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“What, like chem shit?”
“No. Different lines. Daddy lines.”
My ass clenched and my face burned and yeah, I wasn’t even totally sure what that meant, but this was the kind of embarrassment I liked. And hated. And liked hating.
Sucking dick was never this complicated.
“What does that mean?” I asked him.
“It means sit down.”
I grunted and dragged the chair out further, sitting down as gently and casually as I could, and yeah, that wasn’t exactly comfortable. But I really fucking liked being reminded that I’d just been over his knee. I wondered if it would really last until tomorrow, if I’d really be squirming around in class. Bet that would make me focus like crazy, like having him there with me, remembering I belonged to him, like he said. Nothing really chilled me out more than thinking that. Or turned me on more.
He went over to the little desk by the door and pulled the tiny drawer out, bringing back a notebook and a pen and sitting it down in front of me. “Here you go. I want you to writeMy daddy loves me even when he has to spank my bottom.”
I snorted, rubbing at my face where my cheeks were suddenly scalding. “Fuck you, I’m not writing that.”
I might have heard him laugh as he leaned over me, bringing his mouth close to my ear. “If you’re not done being naughty we can go right back in the bedroom. Or I have a whole jar of wooden spoons over there, which I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed. But I think you should sit here and write your lines.”
I glanced over to the kitchen counter where I definitely had not missed the big jar that didn’t just hold wooden spoons, but spatulas and pancake flippers and something that just looked like a straight up fucking ruler. Apparently, I hadn’t been so stealth about staring.
“I can’t write that,” I whispered, staring at the jar and then down at the paper, anywhere but at him. There were about fifty words in that sentence I could not force onto a page.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s…”
“Your daddy loves you,” he told me again, letting his chin rest on my shoulder and I guess it was easier to hear when he wasn’t looking at me. “Even when you’re naughty, even when I have to spank your bottom. When you mess up, it doesn’t change how much I care about you. I need you to write that down for me.”
I breathed in deep and exhaled hard, picking up the pen, like I was almost in a trance. He wasn’t going to explain himself, it didn’t sound like. Tell me why saying he loved me over and over wasn’t fucking stupid. He was just going to act like that was normal, and I guess for some reason I couldn’t begin to imagine, I was too. “Fine. What was it?”
“My daddy loves me even when he has to spank my bottom,” he repeated.
I rolled my eyes where he couldn’t see and bunched up my shoulders to hide how that was twice as embarrassing the second time. The guy couldn’t just have me writeI’m sorryor something. Maybe a niceHg = Mercury. I blinked, wondering if I’d actually just grumbled a fucking joke in my head that I didn’t realize I knew outright. Maybe the trick was to take my Chem test with my ass hanging out.
I started scribbling a row ofMy’s down the left side of the page and Caleb put his giant hand down on the paper, stopping me.
“Uh-uh. Start over. One line at a time. It’s not a race, it’s a lesson you need to learn. In nice handwriting, please.”
“Oh my god,” I muttered under my breath, and honestly, I really was fucking asking for it, but he let me get away with it. I flipped the page. “Fine. How many times?”
“Until dinner’s ready.”
“How long is that?”
“Twenty minutes. Thirty tops. Should be long enough for you to shake the rest of that brat out before we eat.”
It was right on the tip of my tongue, like instantly, to sayI thought that was one of the things you loved about me, but that was not a word I wanted to start saying. So instead I just sighed, and he squeezed me on the shoulder, and damnit why was I such a slut for that, it wasn’t even sexy.
“Good boy.”
I sat there a minute, watching him as he went over to the abandoned stove and turned the burner on under a pot of water, his shoulder working up and down as he chopped onions on that big wooden cutting board. When he scraped them into the pan I smelled garlic too, and my mouth and stomach were trying to catapult out of my body to get to it, it smelled so good. Kind of embarrassing when I knew what actual starving felt like, but my body was still so goddamn convinced that’s what I’d been doing since lunch. This was so many steps beyond what spaghetti meant in my head that I could hardly stand it.
I watched him go to the fridge and take out hamburger and then open the freezer and pull out a frozen loaf of garlic bread, and then come back to the cabinets, reaching for spices. At least the spaghetti was in a box and the sauce was in a jar, and we weren’t actually going to Italy, but Jesus, the guy went all fucking out for spaghetti dinner.
“I don’t hear much writing going on,” he said, sliding the bread out onto a cookie pan before looking my way. I wondered if he ever made cookies. I bet he fucking did.
I looked down at the empty page in front of me, and put my pen to it, and drew a blank, so caught up in watching him kitchen it up I almost forgot why I was here in the first place. I literally could not ask him a third time what I was supposed to write. How was my memory this fucking bad?
