Page 53 of Knox's Boy

I took his wrist gently but firmly, guiding him over my lap. He went willingly, despite the verbal protests, his body settling across my thighs. His breath hitched as I adjusted his position, making sure his weight was properly supported, his head resting comfortably on the arm of the chair, his legs extended.

I slid my hand down to the waistband of his jeans, unfastening the button with ease. He tensed as I lowered the denim, along with his boxer briefs, to mid-thigh, exposing the pale curve of his buttocks to the warm study air. I allowed my palm to rest on the exposed flesh for a moment, acclimating him to my touch and without further warning, I raised my hand and brought it down with a sharp crack against his right cheek. The sound was magnificent. He yelped and jumped in place. I delivered the second stroke, marginally harder, to the left side. The pale skin bloomed pink almost instantly.

“Ouch, Daddy!” he protested. I loved it.

By the fifth stroke, his flesh was warming beautifully beneath my hand, a rosy flush spreading across both cheeks. I paused, rubbing gentle circles over the heated skin, feeling him relax into the touch. I kept slapping him while he whimpered and complained with soft sobs.

“Daddy, ouch, ouch, stop, please,” he said, very vocal today, which only made me go harder.

I also noticed that hips pressed down against my thigh after each impact, no longer simply absorbing the blow but seeking something from it. When my hand connected again, he moaned, not in pain, but with desire that sent a surge of heat through my own body. I felt his arousal pressing against my leg.

"You bratty little boy,” I said while I kept slapping him over and over, enjoying how he was basically riding my thigh now, rubbing himself on me. It was never really a punishment, and we both knew it. “Brats shouldn’t enjoy their spanking.”

“Who said I’m enjoying it?!” he asked, but then he was giggling.

His skin was hot, flushed a beautiful deep rose that would remind him of this lesson with every movement for the rest of the evening. I allowed my hand to rest on his ass, feeling the blood pulsing beneath the skin, the subtle tremors that ran through his frame. He remained draped across my lap, making no move to rise, his body compliant and expectant.

"Good boy," I murmured, my hand sliding up under the sweater to stroke the smooth skin of his back. "You took that so well."

He made a small sound, half agreement, half need, and pressed himself more firmly against my thigh. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart, the heat of his body.

"Stand up," I directed gently, helping him rise with a steadying hand.

He stood before me, jeans still around his thighs, eyes dark and dilated, cheeks flushed. His arousal was evident, his cock standing at attention, waiting for me, basically begging for my touch. I met his gaze, saw the naked want there.

I reached for him. "Come here," I said, my voice making him visibly tremble.

I guided him back onto my lap, this time facing me, his knees on either side of my thighs, his hands gripping my shoulders for balance. His weight settled against me. I cupped his face in my hands, tilting it up to mine.

"You are mine to protect," I told him. "Mine to punish. Mine to pleasure."

I kissed him then, claiming his mouth. He melted into it, opening to me with hunger. My hands moved down his body,one settling at his back, the other wrapping around him, stroking firmly.

"Daddy," he gasped against my mouth, his hips rocking into my touch.

I controlled the pace, keeping him on the edge, alternating between long, slow strokes and quicker, more insistent ones. With my free hand, I kneaded the heated flesh of his bottom, the pressure making him gasp and squirm.

"Please," he begged, his voice broken with need, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

"Look at me," I commanded softly. His eyes, hazy with pleasure, found mine with effort.

"You belong to me," I told him, increasing the pace of my strokes. "Every part of you. Your joy, your pain, your pleasure, all mine to cherish and protect. Do not doubt that. It’s not up to you to decide."

He nodded frantically, beyond words now, his breathing harsh and uneven.

"Come for me, little one," I whispered, tightening my grip just so, applying the precise pressure I knew would undo him completely.

He came with a cry that he muffled against my neck, his body shuddering in my arms, his release spilling over my hand and onto the fabric of my pants. I held him through it, grounding him as pleasure tore through him in waves.

When the last tremors subsided, he collapsed against my chest, boneless and spent. I cradled him close, one hand stroking his hair, the other still wrapped protectively around his waist.

"My beautiful boy," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Mine. Don't ever doubt it again."

I don't know how long we remained there, together. I had maneuvered us to the leather couch at some point, arranging our bodies so that he lay half atop me, his head tucked beneath my chin, my arms encircling him completely. His skin was cooling now.

For days, I had watched him drift through the house like a ghost, hollowed out by the poison of his father's intrusion. It had been almost unbearable. Now, feeling the solid presence of him in my arms, the weight of his body against mine, I allowed myself to acknowledge just how terrified I had been.

"I missed you," I murmured into his hair, the confession slipping out before I could consider it.