The rhythm was relentless.
Until it stopped.
“Stand, please.”
Danny froze.
That was it?
He pushed to his feet, unsure whether to feel grateful or broken. His hands trembled.
Easton looked up at him. “That was the warm-up.”
Danny’s heart jumped.
“Lower your jeans and underwear,” Easton instructed. “Then get that bare bottom back over my lap.”
Danny obeyed with fingers fumbling, his pants catching at his knees. He climbed back across Easton’s lap, exposed now, trembling, but more ready than he’d ever been.
This wasn’t over.
His heart sang.
The boy worried him.
Easton shifted his hand and gently rubbed over Danny’s reddened skin. His arm was getting tired and his palm stung, but that didn’t matter.
Over his lap, Danny shuddered.
Easton felt the tremble all the way through him like a violin string drawn taut across grief and shame and something aching for release. The Daddy in him knew exactly what it meant.
The boy needed more, before he would let go of the pain he was holding inside.
The man in him noticed the firm, muscular curve beneath his hand, and heat rose through his own chest in a slow, traitorous ripple. But he closed his eyes, exhaled through the flare of want, and let it go.
Wants faded quickly. They were like a sugar craving or rush, sweet, fleeting, and gone before the mind even registered satisfaction. A dopamine hit with no staying power. A fleeting indulgence that scratched an itch but never fed the soul.
Needs were different.
Needs weren’t about instant gratification, but about sustenance. They demanded patience, intention, and presence. Meeting a need required someone to stay when things got messy, to hold steady when the storm hit. Needs weren’t answered with quick fixes or clever words. They were answeredwith arms that didn’t let go, with rules that stayed firm, with care that didn’t disappear at the first sign of discomfort.
Easton knew the difference. Had lived the difference.
He could feel it now in the tremble running through Danny’s frame. The boy didn’t need release in the form of friction or praise or even sexual touch, no matter how gratifying that would be. He needed to be held accountable for the grief he refused to feel. He needed the safety to break down, and someone strong enough to keep holding him while he did.
That was the need.
And that was Easton’s role.
He adjusted the rhythm of his hand, careful now to avoid the deepest red marks blooming across Danny’s skin. The heat radiating from his backside was unmistakable—fiery and alive—but Easton wasn’t here to leave bruises or break the boy. Pain could heighten pleasure, yes. It could also act as a key, unlocking emotion that had nowhere else to go.
Danny’s skin was now a vivid patchwork of red and pink, and his bottom nearly matching the vibrant streaks in his hair. Easton hadn’t left bruises but was getting close. Easton adjusted the rhythm, peppering slaps around the angriest blotches. He didn’t want to stop—not when they were so close—but he wouldn’t ignore the signs. He’d never been the kind of man who found satisfaction in damage. Pain was a tool and not a trophy for him.
But the boy would feel this tomorrow. Likely well into the next day.
Another swat. Then another.
Danny’s breath came in shallow pulls now, and his hands fisted around Easton’s ankle. Blunt nails dug into the skin.
