Page 5 of Daddy Devious

Little girls? I haven’t been a little girl in a very long time. And yet, here I am, getting spanked like one in the stairwell of my office building. By the man who owns said office building.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

“Ow, ow, ow!” Yelping at the shocking pain, I dance in place as he continues to spank me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” I don’t know what I’m apologizing for, exactly, but it seems like the appropriate response and I’m willing to do or say anything to end this humiliating punishment.

He ends the spanking with two extra hard swats before turning me back to face him. The lines of his face appear to be etched in stone, and there’s a cold fury radiating from him that makes me want to shrink away. “Where are you supposed to be right now, Ms. Finch?”

Something about the dichotomy of being called by my more formal name while my bottom is still burning from being spanked like a naughty child is so patently absurd, I do the only thing I can think to do at that moment.

I laugh.

And once I start laughing, I can’t seem to stop. Some rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop, to justshut up, but every time I try to get my howling under control, I catch sight of Mr. Stone’s stunned expression and I lose it all over again.

Still gripping my arm, he shoves open the door to the stairwell with his free hand, dragging me along beside him toward the elevators. By now the lobby is full of employees and clients, and every single one of them stops to stare at us. Gripped by some form of hysteria, I wave to them, still giggling uncontrollably as we bypass the usual elevators and head past the guard station.

My laughter fades, giving way to fascination when Mr. Stone uses his badge to unlock a hidden door. That door leads us to a hallway, and another set of elevators.

“Where are we?” I ask, twisting in his grip to get a better look at our surroundings. Not that it matters, since I won’t ever see this section of the building again, seeing as how I am very definitely about to get fired.

And, you know, since I’m probably going to jail.

That single thought instantly sobers me as reality sets in. I’ve been caught, and there’s absolutely no escape now. Nothing to save me from the punishment I deserve.

In complete silence, we step onto the elevator when it arrives. The panic I’d felt back at my cubicle rises up again, choking me, and no matter how many deep breaths I try to take, nothing eases the grip it has on me.

At the top floor, the elevators whisk open again, depositing us directly into a spacious office overlooking the city.

“Sit,” Mr. Stone commands, giving me a gentle nudge toward the visitors’ chairs facing his desk.

Unable to speak past the tightness in my throat, I nod and hurry over to perch on the edge of one of the chairs.

Mr. Stone, moving at a much more languid pace, retrieves two bottles of water from a small fridge and hands me one before taking his rightful place behind his desk. “Drink.”

How can I drink when I can’t swallow? Still unable to force out any actual words, I shake my head.

Impossibly, his expression hardens even further than the stone—haha—mask he was already wearing, and I shrink back in my chair. “If you insist on arguing with me at every turn, Ms. Finch, you are going to find sitting comfortably to be nothing more than a fond memory.”

Heat floods my face at the memory of the spanking in the stairwell, and I yank the bottle from his hand, twisting the top off with such force the contents spill all over my hand and my skirt.

Fresh tears well in my eyes as the mess threatens to overwhelm my already overburdened nervous system, but before I can ask for a paper towel, Mr. Stone is kneeling in front of me, patting at the water soaking my skin and my clothes with a handkerchief. “It’s all right, little one. Accidents happen.”

Little one? What the hell is happening? Did I hit my head when I fell on the stairs and this is all some weird coma dream?

If it is, my subconscious and I need to have a very long chat with an actual therapist. Lorelai isn’t going to help us with this one.

Gently, far more gently than I would have expected from a man like him, Mr. Stone takes the bottle from my hand and carries it to a gleaming silver cart beside his desk. I watch as he pours the water into a cup and fastens a lid on the top before bringing the cup over to me.

“Here you go. Spill proof.”

“Th-thank you.” There’s a built-in straw of some kind on the top, and I force myself to wrap my lips around it and suck under his watchful eye.

“Good girl.”

At his words, the knots in my stomach loosen, and a warmth spreads through me. For just a moment, I forget that I’m a thief, waiting for my sentence to be handed down. I almost feel… cared for. Cherished.

But that’s ridiculous. Even if Ihadn’tjust embezzled a million dollars from his company, there’s no way a man like Maxwell Stone would ever pay me a lick of attention.

Right?

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