I’m going to teach you that actions have consequences.

That someone cares enough to correct you.

" The words came out rougher than intended, too much truth bleeding through the control.

"But I won't touch you without permission.

You can walk to your room right now, and we'll pretend this didn't happen. "

The offer hung between us like a test. I could see her processing it, understanding that I was giving her power in this moment. The choice to submit or walk away. To acknowledge what we both knew was building between us or maintain the fiction that this was just about debt and leverage.

"And if I don't walk away?" she asked, taking a step closer.

"Then you come here, position yourself over my lap, and accept what you've earned. Seven broken rules means seven consequences. You'll count each one, and you'll thank me for the correction."

Her pupils dilated at that, a flush spreading from her chest up her throat. "Thank you? For hitting me?"

"For caring enough to correct you. For giving you what you've been begging for since you walked through that door." I leaned back, spreading my arms across the back of the couch in a gesture that was invitation and challenge combined. "But the choice is yours, Clara. It's always been yours."

That was the lie and the truth tangled together. The choice was hers, but we both knew she'd already made it. Had made it the moment she'd destroyed my kitchen, the moment she'd put on that nightgown at 2 PM, the moment she'd called me Daddy with sarcasm that barely masked her desire.

She took another step closer, then another, each one deliberate as a signature on a contract. The space between us disappeared inch by inch until she stood close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could see the pulse hammering in her throat.

"I hate you," she whispered, but her hands were already moving to position herself.

"You know, it’s the third time you’ve said that to me," I said, guiding her with gentle pressure until she was draped across my thighs. "That’s three lies, davochka. Not clever."

The position was intimate, vulnerable, her body stretched across mine with that silk nightgown riding up to reveal black lace panties that were already damp.

The sight sent blood rushing south, my cock hardening against her stomach where she pressed against me.

She had to feel it, had to know what this was doing to me, but she didn't pull away.

Her breathing came quick and shallow, hands gripping the couch cushion like an anchor. The curve of her ass presented perfectly, begging for correction, for marks that would remind her someone gave a damn about her choices.

"Seven rules," I reminded her, hand settling on the silk covering her ass. Just resting there, letting her feel the weight of it, the promise of what was coming. "You'll count each consequence and thank me for it. If you lose count, we start over. Understood?"

"Yes," she breathed, then added with defiance that made my cock throb, "Daddy."

The word hit different this time. Not pure sarcasm like at dinner, not desperate need like I'd imagined she'd say it.

This was both and neither—acknowledgment of what this was, what we were becoming to each other.

She was giving me a role I hadn't asked for but desperately wanted, one that came with responsibilities that went far beyond her father's debt.

"Good girl," I murmured, feeling her shiver at the praise.

My hand lifted, and I felt her tense in anticipation. But I waited, let the moment stretch until her breathing became ragged, until she squirmed slightly against my thighs seeking friction or punishment or both.

This was the moment everything changed. Once I spanked her, once we crossed this line, there was no going back to kidnapper and leverage. This would make us something else—Daddy and little girl, dominant and submissive, two broken people finding something necessary in each other's damage.

"Please," she whispered, and I didn't know if she was begging me to stop or start.

"Tell me what you need," I commanded, hand still hovering.

"I need . . ." Her voice broke, rebuilt itself, came back stronger. "I need consequences. I need to know my choices matter. I need someone to care enough to stop me when I'm destroying everything."

"And?" I prompted, because I could feel there was more, words she was afraid to say.

"And I need you to be the one who does it." The admission came out in a rush, like she was embarrassed by the truth of it. "I need you to be my Daddy, to set rules and enforce them and make me feel like I exist for more than decoration."

The words destroyed something in me—some last wall between what I should do and what I wanted. She wasn't just accepting this; she was asking for it. Begging for the structure and discipline and care that came wrapped in control.

"Then that's what you'll get," I promised, and finally let my hand fall.

The first strike was gentle, testing—barely more than a firm pat through the silk nightgown. Clara gasped anyway, her whole body tensing across my lap. The sound went straight to my cock, already hard from having her draped over me like an offering.

"One," she breathed, then added with a shaky voice, "Thank you, Daddy."

The title on her lips, sincere this time instead of sarcastic, made my blood burn hotter. The second strike came firmer, the sound of my palm meeting silk echoing through the penthouse. She squirmed against my thighs, and I had to fight not to groan at the friction.

"Two. Thank you, Daddy."

By the third strike, the nightgown had ridden up enough that I could see those black lace panties clearly, could see the damp spot that had spread since she'd first positioned herself.

She was getting wet from this, from the punishment, from calling me Daddy while I spanked her like the bratty little girl she'd been all day.

"Three," she moaned, and it was definitely a moan now, not just counting. "Thank you, Daddy."

The fourth strike landed harder, and she ground against my thigh seeking friction I wouldn't give her. Not yet. This was about consequences, about teaching her that actions mattered, that someone gave enough of a damn to correct her when she acted out.

But my body didn't care about lessons. My cock throbbed against her stomach where she pressed into me, and I knew she could feel it, feel how affected I was by her submission, her soft cries, the way she was melting under my hand.

"Four," she gasped, hips rolling. "Thank you . . . oh god . . . thank you, Daddy."

