Chapter 17 #3
His gaze moved over my face, not missing a single thing. The anger. The defiance. The pulse hammering beneath my skin. The fact that I could have turned toward the door and didn’t.
“You made a choice,” he said. “Now you will deal with the consequences.”
Every part of my mind objected.
Every part of my body listened.
“This is insane,” I said.
“No.”
“You can’t just decide to spank—”
“I can.”
“Why? Because you’re Bratva?”
“No.”
“Because you’re bigger?”
“No.”
“Because you’re my daddy?” I snapped.
The word crackled through the apartment. There was no taking it back. Ivan’s expression changed so subtly I almost missed it. Heat, dark and immediate, moved behind his eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
He stepped closer.
“I am going to spank you, Kit. Not because you went to your apartment. Not because you wanted something that was yours. I’m going to spank you because you were reckless, because you hid it, and because if you are going to put yourself under my protection, you will not lie to me about things that involve your safety. ”
I swallowed and I looked at his hands. They were big.
Broad. And entirely too capable of probably stinging a lot on my bare backside.
My stomach fluttered with nerves when he moved closer.
He took my arm firmly enough that I felt the inevitability of it.
He led me to the couch, sat, and pulled me over his knee in one smooth motion before my pride found a way to make the logistics worse.
“Oh, fuck,” I blurted.
This was happening.
Really happening.
I was over Ivan Morozov’s lap, my hands braced against the couch cushion, my stomach pressed across his thigh, my legs angled awkwardly toward the floor.
His arm came around my waist, solid and impossible, holding me in place without crushing me.
My hair fell forward, and the entire world narrowed to the couch fabric beneath my palms, the heat of his body beneath mine, and the humiliating reality that I was about to get the first spanking of my life whether I liked it or not.
“You lied to me and put yourself at risk, didn’t you, little girl?”
My face burned red hot.
Every inch of me burned, actually.
Especially when his fingers went to the waistband of my leggings.
My whole body tensed.
“Yes,” I whispered hoarsely.
Without another word, he drew my leggings down slowly, not yanking, but not fumbling either.
Inch by inch, the fabric slid over my hips, and humiliation flared hot up my spine as cool air touched the backs of my thighs.
My panties were still in place. They were black.
Simple. Definitely not chosen for this because no sane person chose underwear anticipating a Bratva boss would put her over his knee for lying after she snuck out of his apartment.
Then his fingers hooked into those too and my breath left me.
“Ivan, wait!”
“Yes?”
“Please let me keep them up.”
“No.”
That shut me up so completely it was almost offensive.
He pulled my panties down. It took maybe a second, but it felt like ages as the waistband of my underwear dragged down my cheeks, baring me slowly inch by inch until they were down completely.
My ass was bare over his lap.
The words formed in my head with unbearable clarity.
I was bare over Ivan Morozov’s lap.
Waiting for a spanking.
My first real spanking.
I had made jokes about consequences. I had fantasized under hot water and pretended that was my body being a weird little chemical disaster.
I had taunted him with ‘Daddy’ like a weapon.
None of that prepared me for the actual vulnerability of this moment: my leggings and underwear pulled down, my face hot, my hands gripping the couch, his palm resting lightly on my bare bottom like he owned the right to put it there and I thought that maybe, just maybe, in this moment, he did.
“This is for leaving without telling me,” he said.
His voice was steady. Mine was not.
“I came back though,” I tried.
“And for thinking coming back erased the risk.”
“I wasn’t gone long.”
“And also for deciding the length of the risk mattered more than the lie.”
“I needed the drive.”
“And finally for using a true statement to avoid the real one.”
His hand lifted and I felt the absence of his touch for a split second before the first smack landed. The sound of it cracked loudly through the apartment.
So did the sting.
His palm was big and firm, and the impact bloomed over my left cheek in a hot, shocking burst that seemed to travel everywhere at once. My whole body jerked, I gasped, and his arm tightened around my waist, keeping me in place.
“Oh, my God,” I said.
“No,” Ivan replied calmly. “Just Daddy.”
The second smack landed on the other cheek, just as hard, just as stinging. Heat flared. My toes curled against the floor. My hands dug into the couch.
This was not like fantasy.
Fantasy had been manageable because fantasy let me control the camera angle. Fantasy let me skip the humiliating logistics, the burning sting, the awkward vulnerability, the terrible awareness that each smack made my body remember exactly why I was there.
His hand fell again.
And again.
Alternating cheeks. Hard enough that the sting built instead of fading. Hard enough that by the six or seventh smack, I started worrying about what was happening.
I was being spanked.
Really spanked.
That thought kept repeating with every crack of his hand against my naked cheeks.
I, Kit Calloway, who treated every system as compromised and every man as potentially useless until proven otherwise, was over Ivan Morozov’s knee getting my bare ass spanked because I had lied to him and put myself at risk.
The humiliation should have eclipsed everything else.
It did not.
Heat gathered low in my body, terrible and insistent, tangled with the sting until I could not separate punishment from arousal, outrage from relief.
His hand was so big it seemed to cover an entire cheek with each smack.
The sound was loud enough to make me flinch before the sting arrived.
He did not rush. He did not let my squirming change his pace.
He just spanked me.
For real.
His hand started coming down harder and I yelped, which was embarrassing.
So was the next one.
And the next.
The spanking shifted from shocking to painful somewhere around the time he focused on the lower curve of my cheeks and then the backs of my thighs, where the sting bit sharper and sank deeper.
I kicked once before I could stop myself, and he trapped my legs with one of his, holding me so effortlessly that my struggle became less escape attempt and more proof that escape was not currently on the table.
“I’m sorry,” I snapped, furious that the words had come out at all.
“No, you are angry.”
“I’m both.”
His hand paused and the sudden absence made the sting feel hotter.
“Then say it properly, little girl.”
I breathed hard. The room blurred slightly around the edges. My ass burned under his hand, and my pride was somewhere on the floor, probably taking notes for revenge.
“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” I said through clenched teeth.
“And?”
I glared at the couch cushion while his palm rested on my heated skin.
Waiting.
Patient bastard.
“I’m sorry I lied when you asked.”
“And?”
“There’s more?”
His hand lifted.
“No, wait—” I said, but the next smack landed anyway, low and sharp enough that I squeaked like an idiot.
“Yes,” he said. “There’s more, naughty girl.”
I breathed through the sting.
I was very aware of my bare bottom. Very aware of his thigh under me. Very aware that my eyes had actually gone wet now, which was unacceptable and also maybe the point.
“I’m sorry I used the drive as an excuse because I wanted to prove I could leave. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I’m just sorry.”
His hand settled again.
“Say it properly, little girl,” he said again.
I stalled for a moment. I knew what he wanted, but I didn’t want to say it.
I also knew that my spanking would probably continue if I didn’t give him what he wanted and my bottom was already burning like I had sat down on a hot frying pan.
I swallowed hard and opened my mouth two or three times before the words came out.
“I’m sorry… Daddy,” I finally whispered in a voice so low that it was hardly audible.
“Good girl,” he said.
My breath hitched.
Damn him.
Damn him for the words, for his firm hand, for the fact that some part of me had been waiting for this exact thing without ever admitting it.