Page 34 of His Naughty Girl

“No!” I cried out, my voice shrill with panic and arousal. “You’re wrong! You’re crazy!”

Dylan’s hand came down hard on my bottom, making me yelp. “Quiet,” he ordered sternly. “Unless you want me to take these wet panties down and stuff them in that naughty mouth of yours.”

A sob escaped my lips at his words, equal parts shame and desperate need. The image of Dylan gagging me with my own soaked underwear sent a fresh wave of arousal flooding through me. My hips bucked involuntarily, vainly seeking friction against the side of the truck, as if I could hump the metal frame.

Dylan’s hand resumed its rhythmic spanking, each smack echoing in the quiet night air. I realized with a start that he wasn’t hitting particularly hard. The sting was there, but it was more of a warm glow than real pain. As I processed this, understanding dawned, way beyond the words in which Dylan had told me the same thing—the pain of the spanking itself wasn’t the point. The humiliation was.

My face burned hotter than my bottom as the full weight of my situation sank in. Here I was, bent over the seat of Dylan’s truck in the middle of Main Street, my dress hiked up and my panty-clad bottom on display for anyone who cared to look. And why? Because I couldn’t behave like a grownup in the restaurant.

Shame washed over me in waves. Again I imagined the other diners inside, shaking their heads in disapproval at the spectacle. They all knew why I was being punished. They had witnessed my childish tantrum, seen Dylan march me out here to face the consequences of my actions.

Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. But it wasn’t from the pain—not at all. It came from the deep, aching remorse that filled my chest. I had ruined our lovely evening. I had embarrassed Dylan, who had been nothing but kind and attentive. I had disrespected the restaurant staff and other patrons.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. Sir… please… I’m sorry.”

The words tumbled from my lips like a mantra, repeated over and over as Dylan’s hand continued to fall. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

My body shook with the force of my weeping. I cried like a child, all pretense of adulthood stripped away by my position and my shame.

Suddenly, the spanking stopped. Before I could process what was happening, I felt myself being turned and pulled into a warm embrace. Dylan’s strong arms wrapped around me, holding me close as I sobbed into his chest.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he murmured, one hand stroking my hair soothingly. “You’re forgiven, Andrea. It’s all over now.”

I clung to him, my tears soaking into his shirt as the last of my remorse poured out of me. Dylan held me patiently, murmuring words of comfort and forgiveness until my sobs finally subsided into hiccupping breaths.

As my tears dried, I became acutely aware of our position. My bottom still stung from the spanking, a constant reminder of my punishment. But now, pressed against Dylan’s solid chest, I felt safe and cared for in a way I had never experienced before.

Dylan gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes were soft with understanding and something different, something much better—a warmth that made my heart skip a beat.

“Let’s get you home,” he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to my lips.

CHAPTER 17

Dylan

The way Andrea melted into my arms had driven away my last lingering doubt about spanking her on Main Street. On the quick ride home, whenever I glanced over at her blushing, tearstained face, I found her eyes fixed on my face, a look of humble submission in her own gaze that warmed my heart—and hardened my cock along my thigh.

“Can we…” she started, just before we pulled into Devin’s driveway. “Can we visit the… the farm with the, you know, the veal?”

My brow furrowed as I tried to see into her thoughts.

“Now?” I asked.

Andrea laughed at that, the silvery sound filling the cab of the truck and dissipating the lingering tension from our intense experience at the restaurant.

“No,” she said. “Just… sometime. I mean… if they really are humane, then, you know…”

It was my turn to laugh.

“Sure,” I said. “And then I’ll take you back to the Trattoria forosso buco.”

Her cheeks had gone bright pink. I thought I could read, in the shadow that seemed to cross her brow for a moment, that she hadn’t gotten rid of the inner conflict I could tell she felt. Not all of it anyway. But then the smile broke out on her pretty mouth again.

“I’d like that.”

I pulled the truck up in front of the big farmhouse. Andrea reached for the door handle.

“Hold on,” I told her. She looked back at me, her eyes wide, as if fearful I might punish her again. I hadn’t spoken sharply, but I could see that Andrea’s lovely body had responded like a live wire to the stimulus of my voice. I felt the hardness in my pants jump at this sign of a connection between us.

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