I opened my mouth, but he pressed a finger to it.
“You lost, Callie. And we both know it. Now—take off your jeans and knickers. Then bend over my desk.”
He cleared some space like he’d been planning this moment for days.
I stared at the ruler. It looked harmless.
Shrugging, I unzipped my jeans.
The denim slipped past my thighs and hit the floor with a soft thud. I reached down to slip my trainers off before stepping out of my jeans. My knickers followed, and the air against my bare skin made me shiver.
I wasn’t cold.
I was excited.
Thrumming.
This was something different. New.
Alistair didn’t speak.
He just waited.
And I hated that it made me wetter.
I bent over his desk, palms flat on the wood, monitors flickering above me like I was about to take the world’s dirtiest exam.
He moved behind me—slow and methodical—like a man who knew exactly what he was about to do, and had rehearsed it in his head a hundred times.
Then came the sound.
That soft tap of the ruler against his palm.
“Count,” he said.
That was all.
Snap.
The first strike landed. Sharp.
Not unbearable, but enough to make my hips jolt.
“One,” I hissed.
Snap.
“Two.”
He dragged the flat edge of the ruler across my cheek. Not hitting—just letting me feel it. Letting me anticipate it.
“You’ve been acting up, haven’t you?” he said, voice low.
“Yes—sir?”
I didn’t know why I added the sir, but his inhale told me he liked it.
Snap.
