Sloane
I didn’t waste time.
The second the cash hit my hands, I already knew what I was going to do with it.
No shopping spree. No dumb designer bags. No bottle service at clubs I was already too bored with.
This was bigger.
This was freedom.
By noon the next day, I was sitting in a sun-drenched penthouse suite downtown, sipping espresso and signing the lease on my new apartment—two bedrooms, floor-to-ceiling windows, black marble countertops, and a walk-in closet that might have healed me spiritually if I needed that sort of thing.
It was all glass, beautiful angles, and rich-girl minimalism. It didn’t scream home, it screamed independence, and right then, that was way better. My allowance would offer me plenty to keep the rent paid going forward, but that was something I’d worry about next month.
The woman in the leasing office blinked when I handed over the deposit in cash, but I just gave her a smile that said don’t ask, don’t judge, and don’t slow me down.
She didn’t.
By the time I left, keys in hand and head held high, I already had a mood board in my Notes app and a curated furniture cart ready to blow half my monthly allowance, as well as a long list of ethically questionable Etsy finds.
I could practically taste the dopamine.
When I got home, I waited until the house was quiet—late afternoon, staff minimal, Dad somewhere between a photo op and a donor dinner—and I walked into his office like I owned the place.
He looked up from whatever sanitized, highly redacted speech he was editing and narrowed his eyes at me.
“I’m moving out.”
He paused. Then set the pen down.
“Where?”
I told him.
He didn’t blink.
Just leaned back, nodded once, like I’d said I was grabbing dinner downtown instead of fundamentally altering the terms of our cohabitation agreement.
“That’s… fine.”
Wait—what?
I squinted at him. “That’s it?”
“You’re an adult, Sloane. You’ve been threatening to do it for years. I figured it was inevitable.”
Okay.
That was suspiciously easy, but I didn’t press it because, the truth? I was high on winning. Still riding the rush of the night before—the thrill of the risk, the payout, the fact that I’d pulled something off and no one even noticed. And maybe, just maybe I liked the idea of walking away while I was ahead.
Some gamblers didn’t know how to do that.
Still, something about the way he said it itched under my skin—like he knew something I didn’t.
I ignored it though.
“I’ll send a change-of-address card,” I said with a mock salute, then pivoted on my heel and headed upstairs to pack, like I hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of his carefully managed campaign schedule.
By nightfall, I had three suitcases stuffed with a good portion of my clothes, some overpriced skincare products, and more black boots than any reasonable person should own. My new space was echoing and empty and exactly what I needed.
I sat on the edge of the wide marble windowsill, toes curled against the cold tile, city lights glittering below me like stars, and I grinned like I’d just gotten away with murder.
No one knew what I did. Not my dad. Not the Bratva. Not the fighters. Not the people who lost their money on my little social media scheme.
I beat the system. I played dirty and walked away clean, which made me wonder.
Could I do it again?
I pulled out my phone and opened the thread with Ghost.
Me: Hypothetically. If someone wanted to do that thing again—rumor, perception shift, odds play—how hard would it be?
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
Ghost: Hypothetically? Easier the second time. More believable. Got a name?
Me: Not yet. Just testing the waters.
Ghost: Say the word. This is the kind of game we could play for a long time.
I leaned back against the glass and smiled.
This could turn out to be fun.
It took three days, a personal shopper, and an absurd amount of my father’s money, but my apartment was finally done.
And it was perfect.
Cream linen couches, black marble coffee table, gold bar cart stocked with bottles I probably wouldn’t even drink, but looked good in a photo. Custom art on the walls—abstract, expensive, and probably meaningless. My bedroom looked like something from a boutique hotel in Paris, all moody lighting, velvet pillows, and a bed I could get lost in for days.
I walked barefoot through the space with a glass of red wine in hand, admiring every square inch like I personally crafted it with my own two hands and didn’t just pay a woman named Elise to make all the decisions for me.
Whatever. Same thing.
The place smelled like new. Like fresh paint and ambition, and maybe a little bit like defiance.
I was so fucking proud of myself.
So proud that I did another loop around the apartment just to soak it all in before heading into my bathroom to wash off my makeup and slip into my favorite little sleep set: a cropped t-shirt and matching shorts. Pale gray cotton, soft as sin, with a hem just short enough to be interesting. If anyone was looking anyway.
