Page 127 of Beautiful Scars

I pull back with a murmured, “Shit, sorry.”

He shakes his head, touching a knuckle to the angry cut on his lip. “It’s nothing.” Then he leans closer, for all the world like he’s not fucking bleeding again.

“Not a chance, buster.” I hold up an imperious finger. “Think I want you looking like you just walked out of a pub brawl on ourweddingday?”

He gives me a half-smile. “But you taste so good.”

When he leans in again, I reach behind me, grab a flapjack, and stick it up between us. He draws back, eyes narrowed. “They’re good, but not nearly that good.” He rips the flapjack from my hand and tosses it over his shoulder.

I push against his pecs. “Cillian, no!”

“You’re peaching me?” he asks, tilting his head. “For kissing you?”

“Heal!” I snap.

That sends his eyebrows right the fuck up to his hairline.

“No, I mean, not like you’re a dog—” I don’t get any further.

The world blurs as Cillian grabs the back of my neck and pushes me down. My face hits the couch’s pillow, immediately muffling my indignant yell. But a second later, my sweatpants are by my knees, and cool air is caressing my ass.

“Don’t you dare take that tone with me, little girl,” Kill growls a beat before he slaps my ass.

“I didn’t—”

“Keep going,” he warns. “Daddy’s just getting started.” Another slap rings out, sending a shock of pain and pleasure through my body.

“Please, I’m sorry!” But then I’m choking on a laugh, because this is fucking ridiculous.

I’m not ten. He doesn’t get to spank me.

But his palm connecting with my ass says different. The shocked gasp he wrenches from me says different. The way my body responds to him says different.

They say he can do whatever the fuck he wants to me, anytime, anywhere, and I’ll eat. That. Shit. Up.

“Now what you’re gonna do,” he says, rubbing the palm of his hand over my rump for all the world like he’s trying to take away the sting, “is you’re gonna start counting for me. Can you do that? How high can you count, little girl?”

“Fuck—”

Slap.

“One!” And then I’m laughing again.

Slap.

“Two!”

I’m going to pee myself if he keeps going.

Slap.

“Fuck, Kill, it hurts!” But my protest emerges chopped up and barely legible through my giggles.

Slap.

“Four!”

“Nuh, uh,” he murmurs, rubbing my ass again. “We’re at three, baby girl.”