Stern Daddy (Dark Daddy Doms Book 3)

by Ava Sinclair

  And didn’t I bring this on myself? Draping myself over a stranger’s lap is one more bad decision in a string of bad decisions. But blame doesn’t lessen the panic and humiliation of having a strong hand grip the waistband of my jeans and drag them down. Max Iver does this deliberately. He’s been methodical in landing solid blows that have the entire lower portion of my bottom throbbing with fiery hurt. He’s methodical now as he arranges the top of my jeans just below my knees.

  “Don’t! Don’t!” My plea is plaintive as he reaches now for the waistband of my panties. I’m mortified as I realize I grabbed the first ones I could find after my shower today—the ones with the Wonder Woman logo on them. Is it my imagination, or do I hear him chuckle a bit as he tugs them down to join my jeans?

  “Jill, stop fighting,” he says, his booming voice rising above the sound of my cries. The sound of it freezes me in place. I’m whimpering.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t spank me on my…”

  “Say it,” he says.

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Please pull my pants up.”

  “No.” He rests his hand on the bare skin of my buttocks and there’s a jolt of pain as he gives my injured skin a little squeeze. But there’s another jolt, more jarring, between my legs—a sweet stab of arousal deep in my pussy that sends a flutter through the core of my lower abdomen. I groan, in shame this time. I can feel myself getting wet, and I’m mortified. I squeeze my legs together as tightly as I can.

  “Oh, no,” he says. “Spread your legs, Jill. I want them open for the last half of your spanking.”

  “Pervert!” I cry, but he ignores the insult.

  “Open your legs.”

  “Fuck you!”

  Four blows land in rapid succession on my thighs, and I see stars.

  “Open your legs.”

  I thrash on his lap, ignoring the command, and am rewarded with four more blows. I know this will go on until I comply, so with a moan of abject embarrassment, I part my legs.

  “Wider,” he says. “Wider.”

  I begin to sob as I part my legs to the limits my restricting lowered jeans will allow. I can feel the cool air of the room on my pussy, which feels wet and warm.

  “I’m going to give you ten on your bare ass,” he says. “And afterwards, we’re going to have a little conversation about your behavior, and forgiveness. And if you are the least bit defiant, you’ll find yourself back over my knee for more, understand?”

  I nod, crying softly. I can feel the dam of tears about to break. I don’t think I can get through this without losing it, and I’m right.

  The open-handed smacks on my already tender, now bare bottom are so much worse. He’s positioned me now so that I’m raised up by a knee he’s strategically placed between my thighs, keeping them open. The blows are searing. By the fifth one, my bottom feels ablaze with pain, and I know he can see my now soaking wet pussy between my bright red cheeks.

  And just as I feared, I lose it, my sobs becoming infantile bawls. They are the cries of a helpless little girl, a bad little girl finally getting the spanking she had coming for so many years. They are also the cry of a woman who’s hit rock bottom, a woman who knows she can’t fix what’s wrong on her own.

  When it’s over, I feel the blood rush to my head as I am raised to standing.

  “This way,” he says, and I trip behind him, hobbled as I am by my jeans and panties, to a corner of the room. “Stand here. Keep your nose in this corner.”

  Is he serious? Why do I even ask? Of course he is. He just spanked me like an errant child, so it really should be no shock that he’d double down on the experience by standing me in a corner.

  In a small way, I’m grateful. The solitude gives me a chance to collect myself. My bottom is pulsing with heat that I can feel when I sneak my hand back to rub my punished nates. I don’t look back. I don’t know where Max Iver is. Is he watching me? God, what an image I must present, especially if my bottom looks half as red as it feels. I think of the video.

  “Are you taping me?” I blurt out, suddenly worried.

  “No,” he says. “Come here, Jill.”

  I turn, and he is on the sofa, watching, but he’s not holding his phone. I reach for my pants so I can pull them up before walking over.

  “Don’t,” he says. “That’s my job.”

  I shuffle back over, cupping my hands over my pussy as I walk. When I reach the sofa, I can’t look at him.

  “Turn around, honey,” he says, and when I comply I feel him carefully slide my panties back up, then my jeans. The pressure of them against my skin causes me to wince.

  He takes my hand then and lowers me to the couch.

  “It’ll hurt worse to sit tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll give you a pillow.” He pauses. “Look. I know I’m a stranger to you. I know this may feel confusing and weird. I know you may even think I’m a pervert. But I think over the next few days you’re going to get a clearer picture of me. And of yourself.” He shakes his head. “You made quite the impression on me in the few minutes I saw you at Brinkman Advertising last week. I thought you looked smart, and pretty. And I guess I made an impression on you since you showed up at Serrano’s on Saturday night and recognized me through your drunken fog.”

  “Do I even want to know what I said? I only remember telling you that you were hot.” I sniffle pitifully.

  “You were definitely turning on the charm, but I laughed it off by pretending to know you, by telling my friends we knew each other and that you were quite the joker. Then I took off with you under the guise of catching up…”

  “…and you took me to the hotel,” I finish for him.

