Page 15 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

The panic rose first—quick and instinctual—but it was tangled up in a frayed sense of reluctant arousal.

My skin burned under his touch, my heart pounding for all the wrong reasons.

He let go of my waist and I tried to push against the counter, but I soon realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. My panic rose tenfold.

Then his hand came down.

Hard.

A sharp, sudden crack against the curve of my ass that sent a jolt straight through me—shock first, then heat, then something I didn’t even have words for.

I gasped.

I’d never been spanked before.

I got grounded growing up—a lot. Stern talks, revoked privileges, a long list of punishments that came with private-school polish and my dad’s tired, weary sighs. The consequences of being difficult, of being too dramatic, of being too much .

Nothing like this.

This was… different.

I’d read about it in books—dark, delicious, secret stories I only opened when I was alone, tucked under covers with my heart racing and one hand slipping lower. Fantasies. Kinks. Girls bent over with pink cheeks and shivering thighs, getting ‘taught a lesson’ by men who always knew best.

I had wondered about it. More than once.

But this?

This was not a fantasy.

This was a man with a palm like stone, holding me down and spanking me so hard my skin already felt scorched, my breath came in short gasps, and my thighs were shaking.

It was so much worse in real life.

My whole body locked up. Not from fear but from the humiliation of how fast I got warm. How much I felt it deep in my core.

“Let me go. You can’t just spank me like this—” I twisted, but it was half-hearted. Utterly pointless.

His hand came down again. Harder.

“I can do whatever I like with you, little girl, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” he growled.

My legs shifted. My thighs clenched.

I hated how my body was reacting to him. Hated that I could feel the damp heat already pooling between my legs, and I hated that I didn’t know if it was from the spanking or from the way he called me ‘little girl.’

“You think your daddy’s name protects you from me?” he asked, leaning over me now, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his breath.

“Fuck you,” I bit out, but my voice was different now.

Breathless. Shaky. Betraying me.

Another strike landed—hard and fast.

My pussy clenched, catching me off guard with its intensity.

He didn’t give me any time to recover between swats, so I didn’t expect it when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. I froze, hands pressing into the cool marble beneath me, breath locking in my throat.

“No—”

He didn’t say a word.

Just pulled them down.

Slow. Intentional. No rush. No hesitation.

My cotton shorts slid down my thighs inch by inch, dragging over skin that suddenly felt too exposed, too hot. The air hit me like a slap—a rush of cold against burning flesh. My face went red, but not from the impact.

From the humiliation of having my shorts pulled down for no other reason than that I’d been a bad girl, and I was getting spanked .

He left my shorts bunched around my knees.

The burning sting of his earlier smacks still tingled beneath the surface—but now, with my bare skin exposed, I felt everything more acutely.

Everything.

I glanced over my shoulder, wide-eyed, mouth parted.

“You can’t do that,” I whispered.

His eyes met mine. Calm. Cold. Unshakable.

“You made your choices, naughty girl,” he said simply.

And then his hand came down on my bare ass.

The sound echoed off the walls, louder than it should have. My whole body jolted, and the sting bloomed fast—hot, quick, and shocking—radiating out like fire licking across my skin.

“Aiiyy—!” I gasped, eyes flying open.

Another.

Then another.

Each one landed with perfect precision. Not wild. Not careless. Each strike measured and delivered with absolute purpose.

This wasn’t some petty revenge fantasy. This wasn’t about bruised ego or proving a point. This was about discipline because I overstepped into his world .

I squirmed against the pressure of his arm holding me down, my hands clawing at the edge of the counter.

“Nikolai, that’s enough!” I shrieked.

Another smack. Harder.

I whimpered this time. My thighs quivered. My skin was hot, burning, and not just where he was touching me. I hated that my body was confused, that the pain was laced with a lick of a different kind of heat. I tried to ignore it.

Worse than the pain, I was scared. Just a little.

Because I thought this would be a game. I thought he’d bluff. That maybe he’d bark and threaten and storm out, and I’d be left smug and victorious, curled up in silk sheets with my winnings and my pride intact.

This man didn’t bluff.

And I wasn’t in charge here.

Not anymore.

I gritted my teeth and tried to breathe through it.

I could take this. I had handled worse. I had been dressed down by senators and socialites and smug little men with God complexes and money to burn all my life.

