CHAPTER EIGHT
The next morning brings chaos in its purest form. I don’t have time to think about Brett or about the swat in the barn. I don’t have time to wonder about how he would Daddy me and if I’d let him.
This morning started early with a retirement ceremony inside of our open events barn.
There’d been crisis after crisis, but we’d met each one with a smile.
After they’d all left, a school bus pulled up, a day early.
They’d messed up the dates, and we ended up with not one, but two entire preschools full of children running between crates of apples.
Vincent Van Goat had escaped again. It seemed like no matter what I did, the damn goat would find a way out of the pen.
Ten minutes after putting him back inside of the pen, something happened and someone left the petting zoo gate open.
Our two resident llamas ran free, we were missing a pig and of course, Van Goat was nowhere to be found.
It took almost an hour, but we rounded up every animal and had them back where they belonged.
Now, for the moment anyway, everything seemed to be going the way it was supposed to.
For now, anyway. Vincent is running around the pen, hopping up and jumping down from the large table I’d placed in there, just for his amusement.
And me? I'm running on fumes.
And shame.
Let's not forget the shame. Because this morning I woke up with the memory of Brett's hand on my backside, the echo of his voice calling me "good girl," and the uncomfortable realization that I want it to happen again.
I've been up since before dawn, hauling crates, checking displays, smiling until my jaw aches. My body hums with exhaustion, but the rhythm of work keeps me upright. As long as I keep moving, nothing can catch me.
Except Brett.
He's been watching me all morning with those perceptive eyes, cataloging every stumble, every moment of fatigue I try to hide. It's like being observed by someone who sees straight through my carefully maintained facade to the woman underneath who's running on caffeine and stubbornness.
He hovers like a storm cloud, tall and unreadable behind his glasses.
He lifts crates I'm perfectly capable of carrying, steadies ladders I climb and fixes me with that infuriatingly steady look whenever I push too hard.
I feel the look. The warning. I hear the way his tone has gotten more and more sharp as the day goes on.
Every intervention feels deliberate, calculated and not just helpful, but corrective. The memory of last night hangs between us, unspoken but unmistakable. Right now, he's watching me wrestle with a thirty-pound box of bruised apples bound for cider pressing.
"Put it down," he orders, his voice low but firm.
The command hits me like déjà vu, carrying the same authority as last night when he told me to say what I was reading. The same tone that made my body obey before my mind could protest.
"I've got it," I grit out, shifting the weight against my hip.
"Monica." The way he says my name stops me cold. It’s a command and warning all rolled into one. "Put. It. Down."
My name in his mouth has become a weapon, deployed with surgical precision whenever he wants my attention. And God help me, it works every time, cutting through my defenses like they're made of paper.
I freeze. My pride screams to keep going, but my body obeys him before my brain does. The crate thuds onto the table, and my arms shake with the aftershock.
I spin on him, heat rising in my cheeks. "I don't need you to babysit me!"
His eyes narrow. "You call this behavior what? Independence? Running yourself into the ground until you collapse?"
Independence. The word stings because it hits too close to the truth I've been avoiding. He’s right. This isn't independence. It's nothing more than self-destruction dressed up as determination. And we both know it.
"I'm not—"
The world tilts. For one terrifying second, black edges my vision.
Strong hands catch me before I fall. His hands are exactly where they need to be, exactly when they need to be there, like he's been anticipating this moment.
The competence of his response, no panic, no hesitation, just immediate action, reminds me why the heroines in my books are always falling for men like this.
"Damn it," Brett mutters, his voice rough with something that sounds a lot like fear. He pulls me behind the stand, away from the customers, and presses a bottle of water into my hand. "Drink."
"I don't—"
"Now." The command slices through my protest.
There's no room for argument in his tone, no space for negotiation. Just the absolute expectation that I will obey, backed by the kind of quiet authority that makes compliance feel natural rather than forced.
I take a drink.
“The entire bottle, Monica.”
And damn if I don’t bring the bottle back to my lips and tilt it backwards. Because I can't, not. Because my throat is dry, my head is spinning, and the steel in his tone won't allow an argument. When the bottle is empty, he takes it back, sets it aside, and steps closer. Too close.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne mixed with apple cider. Close enough to see the concern in his eyes beneath the authority, the care that drives his need to control my self-destructive tendencies.
His eyes pin mine, dark and unwavering. "You're done for today."
I gape. "The hell I am."
"Yes. You are." His voice softens, but the edge is still there. "You've been running on stubbornness and caffeine for days. You’re exhausted. There’s more than enough help here to finish the day. This ends now."
Stubbornness. Like I'm a misbehaving child who needs correction rather than a grown woman making her own choices.
The characterization should infuriate me.
Instead, it makes me want to prove him wrong and submit to his judgment all in the same breath.
Anger flares. Anger at him, at myself, at the truth in his words.
"You don't get to decide that."
His expression doesn't change, but his hand closes around my wrist, firm and grounding.
"You're right. You get to decide." He pauses, voice dropping lower.
"So decide. Do you want to keep burning yourself out until your orchard has nothing left of you?
Or do you want to let someone take care of you for once? "
The choice he's offering isn't really a choice at all. It's an invitation to surrender disguised as an ultimatum.
The words cut deep. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
"Thought so," he murmurs. He takes me by the wrists and tugs me gently but insistently toward the working barn.
"Brett—"
"Quiet." The single word carries the weight of absolute authority, cutting through my protest like it's meaningless.
And the terrible thing is, it feels like relief, this moment of not having to argue, not having to fight, not having to be strong for just a few minutes.
My pulse hammers as he guides me inside, past stacks of hay bales and bins of apples, until we're alone.
He closes the door and locks it and with it all the noise of the orchard. The world outside feels miles away.
