Chapter 11 #2
“What are you talking about?” I tried to sound calm. Tried to look like one of those girls he flirted with—cool, composed, unfazed. Not like the little sister I always feared he saw when he looked at me.
“Before your mother left,” he said slowly, deliberately, “she told me to keep an eye on you. Watch out for you. Didn’t she?”
He smiled, but it wasn’t soft. It was smug. Confident. Unshakable.
“Whatever,” I muttered. “I’m almost an adult.”
“Not whatever. And ‘almost’ isn’t the same,” he snapped. “Did you or did you not take your mother’s car out without permission? Yes or no?”
I had to force myself to breathe. “I’m old enough to have my license.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His voice was even sterner now, and I felt like I was being dragged in two different directions. Shame and desire, fury and longing. My heart fluttered so hard it hurt.
“I…” I clenched my legs together, embarrassed. So many feelings, so much heat in my chest and cheeks. “Yes. Fine. I went for a little ride. Okay?”
“And you damaged the fucking bumper,” he growled, his Irish brogue thicker with anger. “Look at this. Mud all over the bloody tires. You could’ve hurt yourself.”
He bent down, inspecting the bumper, his fingers grazing the scratches, the muck, the mess I’d made. Then suddenly, he stood up and spun around.
“Did you hurt yourself?” he demanded, his voice low and furious.
I shook my head quickly, humiliated. “No. I’m fine.”
“Good,” he snapped. “Get inside. Go to bed.”
“You’re not my father, Owen,” I shot back, bristling.
I needed to defend myself. To claw back just a little power.
Even though, deep down, some part of me liked it—him taking control.
Liked it way too much. “You can’t boss me around like that,” I said, my voice rising.
“Even my own father didn’t talk to me that way. ”
“Maybe that’s the fucking problem.” He pointed a finger at me, his whole presence towering and magnetic. “You’re grounded until your mom gets back, Emma. I’m the one in charge. I won’t have you hurting yourself on my watch. Do you understand me?”
His voice was low but lethal, and my cheeks flamed with mortification.
“Our parents are gone for the weekend. You’re under my protection.” His tone sharpened. “And that means, you’ll do what I fucking say. Now get in that house and go to bed. And if I hear one more word from you, so help me…”
He didn’t finish the threat. He didn’t have to.
My face still burning lobster red, I turned and ran. I resisted the urge to snap something smart at him, though every part of me wanted to. I wasn’t going to be petulant. Not tonight.
I wanted him to see me. Really see me.
Not as a kid.
Not as someone to protect.
But as a girl who could make her own damn choices.
Why couldn’t he see that?
And now, here I am. A full-grown woman, sitting in the dark, my heart pounding, mind spinning, and yet I’ve never felt younger.
It’s like I’ve been mentally time-warped, sucked straight back into that awkward, shy girl I used to be.
The one who thought she was madly in love with a boy she couldn’t have.
The same boy who’s now the sexiest goddamn man alive, and standing just feet away from me.
Owen’s voice comes from the doorway—thick with heat. “What’s your word count?”
Knowing what’s coming—that he’s going to punish me, that I want it—makes my stomach twist in confusion and need. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I need.
But in the very next breath, none of it matters anymore.
Because he’s in my space. Right there. Close, dominating the room. His presence is like a wall. His eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, intense.
“Did you do this on purpose, Emma?” he asks, his voice stern, his arms crossed over his chest, biceps bulging beneath his rolled sleeves.
I bite my lip as my heart rattles in my chest. I can’t answer. I glance out the window instead, watching snow spiral through the darkness. The storm has swallowed everything. We’re still snowed in.
Trapped.
There’s no running now—not from my past, not from the memories, and definitely not from the man standing in front of me.
I shake my head.
“No?” It comes out too quiet, too soft.
“Is that a question?” he asks, his voice dipping lower, thick with command.
He sits at the edge of the bed, spreading his legs slightly, and planting his boots on the floor like he owns it all—me included. His gaze holds mine, never blinking.