I downed the rest of my wine, padded into the kitchen, put the glass in the sink, then flicked off the lights room by room until the whole apartment went dark—save for the skyline glowing outside my window.
It was almost midnight.
My first night here. Alone.
I should have been thrilled, and I was, but when I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up, the silence hit a little too hard. Not the peaceful kind. The other kind. The kind that makes you hyper-aware of every creak and hum in the building. Every shift of the pipes. Every gust of wind blowing against the windows.
I laid there, one arm tucked behind my head, staring up at the ceiling fan rotating in slow, hypnotic circles, and sighed. This place was big. Bigger than it felt earlier, when the daylight made it glow, and the delivery guys kept ringing the doorbell with box after box of all my expensive shit.
Now it felt… too still.
Like I had built myself the perfect little kingdom, but forgot to invite anyone to live in it.
I wasn’t scared.
I didn’t do scared.
There was just a weird twist in my gut that I couldn’t shake. Not fear, exactly. Just a muted buzz of unease I couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the fact that no one other than my dad knew I was here. Not really. Not in the way that mattered. Or maybe it was that, for the first time, I realized just how easy it is to disappear in a place like this.
I turned over onto my side and pulled the covers a little higher, lips pressed together, heartbeat just a touch too fast.
Just nerves.
That’s all it was.
Still… I left the lamp on.
Just for tonight.
A short while later, I turned over in bed and started at a sound. I told myself it was nothing, just a creak, maybe the wind, or maybe even the building settling. Anything normal to settle the nervous energy coursing through me.
For a while, I just stared into the shadows, that weird twist still sitting low in my stomach, the one I pretended didn’t exist when I smiled my way through the lease signing, and when I handed over the deposit like I’d earned it with clean hands.
I threw back the covers and swung my legs out of bed, padding barefoot across the cool hardwood. The hem of my cotton shorts brushed the top of my thighs, my little cropped tee clinging to my skin in the worst possible way—and somehow, I still felt exposed even though I knew I was all alone up here.
I was being ridiculous.
I was safe here. Locked in. It was a high-rise. It had security. There were doormen downstairs. Keypad locks. I double-checked everything earlier, but now I just needed to make sure.
So I walked quietly down the hall, flipped on the light over the entryway, and checked the keypad again.
Locked.
Of course it was.
I reached out and pressed my fingers to the number pad anyway, just for the tactile reassurance. The beep felt oddly comforting.
I let out a breath and turned to walk away.
And then I heard something.
Click.
Not a normal sound. Not mechanical. Something gave behind me, and before I could spin around fully, I heard the door open.
I froze.
The door. My door. The one no one should be able to open.
It creaked open just a few inches… and then more. And then he walked in.
Tall. Broad. Beautiful.
Like he belonged here. Like this was his apartment and not mine.
I recognized him instantly—the ink on his arms, the cold blue of his eyes, the terrifying stillness of him. His dark gray shirt fit him like a second skin, tailored perfectly to his broad chest and powerful shoulders, the sleeves rolled up casually enough to show off the intricate tattoos wrapped around his muscular forearms. His trousers were black. Polished black shoes clicked softly against the floor, marking every step toward me with that predatory calm.
Nikolai Morozov.
In my apartment.
I stumbled back a step before I could stop myself, the air leaving my lungs all at once. He closed the door behind him with one hand, his gaze dragging slowly down my body before rising back up to my face.
He looked calm. Too calm.
That kind of dangerous calm you only see in men who already knew exactly what was going to happen, like he’d already decided what he was going to do with me.
He took a step toward me.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
Immediately, I knew that he knew, and all my self-preservation instincts rose to a head.
I should have lied.
I wanted to lie.
That’s what I usually did—I stayed in the shadows, manipulated quietly, bent perception, and walked away clean. I didn’t get caught. I didn’t get confronted. And I definitely didn’t get cornered by a Bratva boss in my brand-new apartment in the middle of the night while I was half-dressed.
But in that moment, my brain couldn’t keep up with my body.
Because while my chest was tight, my breath was short, and the nerves were crawling up my spine… my thighs trembled just the slightest bit.
