Page 54 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

Slap. Slap.

She bit on her bottom lip to hold in a cry.

“You don’t get to decide when this is over.”

Slap. Slap.

Arguing was futile, she could see that now.

Another series of spanks rained down.

Tears welled in her eyelids. She kicked up her heels, catching his hand several times.

“I told you to be still. I am nowhere near done with you.”

“Oh, but McTavish.”

“You put yourself in grave danger, that must never happen again and this will teach you.”

The spanking continued. He slapped hard enough to sting like a thousand wasps but not enough to shake her bones. She guessed that was why her rear was his choice for punishment—the perfect recipient for his heated palm.

She squirmed as much as she dared as he continued her chastisement. Each slap seemed to blur with the last. They layered up, stacking over each other. Every strike a flame searing her skin and lodging between her legs, filling her cunny and making her clit tingle.

* * *

McTavish admired the glowing rump over his lap. Isla was strong yet delicate, her skin pale but so easily marked. Everything about his wife was perfect.

Except for the fact she’d risked her life. Nearly left him forever over a few damn twigs, leaves, and feathers.

Had he ever been so scared as he’d been on that ride back from the road to Edinburgh? As soon as he’d received word from the laird’s stable hand he’d raced like the wind, his faithful steed not letting him down. Witches had little sympathy or the grace of time once accused and fear had twisted his guts every galloped step of the way.

And then when he’d seen her, tied to a stake over a pyre, murder had flooded his veins. He’d had a mind to slaughter every damn villager for giving his wife a moment of fright. She was beautiful, complex, and delicate and should only ever be treated as such.

As for Rabbie Finlay, he’d gotten off lightly. Losing an arm for touching Trevor McTavish’s woman with undue care was as good as a free pass.

He continued Isla’s spanking in a steady rhythm. His arm was aching a little and his palm stung, but still he kept up. She needed to ken how angry he was about the ill wish. He didn’t want to shout, and certainly wasn’t a man to use his fists. But like his father he believed a wife should be disciplined with the administration of a red bottom should she step out of line.

And could his bride have stepped any further from the line?

He thought not.

With a frown he added a few stripes to the top of her thighs, holding her tighter to his body as he did so for he knew that would create a new line of heat and likely a wriggle.

“Ow! Oh, that hurts.” She bucked against him.

“As it should.” He eased up as he pinked her upper thighs, then went back to her rump and renewed the intensity.

Again she writhed but he held her secure. It was no real effort to keep her where he wanted her. She was but a waif of a thing. He’d see to it she put some meat on her bones in the future so she’d not get sickly in colder weather.

“Please, sir.”

“Do you understand the strength of my feelings on this matter?”

“I do, I really do.”

He gave her five more swats then rested his hand over her ass. She was breathing fast, her ribs expanding and contracting quickly. He, too, was a little breathless. His cock was hard, pushing at his kilt. He wondered if she could feel it against her side.

She moved her hand as though to sit.

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