Page 23 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

“Use your words, bad girl,” he demanded.

“Yes,” I gasped.

I couldn’t help it as my hips bucked, and when he found my clit with his other hand, I was lost.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

“Say please, Daddy, please make me come,” he growled, the raspy edge of his voice betraying the control he was trying so hard to maintain.

“Please,” I mewled.

“Tell Daddy you need it.”

“I do, Daddy. Please. Please, make me come.” I was begging him, and the sound of my own voice made me cringe.

He chuckled, amused by my response, and fucked the plug in and out of my asshole, harder, rougher, faster.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Finally, the orgasm hit.

I cried out, a hoarse, primal moan that seems to echo in the cavernous bathroom. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My head fell forward, my eyes closed, and all I could do was ride the wave of the most intense, earth-shattering orgasm I’d ever experienced in my life.

It was incredible.

Overwhelming.

Perfect.

When I finally opened my eyes, Nikolai was staring down at me, his expression dark, his eyes hooded.

“That’s a very good girl,” he purred, and a little shiver of pleasure rolled through me.

Looking over my shoulder, I watched his face as he slowly pulled the plug free from my ass. The ache was cruel, painful, and I couldn’t help but squirm a little. He just smiled, set the plug aside, and turned back to me.

“Time for a bath,” he offered, his tone a little lighter now.

The command was still there, though, still heavy and demanding.

He guided me into the bathtub with one strong hand on my hip, his touch somehow firm and gentle all at once, but I didn’t want to obey. Not yet.

So I resisted.

Not enough to break free. I couldn’t. I knew that he was infinitely stronger than I was, and his grip was already so tight.

Yet I didn’t move when he stopped at the edge of the tub, and I allowed the resistance to ripple through me, a little reminder that I was still here.

I was still myself, and he wasn’t the only one who was dangerous.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

His grasp tightened, and his jaw flexed. I could see the darkness flickering behind his eyes, but it wasn’t enough to scare me. I wouldn’t let it.

“Do you want to make this harder on yourself, little girl?” His voice was darkly quiet, and my heart thumped once, twice, too hard.

“Maybe,” I countered recklessly. A tiny bit unsure.

“Are you sure about that?”

I didn’t answer.

“Then Daddy will give you what you need,” he said, the words soft, but full of frightening promise.

Before I could process that, though, his hands moved, quick and decisive, wrapping around my waist and hauling me over the lip of the tub.

I cried out as the cold marble met my skin, his hands moving to flip me over. He pinned me there, stomach flat against the tub, the cool surface a shock to my bare skin.

“You want to be a brat?”

I stayed silent, just waiting to see what he was going to do.

He didn’t answer either, just grabbed the large plug again and roughly shoved it back into my ass, no lubricant this time, and no mercy.

He pumped it in and out of my poor backside several times.

I keened and moaned as the movements reawakened the soreness deep within me once again.

He kept going, fast and hard, and soon I was writhing and bucking my hips as my clit thrummed to life once more.

“You’re a greedy little slut,” he muttered.

“No, please,” I whined, even though I couldn’t stop my hips from grinding into the tub.

“Your body wants it, little girl. It wants Daddy to punish your ass. Don’t deny it.”

“Daddy,” I whimpered, too embarrassed to say it out loud.

“Are you sorry for being a bad girl?”

“Yes,” I gasped, trying not to clench my sore hole around the plug, but utterly failing. It hurt in a way that was much deeper than a spanking, much more shameful, and I bit my lip, trying to quiet my cries.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy,” I whispered, my face flaring with heat as I said the words he wanted to hear.

“You like the way that plug feels in your ass, don’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

He abruptly pulled the plug out, and I couldn’t stop the sob that escaped me, the sound echoing with half-embarrassment and half-relief.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” he growled.

“Daddy—” I whined.

“Answer the question, little girl. OrI’m going to get an even larger plug to punish this naughty little hole with.”

“I like it,” I finally confessed, shame burning my cheeks.

“Good girl.”

He leaned down and kissed my neck.

