"That was good," I said quietly, turning back to my desk to start organizing the files we'd spread across every surface.
Nikolai's arms came around me from behind, his chin resting on top of my head. "You're good. Watching you work with Ivan—watching you be brilliant and confident and exactly who you're supposed to be—" He paused for a moment, and I couldfeelthe change in him.
“—makes me want to take you apart and put you back together the way only I can.”
Heat surged low and fast. I curled my fingers around his forearms and let my head tip back against his chest.
“Do it,” I whispered. “Please.”
He turned me and kissed me like he was sealing something holy. Slow at first. Then not. His mouth took mine, his tongue stroking deep, claiming. The library fell away. It was just his breath, his taste, the slide of his palm under my blouse.
“Use your words,” he murmured against my lips. “What are you asking for, printsessa?”
“Reward.” My cheeks burned. “For doing perfect.”
He smiled against my mouth. Wolfish. Daddy and Pakhan and man, all in one. “Then present.”
The command went through me like an electric chord. I stepped from his arms and faced the desk. My hands went to the top button of my blouse, but he caught my wrist.
“No,” he said softly. “Let me.”
He undid each button with precise fingers, eyes on my face the whole time. Fabric opened. Cool air kissed my skin. My bra was soft dove gray, and his pupils blew dark when he saw it.
“Hands on the desk,” he said.
I planted my palms. Leather mousepad under my left hand, the edge of a neat stack of manifests under my right. The wood was warm from the sun. He pushed my blouse off my shouldersand it caught at my elbows again, pinning them just enough to arch my back.
He dragged my zipper down. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He peeled my trousers down and I stepped out, kicking them aside. My heart was in my throat. The window glass threw late gold across the floor, catching dust like glitter. I felt exposed. Displayed. My pulse kicked hard at my throat.
“Panties,” he said.
I hooked my thumbs and slid them down. Soft cotton. Damp. They stuck to the inside of my thigh for a second and then fell. Cool air hit slick skin and I shivered.
“Wider.” His palm nudged the inside of my knee with that quiet authority that made my brain go fuzzy. I opened. My heels planted. Ankles apart.
He stepped in close. The heat of him at my back, the careful way he didn’t touch me except where he wanted. Fingers traced the edge of my collar where it lay against my throat. His leather. His claim. I pushed back into the touch like a cat.
“Good girl.” He kissed the nape of my neck and I melted even though the desk was digging into my hip bones. “Count for Daddy. Ten. Reward spanks.”
I made a helpless sound. “Yes, Daddy.”
His hand disappeared and then came back as heat. The first slap landed on my right cheek—sharp, clean, a sting that bloomed into warmth.
“One,” I breathed. My fingers tightened on the desk edge. Wood bit my palms. Good.
He rubbed where he’d hit, soothing the sting with his big warm hand. Then the left. A little harder.
“Two.”
He worked them like a metronome. Smack, stroke, praise. The rhythm put me under. Numbers were anchors when I floated. By four my thighs were trembling. By six I was rocking into hispalm, chasing pain into pleasure because that was what my body did when he had me like this.
“Six,” I gasped.
“Seven.” My voice shook. Need and heat. The sting settled into a glow that spread low and wet.
“Atta girl.” His palm smoothed across both cheeks, possessive. “Back down.”
He didn’t warn me. The next one landed square across the center. Sharper. Sound cracked in the room, echoed off wood and glass. My knees wobbled.