He pats his knee… once, firmly.
“Over,” he says.
My body freezes. I don’t know if I can. Every muscle locks. My limbs feel heavy, like I’m sinking in wet cement.
Are my fears holding me back? Is it desire? Panic? Or something else entirely? Something hotter and more dangerous.
Can he tell? Can he see how badly I want this?
I swallow hard. My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips.
“Now, Emma,” he says again, his tone grating against my nerves, deadly calm. “Or this is going to get much worse for you.”
And somehow, I move.
I throw the covers off. My laptop topples to the side, landing with a soft thud on the carpet. I stare at it for a beat, like it might offer me an escape hatch.
Was this really the right decision?
Too late.
Owen growls low in his throat when he eyes my barely there shorts clinging to my thighs.
“You’re freezing your arse off in here?” he asks, his voice all rough Irish edges.
I shrug. “Not under the blankets.”
“Aye,” he growls again, his eyes glinting. He points to his thigh. “I’ll warm you up good too. Now come here. Don’t make me say it again.”
God. The version of me from back then—the young woman who had just barely tipped into adulthood, clinging to her childhood daydreams—she’s flipping out inside. Screaming. Spinning.
I don’t know how to deal with this moment. It’s too much.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I put myself over his knee.
My belly presses against his thigh, and my hair falls over my face, dangling toward the floor. My hands flail until I find the edge of the bedspread and grab it, holding on tight.
And then I feel it—his arousal, hard and unmistakable beneath me. Pressed right up against me.
I squirm.
“Good girl,” he murmurs with a low growl. “That’s a good girl.”
Mmm. Say it again.
He fingers the edge of my waistband, sliding it down just enough to expose the curve of my ass.
“Owen—no!” I gasp, half-panicked.
The thought of getting spanked bare suddenly feels too real. Too vulnerable.
Why does it scare me so much? This is Owen. He would never hurt me.
But still…
“Maybe you should’ve thought of that when you decided to disobey me,” he says, a wicked lilt to his voice. And then—his hand comes down hard.
Smack.
The sound ricochets through the room. His palm covers both cheeks, heat blooming instantly across my skin.
I arch, yelping. “Ow!”
“Ow, indeed,” he says smugly, clearly pleased. He tugs my tiny shorts the rest of the way down until they dangle at my ankles, forgotten.
His warm hand settles firmly on my bare ass.
“You’re going to be a good girl now, aren’t you?”
I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak.
“Good,” he says. “You get three more.”
I bite the blanket to keep from moaning, not from pain but from how badly I want him to do it all again.
Each smack lands harder than the last. My skin burns. My nerves spark. I’m on fire, nerves singing, every cell tuned to him.
I can’t think straight. I’m too turned on… too out of control.
My thoughts scatter, replaced by the singular, throbbing heat in my body, right where his palm connects with my skin.
And in that heat, something builds. Something dangerous. Something that hums low and needy in my belly.
“There,” he says finally, loosening the grip on my lower back, his free hand brushing the curve of my spine. “That ought to teach you to hit your word count. Hmm?”
But no.
It doesn’t teach me anything.
If anything, it ignites me.
I need more. I crave it. My body is screaming for release that I somehow know is just on the other side of this edge.
But he stops, then pulls me into his lap, cradling me, my skin still burning hot against him. His arms wrap around me, grounding me in the aftershocks.
I look up at him, my cheeks hot, my eyes unfocused.
“Now then,” he says softly. “Are you going to hit your word count today?”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yes,” I whisper.
“Good girl,” he says again, with that same possessive pride in his tone.
Then his mouth dips close to my ear, his voice a delicious rasp.
“Let me ask you something else, Emma. Did that turn you on?”
I freeze.
“If I put my fingers into that tight, needy little cunt, would it be slick for me?”
I squirm, my breath catching.
Another swallow.
“Yes…”
He gives my red-hot ass an appreciative squeeze that makes me hitch in a breath.
“Good. I’ll keep that in mind. Finish those words, Emma.”