Page 16 of Daddy Knows Best

The wall smelled like the vanilla candle I'd burned during better days. I pressed my nose to the paint, hands locked behind my neck, and let the minutes crawl by. Behind me, I heard him moving—maybe cleaning up, maybe just observing his handiwork. The not knowing made it worse.

My skin pulsed with each heartbeat, leather's kiss spreading warmth through my core. The pacifier forced rhythmic breathing, its weight on my tongue a constant reminder of my position. Of what I'd agreed to. Of what I'd needed.

Ten minutes to stand in my shame and feel grateful for it.

M inute eight arrived with the weight of every poor decision I'd ever made.

The paint specks on the wall blurred into constellations, then static, then nothing my brain could process.

My nose had gone numb where it pressed against the drywall, but the rest of me burned—ass still molten from the strap, chest tight with held breath, legs trembling from the effort of staying still.

The pacifier had gone from comfort to suffocation.

Each suck reminded me of what I was—a grown woman standing in a corner because she couldn't control herself.

Because she'd needed someone else to stop her from destruction.

The vanilla scent from the walls mixed with lavender soap residue and my own sweat into something that made my stomach lurch.

"S-Sunshine." The word came out muffled around silicone, broken by tears I hadn't realized were falling. "Sunshine, please."

Movement behind me, immediate. The timer silenced mid-chime. Then Nate was there, turning me away from the wall with careful hands, the pacifier already unclipped and gone.

"Shh." His hand splayed across my sternum, firm pressure that gave my rabbit-hearted pulse something to beat against. "You're safe. Breathe with me. In for four, hold, out for six."

We breathed together, his hand riding the rise and fall of my chest until the static receded. My shorts still tangled around my ankles, making me shuffle awkwardly as he guided me away from the corner.

"We're moving to the bed for aftercare. Can you walk?"

I nodded, not trusting words yet. Each step sent fresh awareness through my punished skin, but his steady presence kept me grounded. The bedroom welcomed us with rumpled sheets and judgment-free surfaces.

"Lie down on your stomach." He pulled the blanket back, revealing sheets I should have washed days ago. But he didn't comment on the state of my bed, just waited while I crawled onto it, wincing as movement awakened every stripe he'd laid.

The bed dipped as he sat beside me. The aloe appeared from somewhere—maybe his bag of interventions held infinite supplies—and the first touch of cool gel against burning skin made me gasp.

"Too cold?"

"No. Good. It's good."

His hands moved with the same precision he'd used for punishment, but gentle now.

Spreading cooling relief over each welt, taking inventory of what he'd done.

The clinical touch shouldn't have been intimate, but my body had forgotten the difference between professional and personal where he was concerned.

"You safewording was perfect." His voice rumbled above me while his hands worked. "That's exactly what it's for. You recognized your limit and communicated it clearly."

"I wanted to be good." The words came out small, muffled by the pillow. "Wanted to take it all."

"You were good. You are good." His hand stilled on my lower back. "Taking care of yourself by safewording is being good, Emily. That's the whole point."

The aftercare transformed into something else as his touch lingered.

Not just tending my skin but offering comfort, tracing patterns that had nothing to do with aloe distribution.

When he finished with the gel, he pulled the blanket up to my waist, then surprised me by stretching out beside me on the bed.

"Come here." He opened his arms, and I didn't hesitate. Couldn't hesitate when he was offering what I'd craved since he'd pushed me away in his office.

I curled into his chest, careful to keep my tender backside from pressing against anything. His shirt smelled like rain and that cologne that haunted my dreams. One arm wrapped around me, hand settling on my hip with careful pressure.

"You're safe," he murmured into my hair. "The monster can't bite here. Not when I'm watching."

The reminder of my crayon drawing, of that horrible hungry thing I'd illustrated, made fresh tears spring up. But these felt cleaner somehow. Like grief rather than shame.

"I'm sorry," I whispered against his chest. "For the shopping. For lying. For climbing on you in your office like some—"

"Stop." His arms tightened. "We don't apologize for wanting connection. For needing more than clinical distance when you're struggling."

I pulled back enough to see his face. The professional mask had cracked completely, leaving just Nate—tired, conflicted, but unmistakably present. His eyes held storms barely contained.

"But you said—"

"I know what I said." His hand came up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away tear tracks. "I know every rule I've set, every boundary I've drawn. And I know that pushing you away was . . ."

He paused, jaw working like words were fighting to escape.

"Was what?" I prompted, barely breathing.

"Necessary," he said finally. "And the worst thing I've ever had to do."

The confession hung between us, changing the air in the room. My hand had found its way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under the professional facade. He was just as affected as me. Just as torn between what was right and what was real.

“I’ve never . . . never felt like this about a client before. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

“Gotta admit, I’ve never done this with a therapist before, either.”

"This crosses every line," he said, but his thumb kept stroking my cheek, betraying his words.

"Then cross them." The words came out steadier than I felt. "Or step back. Because I can't—I can't do the in-between anymore. Can't pretend you're just my therapist when you've seen me fall apart. When you've put me back together. When you wake up at three in the morning to save me from myself."

His eyes closed, and I watched him wage war with himself. The responsible therapist versus the man who'd driven through pre-dawn rain for me. Professional ethics versus whatever this was between us.