“Now, we can do this the easy way, or we can do it the hard way.”

His fingers dug into my ass, and I had to grit my teeth to keep from crying out, the soreness blooming and making my entire body shiver.

“Please,” I breathed, but I didn’t know if I was asking him to stop or begging him to continue.

“Tell me you’re sorry,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry, Daddy.”

He leaned down and kissed the base of my spine and then gently slid the plug back inside me, and I let out a strangled moan, and my hips bucked, searching for relief.

“Oh, God,” I gasped.

“That’s it,” he said, voice like steel and velvet. “Let Daddy take care of you, baby girl.”

“Daddy, no. No! Oh, fuck,” I hollered as the pressure built in my core, hot and urgent.

“Yes,” he growled, his mouth against my ear. “Come for Daddy, baby girl.”

And just like that, without any warning, I came undone.

I shattered in his hands, the climax ripping through me, tearing me apart. My knees went weak, my eyes rolled back, and the only thing holding me up was him and the tub I was pinned against.

He kept playing with my clit, and I couldn’t tell if it was the pain or the pleasure, but the orgasm stretched on and on, seemingly endless, and just when I was afraid that I was going to pass out, he stopped, and the release melted away into a delicious warmth that filled every inch of my body.

When the tremors subsided, he pulled me upright, turned me around, pulled out the plug, and sat me down on top of the toilet before he turned the water on. When the tub was full, he then lifted me back over the side of the tub.

He placed me in the warm water gently, and I let myself sink beneath the surface, eyes closed, savoring the way the heat wrapped around my muscles.

It was almost too much—the warmth on my skin, the steam curling into my lungs, the way the soreness in my thighs and ass intensified and then melted with the water. I exhaled slowly, my body feeling weightless, floating in something that felt suspiciously like peace.

Which was ridiculous, because Nikolai was still there.

I felt him kneeling beside the tub. I kept my eyes shut, not ready to see whatever expression he was wearing. Not ready to break this moment where I could pretend that I wasn’t completely unraveling.

Then I felt his hand.

Gentle. Moving through the water like a current, his fingertips barely grazing the curve of my hip.

He took a soft sponge and started at my shoulder, dragging it over my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. He went slowly, carefully, almost like he was worshipping me.

My skin was still burning in places from the spanking, but his touch was cool and warm all at once, like a soothing balm, and maybe like a fire brand or a tattoo somehow too.

He brushed wet hair from my neck and dragged the sponge down between my breasts. I exhaled again, shakier this time, trying not to fall apart after everything I’d endured.

His knuckles grazed my nipple, and I felt it tighten instantly, shame and desire crashing together so fast I couldn’t tell them apart. I opened my eyes, just slightly, and met his gaze in the reflection of the glass wall across from us.

He was just watching me. Not like a man who had just punished me and claimed me. But like a man who cherished what he’d taken, and it shattered me a little because I didn’t know how to brace myself against it.

“I should hate you,” I whispered, not sure if I meant it.

“You don’t,” he murmured. “You just don’t know what it means to be cared for.”

I bit my lip.

His hand slipped under the water and trailed along my thigh, then up higher, until his palm cupped my pussy gently, like he was just reminding me he could. Not taking. Just… holding.

My hips shifted. My breath stuttered.

His other hand brushed over my stomach, then up to my chest, fingers spreading wide as he ran his thumb softly over my nipple.

The moan that slipped from my lips was quiet.

But it wasn’t weak.

It was honest.

Because everything hurt and everything felt good, and I didn’t know how to be angry when he touched me like that. Like I was something precious. Like I was breakable and he was trying to make sure his hands, which could crush a man with one blow, stayed gentle now.

His hands explored every inch of me, over my thighs, my belly, the insides of my arms, my neck, my jaw. With every soft touch, I felt myself loosen further, melt deeper into the water, into the moment, into him.

I should be scared of what that meant.

Right now, though, all I felt was safe, and wanted.

And ruined in a way that felt nothing like destruction.