Heat bloomed low in my belly—unwanted, undeniable—at the way he looked back at me. Like I was already in trouble, and he was the one who was going to deliver the punishment.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tried to sound calm, but even I heard the wobble in my voice. It wasn’t a good lie. It wasn’t even a real lie.
He took another step closer.
“You’re such a bad little girl,” he growled.
My face flared with fire, and I knew I was blushing. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shook his head slowly, like he was disappointed in me.
Like he knew I’d try to lie.
“You’re clever,” he said, raising a single eyebrow. “Clever enough to think you could get away with messing with things you shouldn’t. Rigging the odds on one of my fights. Manufacturing rumors. Making money in my world. I almost respected it.”
His eyes darkened.
“Almost.”
I swallowed hard.
“What are you going to do?” I whispered, voice barely audible.
He was closer now—not touching me, but close enough that I could smell smoke on him, as well as the scent of something ruggedly masculine, expensive, and dangerous.
“Depends,” he said, his voice resolute and thick. “What do you think a bad girl deserves?”
My heart tripped over itself.
“I—” I started, but couldn’t finish. I didn’t know.
I just knew the way his eyes were locked on me that he’d already decided how this would end.
“I should take you over my knee,” he murmured, his deep voice reverberating in my chest. “Teach you a lesson about messing with things you don’t understand.”
A breath caught in my throat. Heat rushed between my legs.
“You ever been spanked before, Sloane?” he asked, his tone of voice far too conversational for such a question.
I shook my head. Slowly.
“Didn’t think so.”
He smiled—not soft, not kind, but predatory.
“I don’t think you’ll like it at first,” he said, taking one more step until I was backed up against the wall, breath caught somewhere between fear and arousal. “But you’ll learn to.”
My skin was on fire, my heartbeat pounded in my ears, and I hated how much I wanted to know if he was right.
I should have stayed silent.
I should have been wide-eyed and trembling, maybe begging for forgiveness or mercy or whatever girls like me are supposed to do when someone like him shows up in the middle of the night with judgment in his eyes and power in his every calculated step.
But that’s not me.
I wouldn’t back down. Not even when I was cornered.
Especially not when I was cornered.
So I lifted my chin, pressed my spine against the wall to hold myself steady, and I gave him a look—that look. The one that constantly got me in trouble. The one that says if you’re going to make a move, then fucking do it.
“I’m not some little girl you get to scold and manhandle,” I snarled, voice level now, the tremble long gone. “So I’d suggest you turn around and try that whole intimidation thing on someone else.”
His eyes flashed. Not surprised, but amused.
A slow, dangerous smile edged at the corner of his mouth and—God help me—it made my body simmer with heat. Like I was being assessed by a wolf that wasn’t sure if it wanted to devour me or just pin me to the ground and teach me my place.
“Is that how this works now?” he asked. “You get to pretend you didn’t stick your pretty little fingers into something you didn’t understand?”
I shrugged, even though my heart was hammering against my ribs.
“I didn’t make anyone believe anything. They saw what they wanted to see.”
“And got rich off it.”
“I like money,” I snapped.
“I like obedience,” he countered, stepping in again. “We all have our kinks.”
The heat that slammed through me at that was unfair.
I didn’t let it show.
Mostly.
“I’m not going to apologize for being smarter than your bookies,” I retorted, holding his stare. “And I’m not going to stand here and let you threaten me like I’m some pawn in your little testosterone-fueled underground fantasy.”
“You’re not a pawn, Sloane.” His voice dropped an octave. “That’s the problem.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“You’re clever. Strategic. Dangerous in your own way.” He tilted his head, his gaze dragging over my sleep shirt and my bare legs. “But you’re still reckless, playing games in my world like there won’t be consequences.”
His hand lifted and he dragged the back of his knuckles down the wall beside my head, not touching me, but close enough that I felt it. Every hair on my body stood on end and I had trouble pulling in a breath.
“You do know what happens to girls who cause problems in my world, don’t you?” he growled, his voice like gravel.
I swallowed hard.
“Let me guess,” I answer, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “They get spanked.”
His smile was all teeth now.
“No. The ones who get spanked?” His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “They’re the lucky ones.”