When his eyes opened, they were dark with decision.

The kiss wasn't like our desperate collision in his office.

This was deliberate, a choice made with full awareness of consequences.

His lips found mine with careful pressure, asking permission I'd already granted.

I opened for him immediately, tasting spearmint and rainwater and the specific flavor of lines being crossed.

His tongue swept into my mouth with controlled hunger, mapping territory like he'd memorized my responses.

I moaned against him, the sound swallowed by the kiss that felt like coming home and leaving it all at once.

His hand tangled in my hair, angling my head for deeper access, and I let him take whatever he wanted.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard. His pupils had blown wide, that careful control shattered completely. But instead of pulling away, he pressed his forehead to mine, sharing air and space and the weight of what we'd just done.

"Emily," he breathed, my name a prayer and a curse.

"I know," I whispered back. Because I did.

His hand trembled as it pushed hair back from my face, and I saw the war still raging in his eyes—duty versus desire, ethics versus everything crackling between us.

"One release." His voice came out rougher than I'd ever heard it. "Clinical after-effect mitigation. The endorphins from punishment need resolution or you'll crash hard later."

We both knew he was lying. Or not lying exactly, but bending truth into shapes that let him touch me. Clinical purposes. After-effect mitigation. Such clean words for the hunger written across his face.

"If I continue," he said, each word careful as footsteps through a minefield, "I resign as your therapist. Permanently. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes." No hesitation. I'd rather have him as something real than keep the professional distance that was killing us both.

His jaw clenched, that muscle jumping like it did when he fought for control. "Say it clearly. What am I asking?"

"You're asking if I understand that this ends our therapeutic relationship. Forever." I met his eyes, letting him see my certainty. "That you'll terminate treatment. That we can't go back to Thursday appointments and behavioral contracts after this."

"And you consent to that loss?"

"Nate." I reached for his face, palm against the beard that had gone damp with stress. "I consent to whatever gets your hands on me in the next thirty seconds."

A sound escaped him—half laugh, half groan. "You're impossible."

"I'm yours," I corrected, and watched those two words detonate behind his eyes.

His hand slid down my body with deliberate slowness, like he was memorizing the journey. Over the sleep shirt still bunched around my ribs, across my stomach that tightened at his touch, to the heat between my thighs that had been building since he'd walked through my door.

"Still so wet," he murmured, finding evidence of how the punishment had affected me. "Even after everything."

"Especially after everything." I arched into his touch, shame nowhere to be found. "Did you think strapping me wouldn't—"

His fingers slipped inside, cutting off my words with precision. Two at once, no buildup, like he'd run out of patience for pretense. I gasped at the fullness, at the way he curved them just right, finding that spot that made my vision spark.

"One release," he repeated, but his voice had gone dark with want. "To stabilize your system."

His free hand found mine, lacing our fingers together above my head. The position left me open, vulnerable, unable to hide from his studying gaze. He watched my face as he worked, cataloguing every flutter of my eyelids, every bitten-back sound.

"Breathe," he commanded when I started holding it. "In with my strokes, out with the retreat."

He set a rhythm designed to devastate—slow circles with his thumb while his fingers pressed deep, matching my inhales and exhales like he was playing my body. Each breath brought me higher, tighter, closer to an edge that felt bigger than climax.

"Good girl." The praise rumbled through me. "So responsive. So perfect when you let go."

I was climbing fast, too fast, my body recognizing his touch from fantasies I'd nursed all week. But when I tried to move my hips, to chase the pressure, his weight pinned me still.

"No." Simple command. "You take what I give. Nothing more."

The controlled denial made everything sharper. I could only receive, only accept the measured pleasure he dealt out like medicine. My free hand clutched at his shirt, wrinkling the white cotton that had stayed so pristine through my chaos.

"Please." The word broke from me without thought. "Please, I need—"

"I know what you need."

His thumb found the perfect pressure, the exact speed that made thoughts dissolve. I could feel myself clenching around his fingers, pulling him deeper, body begging for what my words couldn't form. The tension wound tighter and tighter until I felt like I might snap in half.

"Look at me," he ordered when my eyes started to close. "Stay with me when you fall."

Our eyes locked, and I saw myself reflected in his blown pupils—wrecked, desperate, completely his. The intimacy of that shared gaze while his fingers worked inside me, while my body climbed toward release, was almost too much.

"Nate," I gasped. "Daddy, please—"

"Let go." The command vibrated through me. "Now, Emily. Let go for Daddy."

I shattered with a sob, my whole body convulsing around his fingers. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, each one dragging sounds from my throat I'd never made before. Through it all, he watched me, held me, whispered praise I only half heard through the roaring in my ears.

"That's it," he murmured as I shook apart. "So good. So perfect. I've got you."

He worked me through it, drawing out aftershocks until I was limp and gasping. Only then did he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his lips without breaking eye contact. The sight of him tasting me, clinical distance completely abandoned, sent one last pulse through my oversensitive body.

"Fuck," I whispered, eloquent as always.

"Mmm." He pulled me against his chest, arranging us so I was wrapped in his arms without pressure on my still-tender backside.

The lines hadn't just blurred. They'd been obliterated.

And neither of us wanted to redraw them.