The silk nightgown was useless now, bunched around her waist, leaving just those soaked panties between my hand and her skin. The fifth strike made her cry out, a sound that was pure need, pure want, nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the arousal making her thighs tremble.

"Clara . . ." I warned, though I wasn't sure what I was warning her about. That she was too responsive? That she was making me lose control? That if she kept grinding against me like that, I was going to forget all my rules about maintaining distance?

"Five," she whimpered, and then deliberately, knowing exactly what she was doing, ground down against my thigh. "Thank you for punishing me, Daddy. Thank you for caring enough to correct me."

The words destroyed my control. The sixth strike was the hardest yet, and she practically screamed, but it wasn't pain in that sound. Her whole body shuddered, and I could feel the heat of her through my suit pants where she pressed against me.

"Six," she moaned, barely coherent now. "Thank you, Daddy. Please, one more, please, I need—"

I could see it, feel it, the way she was right on the edge. One more strike would push her over, would make her come across my lap from being spanked, from being punished, from finally having someone enforce consequences she'd been begging for her whole life.

My hand stilled, and she whimpered at the pause. "Do you deserve to come, little girl? After destroying my grandmother's vase? After breaking seven rules?"

"No," she admitted, but her hips kept moving, seeking. "But please, Daddy. Please. I'll be good. I'll follow your rules. I'll eat breakfast and get dressed on time and won't break anything. Please."

The begging destroyed me. This beautiful, defiant woman reduced to pleading for one more spank, for permission to come from punishment. She was perfect in her submission, in her need, in the way she'd given herself over to this completely.

"One more," I agreed, raising my hand. "And you'll come for Daddy, won't you? Come from being punished like the naughty little girl you are?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, Daddy, please—"

The seventh strike landed perfectly, and she shattered. Her back arched, body going rigid, and then she was coming with my name—my title—on her lips. "Daddy!" Not muffled this time, not hidden, but screamed into my penthouse as she shook apart across my lap.

I held her through it, one hand on her lower back keeping her stable as waves of pleasure crashed through her.

She was beautiful in her climax—abandoned, uncontrolled, completely mine in this moment.

My cock throbbed painfully, demanding attention I wouldn't give it.

This wasn't about my pleasure. This was about her needs, her consequences, her lesson.

When she finally stilled, I pulled her up, intending to send her to her room. To reestablish distance before I did something that couldn't be undone. But she moved faster than I expected, straddling my lap before I could stop her, eyes glazed with post-orgasm haze and something else. Determination.

"Clara—" I started, but she pressed her finger to my lips.

"Shut up," she whispered, and then her mouth was on mine.

For a moment, I was lost. Her lips were soft and demanding, tongue seeking mine with desperate need. She tasted like vanilla and desperation. My hands tangled in her hair without conscious thought, pulling her closer, devouring her mouth like a starving man finally allowed to eat.

She ground against me, and I groaned into her mouth at the friction. The silk nightgown was nothing between us, and I could feel her heat through my suit pants. One hand slid down to her ass, still warm from the spanking, and she gasped when I squeezed.

This was everything I'd fantasized about since I first saw her on Fifth Avenue.

Clara in my lap, kissing me like she needed me to breathe, grinding against my cock like she was trying to take me through our clothes.

My control shattered completely, and I kissed her harder, deeper, claiming her mouth the way I wanted to claim all of her.

Her hands went to my shirt, fumbling with buttons, and that's what snapped me back to reality.

What the fuck was I doing? She was leverage, Viktor Petrov's daughter, a business transaction that had gotten complicated.

I couldn't fuck her. Couldn't cross that line no matter how much we both wanted it.

I grabbed her wrists, probably too hard, and practically dumped her off my lap as I stood. She landed on the couch looking dazed and hurt, lips swollen from my kiss, nightgown askew.

"That was a mistake," I said coldly, not looking at her flushed face, her swollen lips, the way her chest heaved with need. "It won't happen again. Go to your room."

"Alexei—" she started, reaching for me.

"Now." The command came out harsh enough to make her flinch.

She stood on shaky legs, tears pricking at her eyes—not from the spanking but from my rejection.

The sight of it made something in my chest twist painfully, but I couldn't relent.

Couldn't admit that kissing her had felt like coming home, that having her in my lap had felt right in a way nothing had in years.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"Four lies," I replied.

She walked away with as much dignity as someone could manage after coming apart across my lap, leaving me standing there with a painful erection and the taste of her still on my lips.

The ghost of her presence lingered—vanilla perfume, the heat of her body, the echo of "Daddy" cried out in pleasure.

I walked to my office on unsteady legs, locking the door behind me with hands that shook slightly. Through the security monitor, I watched her collapse on her bed, shoulders shaking with what might have been tears or might have been something else.

I'd crossed a line. Spanking her was one thing—that was consequence, discipline, structure. But kissing her? Letting her grind against me? Tasting her desperation and answering with my own? That was something else entirely. Something that couldn't happen again.

My cock throbbed, demanding attention, but I ignored it. Poured vodka instead, let it burn away the taste of her, the memory of her weight across my lap, the sound of her coming apart under my hand.

Tomorrow I'd be colder. More distant. Professional.