Page 131 of Dark King Daddy

“Touch me.”

“That’s not part of the game.”

“Please.”

“No.”

I lifted my hand. Sixth stroke. Harder than the others. She gasped—a sharp intake of breath that broke into something lower, a sound that came from her chest rather than her throat. Her fingers curled against the carpet.

“Six.”

Seventh. Eighth. The counting was getting harder. Her voice fractured on seven, broke on eight. She was pressing against my leg now—grinding, involuntary, her hips moving in small circles, seeking friction that I was not giving her. The wetness had spread. I could smell her—musk and heat and the scent of a woman whose arousal had passed the point of management.

“Daddy, please. Please. I need—”

“You need to count.”

“I can’t—I need you to touch me. Please. I’m so wet. I need to come. Please let me come.”

“No chance.”

Nine. The hardest yet. Full palm, full force, landing across the fullest part of her ass. The sound filled the room. She cried out — not a scream, something rawer, a sound that came from the base of her body and traveled upward through her spine and out through her mouth.

“Nine.” The word was barely formed. Half syllable. Half breath.

I stopped.

My hand rested on her. She was trembling. Small, continuous tremors running through her thighs, her stomach, her hands on the floor. She was drenched—the underwear was useless, soaked through, and the wetness was on my leg, on her thighs, on the fabric of my trousers. Her skin was hot and red beneath my palm. She had been begging for the last two minutes, and the begging had stripped every layer of composure from her voice, leaving only need.

“Last one,” I said. “Count it.”

“Daddy—“

“Count it, Ksyusha.”

I brought my hand down. Ten. Full force, centered, the impact driving through her body. Her back arched. Her hands pressed flat against the floor. And she came.

The orgasm hit her without direct touch—triggered by the strike, by the buildup, by the ten strokes of heat and denial and the relentless, controlled rhythm I had maintained while she fell apart. Her body clenched. Her thighs squeezed together. She made a sound I had not heard before—deep, guttural, pulled from somewhere beneath her ribs—and her hips bucked against my leg, once, twice, three times, each thrust involuntary, her body chasing the climax that had broken through every barrier she had tried to maintain.

She moaned. Long, low, broken at the center. Her fingers scraped the carpet. Her face was turned to the side, her eyes closed, her mouth open, and the tears—not grief, not pain, something else entirely—tracked down her cheeks and dropped onto the floor.

“Ten,” she whispered. The word was wrecked.

I gathered her up. My hands slid beneath her arms and I lifted — pulled her off my lap, onto my chest, her body against mine. She was shaking. Her face pressed into my neck. Her hands found my shirt and gripped. I held her. One arm across her back, one hand cradling her head, my mouth against her hair.

“Breathe,” I said.

She breathed. Ragged. Uneven. Each exhale shuddered through her body.

“I came,” she said. Muffled against my neck. “From being spanked. I didn’t know I could do that. I didn’t know it was even possible.”

“Me neither.”

“It was—” She stopped. Swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

I held her until the trembling eased. Until her breathing found a rhythm. Until her grip on my shirt loosened from desperate to resting.

Then I stood. I lifted her with me—one arm beneath her knees, one behind her back — and carried her out of the library and up the stairs to my bedroom.