Something shuddered deep inside me. My whole body went rigid. I lifted my chin one more time and glared at him like I wasn’t already losing traction. I tried to stand my ground.
“You don’t scare me,” I whispered.
His eyes burned into mine for a long moment. And then he laughed, low, dark, and quiet.
“You should be scared, Sloane,” he replied. “Because I don’t bluff.”
He took a step forward, and my breath stumbled in my throat.
Shit.
I slipped out from beneath him, instincts flaring like warning bells. It wasn’t fear, not really, just that tight feeling in my chest that says this is a very big man and you just pissed him off.
I retreated into the kitchen, trying to collect myself, trying to pretend I wasn’t flustered and barefoot and wearing a pair of shorts that barely covered my ass.
The ass he had already threatened to spank…
He followed.
Of course he did.
Slow. Purposeful. Like he already owned the ground between us, and he was just giving me time to realize that too.
I reached the far side of the kitchen island and stopped, one hand on the counter, the other clenched into a fist at my side, trying to hold my expression together. I couldn’t let him see that I was rattled.
But my voice came out thinner than I liked.
“What do you want?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Just watched me for a moment with those ice-blue eyes—quiet and inscrutable—until I swore that I could feel my heartbeat in my fucking teeth. My knees wobbled just a little. Not enough to be obvious, but enough for him to notice.
His mouth twitched, like he was amused by that.
“I know what you did. I know how much you made. I know how you did it. What I don’t know,” he said, stepping closer, voice lowering, “is who helped you.”
Stopping on the other side of the island, he stared at me. Close enough now that I felt the heat of him across the slab of cool marble between us.
“You’re going to tell me how you did it,” he demanded, soft but deadly. “Or I will make you. And if you lie—”
Another step.
“You’ll be in more trouble than you already are.”
I gulped.
He was bluffing. Maybe. Probably. Hopefully…
Something about the way he said it—the way his voice curved around the word trouble like it was something intimate—made my skin buzz with anxiety.
I glanced at the door.
He was standing between me and it, leaving me nowhere to run. Even if I could make it out the door, I was no track star. I knew better than that. He would catch me and then who knows what he would do.
I stared him down, even as the heat in my stomach curled tighter.
“Okay,” I began, lifting my chin. “Fine. I did it.”
Silence.
Just the hum of the fridge and the pounding of my pulse. His jaw ticked once, but otherwise he didn’t react. I folded my arms across my chest.
“How did you find out?”
He smirked and I turned my head, infuriated.
“That’s not your business.”
Of course it wasn’t.
He was the type of man who didn’t explain. He didn’t justify. He knew. And that was enough.
Something like annoyed defiance twisted in my chest, and the words came out before I could stop them.
“Whatever,” I sneered. “Fuck you.”
He chuckled back at me, and something inside me snapped. I didn’t pull off that scheme just to end up scolded in my own kitchen like a misbehaving debutante. I had made a play—a good one—and I wasn’t going to let him reduce me to some trembling little thing just because he was the one man in this city who actually scared me.
I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and looked him dead in the eye.
“You act like I should be sorry,” I snapped, voice hard and sharp like broken glass. “But I’m not. You got played, Nikolai. I won. I outsmarted you. Deal with it.”
His gaze narrowed.
Fuck. What have I done?
One heartbeat. Two. Then I saw the shift. It was subtle—the way his eyes darkened, the way his stance changed, how the amused smirk fell away, and something colder slid into its place.
Dangerous.
Predatory.
I felt it before he even moved, but I didn’t back down.
“If you’re that pissed off about losing a few bets,” I added, “maybe you should start hiring people who don’t get outmaneuvered by a girl in a miniskirt and heels.”
That was it.
That was the moment.
He moved. Fast. Too fast for me to react. One second, I was safe behind the kitchen island, flush with adrenaline and pride and just the right amount of reckless bravado—and the next?
I was bent over it.
Hard marble under my hips, one of his arms braced across my lower back, his other hand gripping my wrist and pinning it down.
I sucked in a sharp inhale, stunned still, heart ricocheting inside my chest like it was trying to escape.
“W-What the hell are you doing—”
“You want to act like a bad girl?” His voice was a growl against my ear. “You’re going to learn what happens to bad girls in my world.”