  “Yes. I took you to the hotel. I’ve never seen someone so drunk, or so lost. All I could think of was protecting you, of getting you somewhere safe. And I wanted to know why you’d done this to yourself.”

  “So you interviewed me.”

  “That was all,” he says. “I didn’t touch you.”

  “You violated me just the same,” I say tearfully. “You took something from me. You took my… my thoughts… my secrets… can’t you see that?”

  “Yes.” His admission surprises me. “But are you going to sit here and tell me a part of you wasn’t looking for somewhere safe to put them?”

  I think of the night Becky pulled me from a bar after I tried to crawl onto a stranger’s lap. I have only a vague recollection of the event, but I remember more of how it felt, that longing to be held, to be protected from myself as I was losing control.

  “Maybe,” I acknowledge. “But if you wanted to help me, why did you get me fired?”

  He shakes his head. “That was unintentional. I came in there wanting to like that presentation. I could tell you had no recollection of what happened, and I wanted to part giving you something positive. But business is business. The ad was good, Jill. If you’d not lost your temper, I’d have told you so. It just wasn’t good for my company.” He pauses. “And it told me something about you. The imagery told me that your need for a daddy, that’s not just something you feel when you’re drunk. It’s always below the surface. That ad? You targeted that at yourself.”

  I stand, crossing my arms, and turn away. “So you’re a psychologist now?” Even as I ask the question, I recognize the truth in what he says. How could I have not seen it?

  I turn back to him and he stands and walks over. “As long as you keep ignoring this unmet need, you’re going to try and drown it in drink. And one of these nights, it could lead to your being raped or murdered. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to take care of you, Jill. I’m going to give you the guidance and correction and care you’ve been missing all these years. And you’re going to let me.”

  There’s a ferocity to his words, a commitment I don’t feel like I deserve. Warmth washes over me. I feel the lure of what he’s offering. Protection. Safety. He’s not asking me if I want it. He’s taking it out of my hands. The independent woman in me should be offended, eve
n outraged. But the flutter I felt over his knee has returned. I’m responding to what he’s saying not just emotionally, but physically.

  “And now we come to the part where you ask for forgiveness,” he says.

  “I already told you I was sorry, Mr. Iver,” I say.

  “Call me Max,” he replies. “And this isn’t about me.” He takes my hand and leads me to a table against the wall. There’s a mirror over it and I’m facing myself. My blue eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. Tear tracks have dried on my flushed cheekbones. I’m staring at a penitent.

  “You’re going to ask her forgiveness,” he says. “For every bit of blame and every negative thing you’ve ever told yourself about Jill Stafford, every lie you fed her that made her rush to the bottle. You’re going to ask her forgiveness, and put the blame where it belongs, honey, and that’s on the parents who let you down. Especially the son-of-a-bitch who shook you off his leg when you were four years old.”

  I’m crying again, but this time my tears are a release as I look at myself with fresh eyes.

  “It’s not her fault,” Max urges. He’s behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Go on. Tell her.”

  “It’s not your… my… It’s not my fault,” I say.

  “Your parents were fucked up, baby. They wouldn’t take responsibility, so they blamed you for their failings. You understand?”

  I nod. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” I begin to sob, feeling the pain I’ve bottled up seep out of me like a toxin. “I was just a little girl. Who the fuck does that to a little girl? I just wanted to be loved and tucked in. I just wanted someone to teach me right from wrong, to… kiss my boo-boos…” I stop, gasping heavily between my sobs. Max is supporting me from behind, leaning down to steady me. “All I ever wanted was to be loved.”

  “That’s it,” he says. “Let it out…”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I took all the blame. I’m sorry that I’ve spent nineteen years beating myself up since the day my dad walked out. I’m sorry that I never recognized that someone made me this way. I’m sorry that I wrecked every job, that I lost my best friend, because I tried to mask my pain. I’m sorry I brought myself so close to being a lush like my mother.”

  “Forgive yourself now,” he says.

  But I can’t. I open my mouth, but now that I’ve listened to the list of self-harm, I feel as unworthy as my parents for abusing my inner child, for beating her up.

  “Do it,” he says, and I look into the mirror and see want etched on my face, a desire to be unburdened of this load.

  “I forgive you,” I say. “I forgive myself.”

  “Come here.” Max turns me to him, and moving into his embrace feels natural. He doesn’t say anything, and when the tears start this time, he pulls me closer so that my face is buried against the softness of his cashmere sweater. His chest underneath the sweater is hard and warm, the arms around me hard and strong.

  “Does that feel better?” he asks, when I’ve sobbed myself past tears into gasping little hitches of breath. The circle of his arms opens, and he gently pushes me back so he can look at me. He produces another handkerchief from his pocket, mops my face with it, and then holds it over my nose and directs me to blow.

  I nod, because it does.

