Page 29 of Punish Me, Daddy (Boston Kings #8)

S loane

I couldn’t believe I had just done that.

I could still feel the heat of him between my thighs, the slick, shameless mess I made on his lap, the way his thigh flexed under me like it was put there to ruin me. I had done everything he told me to. I came when he said, like a good girl.

Jesus Christ. What the fuck was happening to me?

He was holding me now, his arms wrapped securely around my waist like I was something fragile, something he was keeping safe.

His chin rested against the top of my head, and I could hear the slow rhythm of his breathing, steady, like nothing was wrong, like what just happened between us was perfectly natural.

Maybe for him it was, but not for me.

My heart was still racing, not from arousal anymore, but from the sudden, crushing awareness that I had just let him see too much of me. I’d let him crack me open, strip me down, and whisper the kind of words I hadn’t even known I wanted to hear.

Now he was acting like I belonged here.

Like I was his.

I should have felt powerful. This was the part where I should have smirked, rolled my eyes, slipped out of his lap and found some way to take back the upper hand.

But I didn’t move. I couldn’t, because my body was still trembling, my skin was still singing, and somewhere deep in my chest, there was a soft, traitorous little ache that wanted him to hold me tighter.

I hated that. I hated that when he called me ‘baby girl’ I melted. Hated that I let him pull pleasure out of me like a confession, like he had already known it was there.

Most of all?

I hated that I was starting to forget who I was.

I was Sloane fucking Kingsley.

I was a goddamn hurricane. A razor blade in heels.

I made headlines, not wedding vows. I ruined men, I didn’t let them take me apart piece by piece and tuck me into their lap like a prized possession.

I was chaos wrapped in couture, and no one— no one —told me where to sleep or what to wear or who I belonged to.

Yet… here I was.

Wearing the red silk dress he chose. Wearing no underwear beneath that dress because he didn’t want me to. Still wet between my legs from grinding against his thigh like I was a fucking cat in heat because he told me to.

I pressed my forehead against his chest and closed my eyes, the scent of him surrounding me again: leather, woodsmoke, and pure masculinity. He smelled like control. Like permanence.

Like something I was dangerously close to wanting.

No.

I had to get a grip. I had let him take the upper hand.

Fine. I had let him think that I’d fallen in line, but I wasn’t going to become his.

I was going to outsmart him, no matter how hard he spanked me, because no matter how good it felt to be touched like this, to be held like this, to be wanted in ways no one’s ever wanted me before…

I wasn’t going to just let this man kidnap me and force me into marriage like I was simply a possession he’d won with patience and punishment and the code to my front door.

I was going to fight back when he least expected it. I’d let him think that I was the perfect little thing he’d molded with his hands and his rules and countless trips over his knee.

And then I’d burn it all down with a smile.

Just like I always did.

He cleared his throat, and I shifted, glancing up at his face and meeting his gaze with newfound confidence.

“Let’s talk about how this week is going to go.”

I nodded. Soft. Obedient. Like a good girl in his lap, wearing his dress, smelling like his touch, legs sore from grinding out an orgasm like a fucking horny slut on his thigh.

I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth and gave him my most innocent look. The one I’d used on security guards, judges, and my father when I came home at four a.m. reeking of booze and mischief. It always worked, and he bought it, too.

His hand ran up and down my spine, lazy and warm, like he was rewarding me just for sitting still.

“You’ll stay here until the ceremony,” he began, voice calm. “No leaving the penthouse without me. You’ll go gown shopping with my security and some people I choose, and I’ll have someone bring in options for the reception.”

My stomach contracted.

Reception. Like this was a real wedding and we were inviting people. Like there would be toasts and champagne and vows that actually meant something.

“You’ll have a quiet breakfast with your father on Tuesday,” he continued. “Just the two of you. Private. He insisted.”

He insisted.

Of course he did.

I smiled again. It was a little thinner this time, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“I want you to be well rested, well fed, and calm. That means no phone, no wandering the building, and no acting out.”

He tilted my chin up with two fingers, watching my eyes carefully.

“You can be a brat in my bed, Sloane,” he said softly. “But not in my world.”

I nodded, hitching my breath just a little, on purpose.

“Yes, Daddy,” I lied.

He kissed my forehead like I’d said something sweet.

But inside, my brain was screaming.

No phone. No wandering. No escape. The walls were closing in, and he was dressing it up in candlelight and silk, like I should be grateful for the gilded cage he was placing around me, one soft word at a time.

I kept my expression blank, content, but inside, I was already drafting a message in my head.

Ghost. I need out. No trace. No noise. Full wipe. One shot. You in?

I’d never used those words with him before, but I knew what they meant.

Make me disappear. Get me out.

This was more than a game now. More than a kink or a punishment or some elaborate show of dominance. He was planning a wedding. He was mapping out my life.

My heart stuttered in my chest as he continued talking, details about florists, the officiant, logistics. I could barely hear him over the rising panic in my blood. I nodded at the right times, smiled when he brushed my cheek with the back of his hand.

But underneath all of it, my brain was calculating. He thought I’d given in, that he’d stamped out all my fight with a hard spanking and some even harder orgasms. For now, I was just quiet, but the second I saw a window?

I was running.