The panic rose first—quick and instinctual—but it was tangled up in a frayed sense of reluctant arousal. My skin burned under his touch, my heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. He let go of my waist and I tried to push against the counter, but I soon realized that I wasn’t going anywhere. My panic rose tenfold.
Then his hand came down.
Hard.
A sharp, sudden crack against the curve of my ass that sent a jolt straight through me—shock first, then heat, then something I didn’t even have words for.
I gasped.
I’d never been spanked before.
I got grounded growing up—a lot. Stern talks, revoked privileges, a long list of punishments that came with private-school polish and my dad’s tired, weary sighs. The consequences of being difficult, of being too dramatic, of being too much.
Nothing like this.
This was… different.
I’d read about it in books—dark, delicious, secret stories I only opened when I was alone, tucked under covers with my heart racing and one hand slipping lower. Fantasies. Kinks. Girls bent over with pink cheeks and shivering thighs, getting ‘taught a lesson’ by men who always knew best.
I had wondered about it. More than once.
But this?
This was not a fantasy.
This was a man with a palm like stone, holding me down and spanking me so hard my skin already felt scorched, my breath came in short gasps, and my thighs were shaking.
It was so much worse in real life.
My whole body locked up. Not from fear but from the humiliation of how fast I got warm. How much I felt it deep in my core.
“Let me go. You can’t just spank me like this—” I twisted, but it was half-hearted. Utterly pointless.
His hand came down again. Harder.
“I can do whatever I like with you, little girl, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me,” he growled.
My legs shifted. My thighs clenched.
I hated how my body was reacting to him. Hated that I could feel the damp heat already pooling between my legs, and I hated that I didn’t know if it was from the spanking or from the way he called me ‘little girl.’
“You think your daddy’s name protects you from me?” he asked, leaning over me now, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his breath.
“Fuck you,” I bit out, but my voice was different now.
Breathless. Shaky. Betraying me.
Another strike landed—hard and fast.
My pussy clenched, catching me off guard with its intensity.
He didn’t give me any time to recover between swats, so I didn’t expect it when he hooked his fingers into the waistband of my shorts. I froze, hands pressing into the cool marble beneath me, breath locking in my throat.
“No—”
He didn’t say a word.
Just pulled them down.
Slow. Intentional. No rush. No hesitation.
My cotton shorts slid down my thighs inch by inch, dragging over skin that suddenly felt too exposed, too hot. The air hit me like a slap—a rush of cold against burning flesh. My face went red, but not from the impact.
From the humiliation of having my shorts pulled down for no other reason than that I’d been a bad girl, and I was getting spanked.
He left my shorts bunched around my knees.
The burning sting of his earlier smacks still tingled beneath the surface—but now, with my bare skin exposed, I felt everything more acutely.
Everything.
I glanced over my shoulder, wide-eyed, mouth parted.
“You can’t do that,” I whispered.
His eyes met mine. Calm. Cold. Unshakable.
“You made your choices, naughty girl,” he said simply.
And then his hand came down on my bare ass.
The sound echoed off the walls, louder than it should have. My whole body jolted, and the sting bloomed fast—hot, quick, and shocking—radiating out like fire licking across my skin.
“Aiiyy—!” I gasped, eyes flying open.
Another.
Then another.
Each one landed with perfect precision. Not wild. Not careless. Each strike measured and delivered with absolute purpose.
This wasn’t some petty revenge fantasy. This wasn’t about bruised ego or proving a point. This was about discipline because I overstepped into his world.
I squirmed against the pressure of his arm holding me down, my hands clawing at the edge of the counter.
“Nikolai, that’s enough!” I shrieked.
Another smack. Harder.
I whimpered this time. My thighs quivered. My skin was hot, burning, and not just where he was touching me. I hated that my body was confused, that the pain was laced with a lick of a different kind of heat. I tried to ignore it.
Worse than the pain, I was scared. Just a little.
Because I thought this would be a game. I thought he’d bluff. That maybe he’d bark and threaten and storm out, and I’d be left smug and victorious, curled up in silk sheets with my winnings and my pride intact.
This man didn’t bluff.
And I wasn’t in charge here.