  He picks me up then, cradling me in his arms, and walks through his penthouse apartment to another room. “Lights, thirty percent,” he says, and a soft glow fills a beautiful bedroom with soothing pastel walls and a white bed with the softest duvet imaginable. Max lays me down and wordlessly undoes first one shoe, and then another.

  Then he lifts me to sitting, which hurts, and pulls back the cover. I lie down, cocooned in warmth so comforting that I almost forget the soreness from the spanking. The vortex of emotions he’s put me through has left me exhausted, and even though I’m not in my pajamas I find myself drifting into sleep almost instantly. My last thought before slumber overtakes me is that I’ve never felt so safe in my life.

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  Additional Books in the Dark Daddy Doms Series

  Big Daddy

  Max Iver is not only rich, powerful, and ridiculously sexy, he is also my company’s newest client… and last night I got really, really drunk and shared my darkest secret with him.

  I told him I need a daddy, and now he’s going to give me what I need, whether I like it or not.

  He’s going to be my daddy. He’s going to take care of me, make rules for me, and spank me when I disobey. And though I’m terrified to admit it, deep down I know that soon I’m going to be begging for him to strip me bare and teach me what happens to bad little girls.

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  Rugged Daddy

  When I stole money to get even with my despicable, lying boss, I didn’t expect to end up trapped in the cabin of a mountain man who has decided I need a daddy to teach me right from wrong.

  My plan seemed simple enough. Take the cash, hike through the woods to get out of town, and then start a new life somewhere far away. But things didn’t go as I’d hoped. I fell on the trail and nearly died, and then I made an even bigger mistake. I lied to Zane Tyler, the rough, handsome woodsman who found me in the snow and nursed me back to health.

  Now my rescuer believes I’m too irresponsible to be treated like an adult, and I soon learn the hard way what happens to bad girls under his roof. But a painful, humiliating spanking is just the beginning, and as Zane strips me bare, bathes me like a little girl, and teases me until I ache for him to claim me, I find myself starting to wonder if I’ll ever want to leave my rugged daddy…

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  More Stormy Night Books by Ava Sinclair

  The Marshal’s Little Girl

  When a young woman calling herself Wilhelmina James shows up at his town’s horse auction unescorted with a lot of sass and a lot of cash, Gage Chandler instantly gets a bad feeling about her. He’s about to blow the small town of Red Horse Gulch to join the US Marshal’s office, and this mysterious visitor is a headache he doesn’t need. After he agrees to check out the pretty blonde stranger to appease a local rancher left angry at being outbid, what Gage finds out about Wilhelmina quickly confirms that she is up to no good. But when she gives him the slip and goes on the run it changes both of their lives forever.

  Once he catches up with the little firebrand, it isn’t long before she is over his knee for a hard spanking. As the sexual tension between marshal and outlaw reaches a fever pitch, Gage finds that Wilhelmina’s deep need for submission meshes with his own buried desire to completely dominate a woman, and soon enough he has taken her as much more than just his prisoner.

  But Gage soon learns that his captive has a secret. Wilhelmina doesn’t just want to be his woman; she wants to be his little girl. She needs his love, his care, and his firm hand applied to her bare bottom when she is naughty. Though Gage is ready to oblige, the west is a harsh and dangerous place for a woman, even with a hardened lawman like him by her side. Can he keep Wilhelmina safe, or will the shadow of her past prove impossible to escape?

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  The Highlander’s Little Lass

  As the daughter of a powerful highland laird, Glynis McLeod should have made a fine wife for any Scotsman. Having been deprived of discipline by her mother’s untimely passing, however, Glynis grew up wild and unchecked. As a las
s of twenty, she has precious little respect for any man, let alone a husband her father might choose for her.

  But even a doting father must obey his king, and when the king demands a marriage to ensure lasting peace between rival clans, Glynis finds herself the very reluctant bride of Bran McKinnon. Known as Bran the Bull—both for his size and his fearsome sexual appetites—he is a man accustomed to being obeyed, a fact which is quickly impressed upon Glynis when her lack of decorum earns her a bare-bottom spanking from her future husband in the great hall of her father’s castle.

  As soon as Bran lays eyes on Glynis, he knows the fiery redhead is exactly what he's been seeking: a woman who needs both the firm hand of a father figure and the dominant lovemaking of a husband. With the help of her childhood nanny, Bran sets about training his feisty highland lass to be the obedient wife he expects. Blushing cheeks and a sore bottom quickly help Glynis become the good little girl her husband desires, but when danger threatens the king's peace, will Bran recognize in time that there's more to his young bride than meets the eye?

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  The Doctor’s Little Ward

  After the death of her deeply indebted father, nineteen-year-old Abigail Barrow faces a hard future in the workhouses of nineteenth-century London. Her only hope lies in a marriage to Dr. Simon Abbott, a man whose life her father once saved while they both served in Her Majesty’s Navy. But with no education and no dowry, she can hardly expect the esteemed doctor to agree to the match, especially when her sharp tongue earns her a trip over his knee for a humiliating bare-bottom spanking during their very first meeting.