The bastard apparently had plenty of practice with this maneuver,I think, angry at myself when that seems more titillating than offensive.
“Since this is your first offense and we didn’t have a clear discussion about repercussions for bad behavior, I’ll give you twenty with just my hand.”
“Twenty?” I grit out, “This is just ridiculous and-Ow!”
A thunderous strike against my bare arse blooms like fire on my skin.
“That’s one,” he says calmly, “I won’t require you to count this time.”
“Dougal! You just-”
Another hard smack, and I press my lips together furiously. He’ll not get a thing from me. The third strike is so sharp that my hands flail and he pins them against my back. The fourth one is even harder and I feel the corners of my eyes getting dangerously damp.
Crying? I went to the Ares Academy, for feck’s sake! I had to run back to a meeting spot with two broken ribs once on a practice mission and I’m tearing up like abairnover a spanking?
Dougal continues the slaps until my arse is a searing red and he runs his hands over my bare skin. The heat radiates from my poor bottom to his palm and I’m suddenly, acutely, aware of our positions, especially when I feel something hard digging into my side.
Oh, sweet Jesus he’s not getting turned on from this, is he?
“You’re doing very well, wife,” he says calmly, as if he’s doing nothing more taxing than reading a book. “Just five more.”
“I hate you so much,” I hiss.
The next one, if possible, is harder and on the sensitive underside of my arse. I did not know there could be an even more painful spot but this bampot has found it.
“That’s sixteen.”
My cheek is on the couch next to his leg and I want to bite him so badly, just take a chunk out of his muscled thigh and make him limp for a week like I’m pretty sure I’ll be doing. Instead, I grit my teeth for the final four slaps on my arse and think of all the ways I’m going to kill this man.
His hands are smoothing over my heated skin again and I want to smack them away, though struggling just seems like too much work. When one big palm moves down my thigh, I try to twist loose. My center is suspiciously damp and I am horrified by it.
Why am I wet? This arsehole, this son of a bitch, laid hands on my person and I should be screaming like a buggered goose. Instead, I’m trying to pin my legs together so he can’t see what he’s done. I’m acutely aware of the rough texture of his jeans, his scent of scotch and woodsmoke and most infuriatingly, the feel of his very hard - and alarmingly large - dick pressing against my ribcage.
“Let me up,” I say between gritted teeth. “You said twenty.”
Dougal’s hand pauses, and I don’t miss the slight amusement in his tone. “Aye. Ya’ did well, lass.” He pulls my undies and leggings back over my reddened butt and carefully moves my booted foot so I can sit up.
“This time it was twenty,” he warns me. “If ya’ attempt to run away or endanger yourself again, I won’t be so lenient.”
Lifting me in his arms again, he heads out into the hall. “Do you want to go back outside, or up to your room?”
“What is the farthest from you?” I snarl. He has the sheer gall to laugh and lopes up the stairs to my bedroom.
“I have some cream for your red little arse,” he says, seating me on my bed. “I’ll bring it by later.”
“Just please go.” My face and my poor arse are both going up in flames and I want him to leave so I can bury my face in a pillow and scream with rage and confusion and possibly get myself off.
Then he stands up and makes it so much worse. There is an obvious wet mark on his jeans, right where my bare and defenseless pussy had been. Looking down at it and grinning, he says, “Let me know if you need a hand.”
“Just get OUT!” I shout, throwing a pillow at the door as he shuts it.
The next day, I call Papa with the news. Dougal’s watching me intently, lounging at his desk, as if I’m going to pass some deep coded intel to my father.
It takes ten minutes of negotiation with Papa. At last, there’s an agreement to meet in Glasgow for lunch the next day.
Dougal holds his hand out for the phone, and I reluctantly give it back. Still… “Thank you for this.”
“I want things to be right between you and your father,” he says gravely. “And maybe someday, right between our clans, aye?”