Not anymore.
I gritted my teeth and tried to breathe through it.
I could take this. I had handled worse. I had been dressed down by senators and socialites and smug little men with God complexes and money to burn all my life.
This was nothing, just a little painful and a little humiliating.
Just a man with a strong arm and a grudge.
I could take it. I could take a spanking, right?
He brought his hand down again—quick and ruthless, right across the center of my bare ass—and I bit back the sound trying to claw its way out of my throat.
My legs flinched instinctively. My hands pressed into the marble like I was trying to disappear into it.
But I didn’t beg.
I didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Another spank.
Then another.
I breathed through my nose, fingers curling tighter with every smack. My skin was on fire now, a raw ache blooming deeper and deeper. It wasn’t just the sting—it was the repetition, the relentlessness. He wasn’t just punishing me. He was breaking down my pride. One calculated swat at a time.
“Still proud of yourself?” he asked, voice rough behind me, every word cutting deep into my soul. “Still think it was clever?”
“Yes,” I gasped out.
The second the word left my mouth, I regretted it, because he didn’t reply. He just spanked me again. Faster. Harder. Like he was teaching me a lesson and I had a long way to go until I learned it. The sound cracked through the apartment, loud as a whip, and I choked on my own breath.
Fuck. It hurt. God, it really hurt now.
This wasn’t sexy or playful or some flirtation I could flip into a win with a smirk and a shrug.
This was real, and I didn’t know if I was strong enough to keep my chin up through all of it.
I tried, though. I fucking tried.
I kept my head down, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes stinging from the heat radiating across my ass. My cheeks were flushed, my body was trembling, and my pride was still clinging on by the thinnest thread.
I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
Another strike to the place where my ass met my thighs on the left side. Then two more in the exact same spot. Then he did the same on the right.
I let out a breath that sounded more like a sob than I wanted it to.
His hand rested on the fullest part of my ass, just for a second. Heavy. Hot. Possessive.
“Not so smug now, are we, bad girl,” he purred.
“I’m fine,” I lied, but my voice came out hoarse. Brittle. Paper-thin.
He let that hang for a beat, then spanked me again—so hard I jerked forward against the island and had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
My eyes stung and I blinked hard. No. No. I wasn’t going to cry, but I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.
My whole body felt flushed, raw, stretched taut. My bottom burned, a deep, unrelenting ache that made my legs tremble. I pressed my forehead to the counter and squeezed my eyes shut.
Another smack. Then another.
They came faster now, relentlessly, like he knew I couldn’t take much more and was going to make me take it anyway. My composure was fraying, the threads loosening and I tried to keep it together.
Suddenly, he stopped.
His hand lifted off my back, and for a moment, all I could do was breathe. In, out. Slowly. Tried to pretend my heart wasn’t still pounding, my pulse wasn’t racing, my stomach wasn’t knotted up tight, that my bottom wasn’t burning from a spanking.
I lifted my head and started to stand. He pushed me back down.
Then his palm slid down the curve of my scalded ass, bridging both cheeks. His fingertips grazed the top of my thighs, and I couldn’t help but gasp. His hand moved further. My breath stuttered in my throat, and I realized where that hand was heading.
No. He couldn’t meant to touch me there, could he?
But he didn’t stop.
His palm glided lower, and his fingers slid between my thighs until his fingertips found the wet heat between my legs. I was soaked, and I fucking knew it, and now he knew it too.
I didn’t want him to feel it. I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want him to find out that I didn’t hate the spanking, that there was a twisted little thrill that came with it. The cruel sting of his palm, the roughness of his hand on my bare skin, and the fact that I could still feel him everywhere he’d touched had me more aroused than I’d ever been.
Even the part of me that was screaming and mortified couldn’t deny that something about this felt good.
I tried to bring my legs together and he kicked them apart. My shorts were tangled around my ankles now though, and he could only force them open so far.
With a growl, he reached down and lifted my foot, freeing me from my pajama bottoms. Without a word, he guided my feet open and then he just stood behind me.
I was suddenly all too aware of the cool air caressing my naked flesh, the slickness between my thighs, the way my legs were spread wide enough to for him to see everything.