His lips brushed the back of my shoulder, soft as a whisper, and I let out a sound I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t pain or protest, but something like a yes.

The water rippled as I shifted, turning toward him slowly, steam drifting between us. My skin slipped against his hand as I moved, and I heard the way his breath hitched slightly, controlled still, but not unaffected.

Neither of us was.

His shirt was damp at the edges. His sleeves were rolled up and he was watching me with that same expression that made my heart stutter.

I licked my lips and asked the question that had been pulsing at the edge of everything since he said those life-changing words.

“Why do you want to marry me?”

His eyes didn’t even flinch. They stayed locked on mine.

“Why me , Nikolai?” My voice was soft now, not snarky or angry. Not even a little bit sassy. Just… small. “I’m a mess. I push people away. I get in trouble just to feel something. I lie when I should be honest and mouth off when I should shut up. I?—”

He lifted his hand from the water and placed it gently under my chin, stopping the spiral.

“You’re a storm,” he answered, his voice certain. “But I’ve seen storms like you before. Challenges like you exhilarate me.”

His thumb brushed my jaw.

“I don’t want you because you’re easy. I want you because I can handle you. I want to give you what you need, baby girl, because I know I’m the man that can give it to you.”

For a second, I didn’t know what to say.

No one had ever said that to me before. People loved me in theory. They loved the idea of me: the energy, the chaos, the mischief. Until they didn’t. Until it got to be too much. Too real .

But he didn’t falter, even for a second.

He looked at me like I was already his.

I dropped my gaze—overwhelmed, and warm all over—and it landed on the thick leather of his belt, still looped perfectly at his waist.

Suddenly I was blushing.

Hard.

I found myself wondering what it would feel like against my thighs, my ass, my bare flesh.

I squeezed my knees together beneath the water, which did nothing to stop the ache that had started to bloom all over again between them. I looked back up at him.

He was smirking. Of course he was. He saw exactly where my eyes had gone and knew what I was thinking.

And he liked it.

“I’m not going to break you, Sloane,” he murmured, brushing wet hair from my cheek. “But I am going to punish you when you need it.”

My stomach twisted—in the best way.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The way he looked at me after I said that—like I’d just given him the last piece of something he’d already taken for himself—made my cheeks burn and my thighs clench tighter under the water.

He tilted his head, studying me for a long, quiet moment.

Then he spoke, voice intense and final.

“You’ll be saying your vows in one week.”

The words landed in my chest like a stone.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Not right away. I just blinked at him, trying to register whether he was serious or not. Even as I thought it though, I knew he was.

Nikolai Morozov didn’t bluff. He made decisions and he followed through.

I should have screamed. Argued. Said something halfway reasonable like we haven’t even dated or you’re insane or my father has lost his goddamn mind.

Yet, I didn’t say any of that because something inside me—something small and tired and quiet—whispered, at least he’s staying.

No one else ever had, not really.

Guys liked me in pieces. They liked the version of me that laughed too loud and kissed too recklessly and stirred up chaos like it was my job. I was fun. I was wild. I was something to conquer and brag about.

Until I wasn’t.

Until I was too much. Too messy. Too real.

They always left, and every time they did, I let the volume go up. The chaos got louder and the mess got bigger, because if I could keep everyone looking at the wreckage, maybe no one would see how broken I was underneath it.

I sank lower into the water, my body aching, sore and warm, heart pounding against the bruises of everything I’d ever wanted and been afraid to ask for.

Now here was this man, this terrifyingly ruthless man who didn’t just want me in spite of the storm; he wanted me because of it.

“I don’t even know how to be a wife,” I said quietly, not looking at him.

“You don’t need to know,” he said, tipping my chin back up. “You just need to show up. I’ll deal with the rest.”

My heart twisted again.

That stupid, dangerous, aching part of me wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that this time, someone would stay. That maybe, for once in my life, being a little wild, a little loud, a little bit of a bad girl didn’t mean I’d be left behind.

Maybe it meant I’d be kept. And maybe—just maybe—I wanted to be. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him, though.

Not by a long shot.