Page 27 of Puck Me Daddy

He hummed, his hand rubbing circles on my heated flesh. "And why were you late?"

I hesitated, the answer catching in my throat. Because I wanted this. Because I needed to feel his hands on me, guiding me, correcting me. Because in these moments, I felt more grounded than ever.

He spanked me again, the strike sharper. "Answer me, baby girl."

"Because I wanted your attention," I admitted, my voice soft.

His hand stilled, his touch gentle now. He helped me up, turning me so I straddled his lap. His eyes were softer, the gray warmer. He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.

"You have my attention, Tilly," he said, his voice low. "Always."

I leaned into his touch, my heart swelling. This was what I needed, what I craved. The discipline, the guidance, the love. It was a delicate balance, a dance of power and tenderness.

"I love you, Demian," I said, the words flowing from me naturally, easily.

A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love you too, Tilly," he said, his voice filled with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

He leaned down, his lips capturing mine in a soft, gentle kiss. I melted into him, my body pressing against his. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me close as the kiss deepened. I moaned softly, my body aching for more.

He pulled back, his breath ragged. "Not yet, baby girl," he said, his voice husky. "First, you eat your breakfast."

I pouted, my body throbbing with need. But I knew better than to argue. Instead, I nodded, a small smile playing on my lips. "Yes, Daddy," I said, my voice soft and submissive.

His eyes flashed with desire, his hand tightening in my hair. "Good girl," he growled, his voice filled with promise.

I admit, I rushed my breakfast after that. Who wouldn’t? The quicker I ate, the more time I got to spend with Demian before work. One more hour of bliss before I had to head to the office . . .

The fluorescent lights ofthe newspaper office buzzed overhead like a swarm of lazy bees. I walked in, my shoulders relaxed, none of the usual tension knotting my muscles. The clatter of keyboards and the hum of distant conversations didn't grate on me like they used to. Instead, I felt a calm, a sense of purpose that was new, different.

"Tilly, in my office," barked Matt, my editor, from his doorway. His tie was askew, his shirt rumpled. The vein in his forehead throbbed—a sure sign he was pissed.

I walked in, unhurried, and took a seat across from him. His desk was a mess of papers and old coffee cups. He glared at me, holding up a printout of my article on Demian. "What the hell is this?"

I didn't flinch, didn't feel the usual urge to shrink back. In my time with Demian, I’d grown as a person. Learned to see the strenght in submission. Discovered how resilient I could be. And of course, spending an extra hour in bed with Demien this morning had kinda relaxed me . . . "It's the piece you asked for," I said, my voice steady.

"It's bland, Tilly. Where's the scandal? Where's the dirt?" He slammed the printout onto his desk.

I shrugged. "There was no dirt to find, Matt. Demian Pierce is a good guy."

He scoffed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Good guys don't sell papers, Tilly."

I stood up, looking him straight in the eye. "Maybe not. But I did the right thing. And that's worth more than a few extra sales."

His mouth dropped open, but I turned and walked out before he could say another word. The old Tilly would have fought, argued. But not anymore. I had more important things to focus on.

Later that evening, Isat on the couch in Demian's penthouse, my laptop perched on my knees. The city lights sparkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the room. I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I was nervous, exhilarated, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

"You sure about this, baby girl?" Demian asked, sitting beside me. His hand rested on my thigh, strong and reassuring.

I nodded. "I need to do this. For me. For others like us."

He smiled, his eyes warm. "Then go for it, Tilly."

I started creating my very own blog, the words pouring out of me. I wrote about the dance of power and tenderness, about the strength found in vulnerability. I wrote about the nurturing dynamic, the give and take, the profound intimacy. I left out names, specifics, but I infused it with genuine warmth, with my heart.

Demian rubbed my back, his touch gentle, encouraging. I glanced at him, his eyes filled with pride. It spurred me on, gave me the courage to hit 'Publish'. My heart thudded in my chest as the post went live. I did it. I actually did it.

I set the laptop aside, my body buzzing with excitement. Demian pulled me into his arms, his lips capturing mine in a fierce kiss. I moaned, my body melting against his. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me close as the kiss deepened.

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