Page 26 of Bossh*le Daddy
One more strike, harder than the rest, making me cry out. "Eleven!"
Then his arms were around me, pulling me up and back against his chest, holding me as I shook. His lips found my ear, breath hot against my skin.
"You're such a good girl when you're properly reminded who you belong to," he murmured, and the praise after the punishment broke something open in me. I sagged against him, letting him take my weight, feeling safe and small and thoroughly claimed.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," I whispered, meaning it now in a way I hadn't before.
"I know, little one." His arms tightened. "You took your punishment so well. Such a brave girl for me."
The praise washed over me like warm honey, soothing the sting and shame alike. The sting across my backside had transformed into something else—a warm, persistent ache that made me hyperaware of every place our bodies touched.
When he finally turned me in his arms, his hands were impossibly gentle, cupping my face like I was something precious. His thumbs brushed across my cheeks, and I realized I was crying—not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being exactly where I belonged.
"Look at you," he murmured, gray eyes tracking the path of tears with something like wonder. "My beautiful girl, all flushed and needy."
His thumb caught another tear, and then he was kissing me—not the desperate claiming of the balcony but something deeper, more possessive. His tongue swept into my mouth with devastating precision, swallowing the whimpers I couldn't contain. I clung to his shoulders, fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his shirt, needing the anchor of him while the world spun off its axis.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted me effortlessly onto the desk. The cool surface against my heated skin made me gasp into his mouth, and he swallowed that too, taking everything I offered and demanding more. His hands slid down my sides, finding the hem of my skirt, pushing it higher until it bunched around my waist.
"Such a good girl," he breathed against my lips, fingers hooking into the waistband of my panties. "Taking your punishment so well. Do you know what good girls get, little one?"
I shook my head, beyond words, beyond thought, existing only in the space between his hands.
"They get rewarded."
He tugged my skirt and panties down with deliberate slowness, the fabric dragging against sensitized skin. I lifted automatically, helping him remove the garments, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as he tucked my panties into his pocket with the same casual possession he'd shown with my rabbit.
"Spread your knees," he commanded softly, and I obeyed without thought, letting my legs fall open despite the vulnerability of the position. His eyes darkened to storm cloudsas he took in the sight of me—skirt rucked up, blouse disheveled, completely exposed on my own desk.
"Perfect," he said, and the raw honesty in his voice made fresh tears prick at my eyes. "You are perfect, little one."
Then he was sinking to his knees, and my brain short-circuited entirely. Damian Stone, billionaire CEO, was kneeling between my spread thighs with hunger in his eyes.
"Daddy's going to take care of you now," he murmured, hands sliding up my thighs with reverent touches. "Going to show you what happens when you're my good girl."
His breath ghosted over my sensitive flesh, making me whimper and clutch at the desk edges. Then his mouth was on me, and I forgot how to breathe.
The first touch of his tongue was electric, precise and knowing, finding exactly where I needed him most. He worked me with the same focused intensity he brought to everything—learning my responses, cataloguing what made me gasp, what made me moan, what made my thighs tremble against his shoulders.
"Daddy," I sobbed, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the dark strands. "Please, I can't—"
"Yes, you can," he murmured against me, the vibration making me arch off the desk. "You can take everything Daddy gives you."
He proved it with his mouth, with fingers that joined his tongue in a rhythm that had me climbing higher, higher, teetering on an edge that felt too vast to survive. Every nerve in my body centered on where he touched me, played me, owned me with a skill that should have been illegal.
"Look at me," he commanded, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. His face was intense, lips glistening, and the sight of him like this—wrecked by pleasing me—nearly undid me completely. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you come for Daddy."
Then his mouth was back, fierce and demanding, and I shattered. The orgasm ripped through me like lightning, bowing my back, tearing his name from my throat in a cry that echoed through the empty office. He worked me through it, gentling his touch as I shook and sobbed, until I collapsed back onto the desk in a boneless heap.
"Such a good girl," he praised, pressing kisses to my inner thighs as I struggled to remember how lungs worked.
He stood slowly, deliberately, and I watched through hazy eyes as he surveyed the destruction he'd wrought. My files were scattered, the Henderson reports probably ruined, everything evidence of what we'd done in this professional space.
With one sweep of his arm, he cleared the rest of the desk, sending papers and pens crashing to the floor. The sound made me jump, but his hands were already on me, lifting and repositioning until I lay back across the surface, my head at one edge, legs dangling off the other.
"Mine," he said, the single word carrying the weight of a vow. His hands went to his belt, and the sound of leather sliding through loops made my still-sensitive body clench with fresh need. "Say it."
"Yours," I breathed, watching him reveal himself with hands that moved too slowly, too controlled. "Yours, Daddy."