Heat crawled up the back of my neck.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
I could feel him staring, could feel the weight of his eyes on me and I wanted to hate it. I wanted to loathe every part of this, knowing that he could see my likely cherry red ass and everything between my legs, and ultimately, the arousal dripping down my thighs.
Then he touched me.
I gasped.
It felt like sparks under my skin. Every nerve was hyper-alert, his fingers were so damn warm, and I hated that my first reaction was to rock against his touch.
His chuckle was dark and knowing.
He slid his finger over my pussy lips, finding my clit and circling it, and I shuddered.
“You liked that, didn’t you?”
“No,” I hissed, but it was a weak denial and we both knew it. I knew that he knew it before he even said anything at all.
“That’s alright, Sloane,” he murmured, his voice so damn low, his accent thick. “I’m a man who likes a woman who enjoys her punishment.”
Fuck.
There was a part of me that hated the way he talked to me. Like I was a disobedient child. A bad girl in need of a firm hand, a hard spanking, and an even harder cock. But it did something to me, too, something dark and hungry and humiliating, and I couldn’t deny that a tiny part of me loved it.
“Tell me you liked it,” he ordered, his fingers slipping over my clit a bit more firmly than before.
“No,” I hissed.
His other hand came down and squeezed my ass cheek, reminding me of the stinging punishment he’d already laid down, and the burning ache that still lingered, along with the threat that he could start it anew and I couldn’t do anything to stop him.
“Tell me,” he repeated.
I didn’t answer.
I wouldn’t.
He laughed. “Stubborn little girl. Maybe I should spank your soaking wet cunt, too.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said shakily, but it came out as more of a dare than anything else. Again, I tried to bring my legs together and he kicked them apart.
“Oh, I would,” he said, and when he slipped a finger into me, I couldn’t bite back the moan in time. “You’ve earned it, haven’t you?”
“That’s not fair,” I replied, the words coming out a bit strangled as he pumped his finger in and out of my soaking wet pussy.
“What’s not fair,” he countered, “is a pretty little girl getting spanked and liking it so much.”
He pushed another finger into me, his other hand between my shoulders, holding me down, and I groaned, my hips arching toward him without permission.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his hand on my back pressing down hard. “Say it, or you’ll be begging me to stop before I’m done.”
I wanted to say something clever. I wanted to be coy. I wanted to be smart and sexy and a tease, the kind of girl who got what she wanted because everyone around her knew they couldn’t have her.
I couldn’t. Not now. Not with him.
So I did the only thing that I could. I denied it.
“No,” I gasped, trying not to move my hips and ride his fingers, and really trying not to clench my pussy around his thick digits.
“Bad girl,” he growled.
And then his fingers were gone.
I barely had time to process the emptiness before his hand came up between my thighs and smacked my pussy. My shocked intake of breath echoed throughout the room and my legs buckled. The pain was immediate, shocking, and so much more intense than the spanking I just received on my ass. It burned and stung and sent a hot flash of pleasure right through me.
God help me, I was so wet.
I could hear it when he smacked between my legs, so he could, too. Fuck. I felt more humiliated in this moment than I’d ever imagined possible. Little did I know.
“No,” I whispered.
“You want to lie to me, little girl?” he asked, and his tone was dark and dangerous and so, so close.
“I hate you—”
His hand came up between my legs once more, punishing my pussy with the flat of his fingers. Once. Twice. Three times until my knees were buckling, and I was leaning on the counter trying to stay upright.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
My eyes flew open, a whimper escaped me, and my legs trembled. My pussy was on fire, my clit was throbbing, and every inch of my body was blazing with sensation.
Then he paused, sliding one hand down my body until it settled between me and the counter, and rubbed his palm between my legs.
“You’re bare down here, like a little slut,” he mused, and my face flamed with heat.
With that same hand, he used his fingers to spread me open, the cool air of the kitchen making my skin prickle and a shiver run through me. Then he used his other hand and brought it up between my legs, hard, the flats of his fingers punishing my clit directly.
The spank was brutal. Ruthless and shocking and so, so intense. I jolted forward and the moan that escaped my lips was broken and desperate. My entire body was trembling now, and it wasn’t just from the pain.