This was nothing, just a little painful and a little humiliating.

Just a man with a strong arm and a grudge.

I could take it. I could take a spanking, right?

He brought his hand down again—quick and ruthless, right across the center of my bare ass—and I bit back the sound trying to claw its way out of my throat.

My legs flinched instinctively. My hands pressed into the marble like I was trying to disappear into it.

But I didn’t beg.

I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Another spank.

Then another.

I breathed through my nose, fingers curling tighter with every smack. My skin was on fire now, a raw ache blooming deeper and deeper. It wasn’t just the sting—it was the repetition, the relentlessness. He wasn’t just punishing me. He was breaking down my pride. One calculated swat at a time.

“Still proud of yourself?” he asked, voice rough behind me, every word cutting deep into my soul. “Still think it was clever?”

“Yes,” I gasped out.

The second the word left my mouth, I regretted it, because he didn’t reply. He just spanked me again. Faster. Harder. Like he was teaching me a lesson and I had a long way to go until I learned it. The sound cracked through the apartment, loud as a whip, and I choked on my own breath.

Fuck. It hurt . God, it really hurt now.

This wasn’t sexy or playful or some flirtation I could flip into a win with a smirk and a shrug.

This was real , and I didn’t know if I was strong enough to keep my chin up through all of it.

I tried, though. I fucking tried.

I kept my head down, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes stinging from the heat radiating across my ass. My cheeks were flushed, my body was trembling, and my pride was still clinging on by the thinnest thread.

I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Another strike to the place where my ass met my thighs on the left side. Then two more in the exact same spot. Then he did the same on the right.

I let out a breath that sounded more like a sob than I wanted it to.

His hand rested on the fullest part of my ass, just for a second. Heavy. Hot. Possessive.

“Not so smug now, are we, bad girl,” he purred.

“I’m fine,” I lied, but my voice came out hoarse. Brittle. Paper-thin.

He let that hang for a beat, then spanked me again—so hard I jerked forward against the island and had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

My eyes stung and I blinked hard. No. No . I wasn’t going to cry, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

My whole body felt flushed, raw, stretched taut. My bottom burned, a deep, unrelenting ache that made my legs tremble. I pressed my forehead to the counter and squeezed my eyes shut.

Another smack. Then another.

They came faster now, relentlessly, like he knew I couldn’t take much more and was going to make me take it anyway. My composure was fraying, the threads loosening and I tried to keep it together.

Suddenly, he stopped.

His hand lifted off my back, and for a moment, all I could do was breathe. In, out. Slowly. Tried to pretend my heart wasn’t still pounding, my pulse wasn’t racing, my stomach wasn’t knotted up tight, that my bottom wasn’t burning from a spanking.

I lifted my head and started to stand. He pushed me back down.

Then his palm slid down the curve of my scalded ass, bridging both cheeks. His fingertips grazed the top of my thighs, and I couldn’t help but gasp. His hand moved further. My breath stuttered in my throat, and I realized where that hand was heading.

No. He couldn’t meant to touch me there, could he?

But he didn’t stop.

His palm glided lower, and his fingers slid between my thighs until his fingertips found the wet heat between my legs. I was soaked, and I fucking knew it, and now he knew it too.

I didn’t want him to feel it. I didn’t want him to know.

I didn’t want him to find out that I didn’t hate the spanking, that there was a twisted little thrill that came with it.

The cruel sting of his palm, the roughness of his hand on my bare skin, and the fact that I could still feel him everywhere he’d touched had me more aroused than I’d ever been.

Even the part of me that was screaming and mortified couldn’t deny that something about this felt good .

I tried to bring my legs together and he kicked them apart. My shorts were tangled around my ankles now though, and he could only force them open so far.

With a growl, he reached down and lifted my foot, freeing me from my pajama bottoms. Without a word, he guided my feet open and then he just stood behind me.

I was suddenly all too aware of the cool air caressing my naked flesh, the slickness between my thighs, the way my legs were spread wide enough to for him to see everything.

Heat crawled up the back of my neck.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

I could feel him staring, could feel the weight of his eyes on me and I wanted to hate it. I wanted to loathe every part of this, knowing that he could see my likely cherry red ass and everything between my legs, and ultimately, the arousal dripping down my thighs.