Page 12 of Haden

I slide my palm around so I’m cupping her neck, pressing slightly against her throat, just enough to make her feel trapped. Her pulse is rapid against my fingers, but she’s not bucking against me. She’s not running. In fact, she’s still holding my gaze. Tempting me. Forcing my hand.

Dammit.

“You want to spank me for cussing, don’t you?”

My fingers twitch against her neck. “Yes, jitterbug. I want to spank you.”

“Do it.”

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. I cannot spank this girl. I have no right. She’s not mine. She doesn’t understand what it means to be mine.

Except, isn’t she? Mine? Am I fooling myself by denying the chemistry between us? It’s always been there, but that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t mean I should take her.

I could. I could probably even mold her to be the sort of woman I enjoy. But for how long? Emilia is far too young to make such an important life decision. Even if she submitted to me beautifully and decided she loved being my girl, I have no right to train her to be the type of submissive I want. She could easily look back in five, ten, or twenty years with a mountain of regrets.

Would it hurt to spank her, though? A demonstration?

“Fine.”

Her breath hitches. “You’ll spank me?”

“Yes. And then you will go back to the main house and go to bed. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She nods and licks her lips. “Yes, Sir.”

Fuck, that sounds good coming from her lips. I release her hair and jaw and grip her bicep to guide her toward the bed. “Take your panties off, Emilia,” I order.

She hesitates, her cheeks turning pink.

I’m going to push her because she needs to understand how serious I am about this. I’m fucking demanding. I like total control. I won’t settle for anything less. I hold out a hand, palm up, waiting for compliance.

She reaches under her skirt and wiggles out of her panties before setting them in my open hand. White lace and silk. Expensive. Sexy. Mine.

I tuck them into my pocket. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. If we were at a fetish club, you would have a safeword. If we were a new couple, you would have a safeword. If you ever decide to dabble in kink with anyone else, you need to have a safeword. For tonight, you will use red. If at any point you want me to stop, say red. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“But here’s the thing, Emilia. If you were mine, we wouldn’t have this discussion every day. I wouldn’t check in with you to make sure you were okay every time I spanked you. I would just do it, and you would accept it.”

“Yes, Sir,” she whispers.

“Turn around. Pull your dress up. Lean over the end of the bed.”

“You’re not going to take me over your lap?”

“No, naughty girl. That’s too intimate for tonight. I’m simply going to show you what it feels like to be swatted over and over again until your skin is red hot. Take this opportunity to grasp what it means to be mine.”

Why the fuck do I keep emphasizing the word mine? Emilia Wilde is not mine. She can’t be because she doesn’t know what that would mean. I can’t simply will it into existence. I can’t claim her. The memory of what happened last time I tried to mold someone into being what I need makes me shudder.

Emilia turns around, head held high, lifts her skirt, and bends over the end of the bed. Her dress is high enough that I can see the tan lines from a bikini. Her skin is always a nice, tanned color, but now I see that her bottom is not as tan as the rest of her. I’d love to see her breasts. Shit.