This is exactly the kind of setting the Naughty Girls Book Club fantasizes about.
It’s rustic, private, charged with the kind of tension that makes readers' hearts race.
Except this isn't fiction, and the man leading me deeper into the shadows isn't a fantasy hero.
He's real, and he's about to prove just how real the dynamics I've been reading about can be.
He turns to me, arms folded. "You've pushed yourself past the point of sense. You ignored warnings. You argued when you should've listened. You scared me, Monica."
The vulnerability in that last admission catches me off guard. Because beneath all his authority, all his control, he's genuinely afraid for me. It's not about dominance for its own sake; it's about caring enough to intervene when I can't take care of myself.
“Remember last night when I told you that daddies don’t like it when their girls put their health and safety at risk?”
“Yes, but–”
“And yet, today you put both your health and safety at risk. In fact, you’ve been doing that since I arrived a week ago.
I can’t count the number of times you’ve done something risky.
” His gaze hardens. "So now, I'm going to make sure to give you a lesson that sticks with you more than my words did. "
My stomach flips. "You wouldn't—"
"Wouldn't what?" His brows lift. "Wouldn't put you over my knee?
Wouldn't spank you until you remember that you're human, not a machine?
Spank the stubbornness out of you and make you realize that it's okay to not be Superwoman all the damn time? You want me to spank you, Monica. You’ve wanted me to step up and take control for a few days now; you and I both know it. "
The words are exactly what I've been reading about for weeks, exactly what the heroines in my books crave and fear in equal measure.
But hearing them in real life, in Brett's calm, certain voice, makes them infinitely more powerful. This is real. I’m not dreaming.
Professor Perfect is threatening to spank me.
Heat floods my face. "You can’t."
"I can." He steps closer, his presence towering, steady, unyielding. “I'm right. And you know it."
I do know it. That's the terrifying part.
He's right about my self-destructive tendencies, right about my need for someone to intervene, right about the way I respond to his authority.
And he's about to be right about what I need, what I want, what I’ve been craving…
even if I'm not brave enough to ask for it.
I back up a step, heart pounding, until my thighs hit the edge of a hay bale. "You can't just—"
His hand lifts, brushing my cheek with surprising gentleness. "You can stop this. All you have to do is say no. Do you want me to stop?"
The choice is mine, freely given, no coercion or manipulation.
Just a clear offer to walk away if this isn't what I want. It's exactly the kind of consent I need to know I’m safe. He’s given me control.
The barn hums with silence. My pride screams yes, stop!
But my body… my body leans into his touch, craving the release, the surrender.
I whisper, "No."
His eyes darken, satisfaction flashing in their depths. "Good girl."
And there it is. Two simple words. The praise that makes my knees weak, the approval I've been craving since he first used those words on me. This is what surrender feels like: not defeat, but relief. Not weakness, but trust.
Before I can reconsider what I’ve consented to, he sits on the hay bale and pulls me effortlessly across his lap.
"Brett!" I squirm, but his arm locks around my waist, holding me firmly in place.
"You're safe," he murmurs, low against my ear. "But you're also about to learn that I don’t make idle threats."
Safe. The promise settles something deep in my chest, some fear I didn't even know I was carrying. Whatever happens next, however vulnerable this position makes me feel, I trust him not to hurt me. Besides, how much could a spanking hurt?
The first swat lands sharp and startling against my jeans. I gasp, jerking, but his hand steadies me.
Swat. Swat. Swat.
Each one lands firm, deliberate, not brutal but impossible to ignore.
Heat blooms across my backside, shame and arousal tangling in a dizzying rush.
This is exactly what I've been reading about, exactly what I've been secretly fantasizing about.
The firm guidance, the controlled strength, the way he delivers each swat with deliberate precision.
It's correction and care wrapped up in one overwhelming package.
"Why are you here?" he asks between swats, his voice calm, measured. “Over my lap having your bottom warmed?”
"Because I—ah!—overdid it," I gasp. His hand hasn’t stopped falling. One swat after another swat lands. My jeans are on, but I must have bought the thinnest denim material on the planet because damn if I can’t feel every single sting of his palm.
"Because you ran yourself down and picked stubbornness over safety," he corrects.
"Yes!"
Swat.
"Because you refused help."
"Yes, damn it!"
The lesson builds with each exchange, each swat driving home the truth I've been avoiding. This isn't punishment for its own sake, it’s a form of education, delivered in the most effective way possible for someone as stubborn as me.
The spanking continues, steady and relentless, until my resistance crumbles. My head drops against his thigh, tears pricking my eyes, not from pain, but from the release of finally, finally letting go.
This is what surrender feels like. It’s not the defeat I always feared, but the profound relief of trusting someone else to take control when I can't. Of admitting that I don't have to carry everything alone, that it's okay to need help, that accepting care doesn't make me weak.
When he stops, his hand rests warm against the curve of my hip. His voice is softer now, threaded with care. "There. Lesson learned?"
I nod, breath hitching. "Yes."
"Say it."
"Yes, Daddy." The words slip out unbidden, shocking us both.
There’s no conscious thought to it. The words come out feeling as natural as breathing. This is who I am with him, who I really am. Not the stubborn, independent woman who refuses help, but someone who can accept guidance, who can trust another person to know what she needs.
His breath catches, just for a moment. Then he strokes my back, gentle, grounding. "Good girl."
Something inside me shatters and heals all at once.
He eases me upright, cradling me against his chest. I don't fight it. For once, I let myself be held.
And in this moment, wrapped in his arms with the sting of his palm still warm on my skin, I finally understand what all those romance novels were trying to tell me.
Submission isn't about losing myself, it's about finding a different version of myself, one who's strong enough to be vulnerable, brave enough to trust, secure enough to surrender.
And God help me, I've never felt safer.