I felt like a live wire, every nerve ending in me alight with passionate need, the ache between my legs more intense than anything I had ever felt before and I tried to ignore it, but it was getting progressively harder.
“Stop,” I gasped, the word strangled and broken.
“No,” he growled. “I’m not even close to being done with you.”
He spanked my pussy again and I couldn’t stop myself. I bucked my hips back, seeking him out.
“You should know that was how good girls get their pretty little pussies spanked, but you weren’t a good girl, were you? You played around in my world, a world that’s far more dangerous than you realize. You’re a bad girl and you need to be punished, not pleasured,” he scolded and my face heated.
My body was humming. It felt like a coil that tightened too far, and I was frantic for release.
He smacked my pussy again, and I was so slick I could feel the wetness against my thighs.
“This is for your own good,” he told me, and I believed him.
Maybe it was. Maybe this was what I deserved. Maybe this was what I needed…
“How do bad girls get their pussies spanked?” I breathed out my question, wiggling my bottom just a bit as his fingers found my clit, rubbing in small tight circles and driving me crazy.
He leaned down, his lips at my ear. “Bad girls get their pussies spanked bright red, Sloane, and they get fucked hard and deep.”
Fuck.
The words sent a shiver down my spine, and the thought of him fucking me had my pussy clenching.
I tried to close my legs again and he forced them back apart.
“No, little girl,” he grunted. “You wanted to play in the big leagues, and you’re going to have to accept the consequences.”
Then his hand was between my legs again, and he spanked my pussy hard. Much harder than before.
He smacked me again and again. Each hit landed with perfect precision. I cried out, the pain and the pleasure twisting until it was all heat and tension, coiling tighter until I felt like I might snap.
“Please,” I begged, and I didn’t even know what I was begging for.
Maybe to come.
Maybe for mercy.
Maybe both.
“Please, what?” he demanded, his voice gravelly.
“Please, Nikolai,” I whispered.
“You want to come, little girl?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Not yet.”
I whimpered.
His palm slapped the tops of my thighs several times, the sharp sting painful in yet another way. Then his fingers slid through the slickness between my legs and found my clit. He was rubbing me. Then spanking me. And then fucking me with his fingers. He wasn’t even holding me down anymore, but my body refused to move, almost as if I was actually submitting to this, because maybe I was. And all I could do was clutch the edge of the island and take it.
Take everything.
Until my body was wound too tight and there was nothing left to give.
“Come for me, Sloane,” he said, and the words were a command, though the tone was gentle. “Come now.”
And I did.
My orgasm slammed into me with the force of a freight train. My knees buckled and the kitchen island beneath me was the only thing holding me up. Waves of sensation crashed over me, each one more intense than the last. He kept rubbing me, kept spanking me, working me through every last ripple until I sagged against the counter, breathless and dazed.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“We’re not done,” he warned, and the words should have worried me, but I was too far gone to care.
Without warning, his fingers drove back inside me again. Two, then three.
I cried out.
It was too much. Everything was too much.
I felt like I was going to break.
But he kept finger fucking me, his thumb against my clit, his other hand pressing me down into the cool marble, and I started to beg.
“Please,” I begged. “Nikolai, please—”
“Come again,” he growled.
“No! I can’t—” I shrieked.
“You can,” he demanded.
His fingers fucked me faster. Harder. Deeper.
When the second orgasm hit, it was just as intense as the first, but this time, when my body went limp, he didn’t stop.
He kept going.
He was unrelenting, working me through the aftershocks until my body started to climb again.
“No,” I gasped. “I can’t. Please! Nikolai, please.”
He spanked my sore aching pussy, and I shuddered.
“You can,” he growled, and then his hand was back on me, and he was fucking me with his fingers again. Fast. Deep. Unyielding.
I was lost in it, in the intensity of it. In the way he was demanding every part of me, and in the fact that I was giving in.
Another orgasm built, and this time when I came, I cried out his name. He didn’t stop, and I didn’t ask him to.
My third orgasm was the most intense. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel. It was terrifying and incredible at the exact same time. I never wanted it to end.
When I was finally spent, I sagged against the island, breathing deeply and trying to process everything that just happened.
His voice against my ear froze me in place.
“That was just the warmup, little girl,” he warned.
Oh.
Fuck.
