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“You can either put your pajamas on like a good girl, or I can spank you and then you can put them on over a hot, sore bottom.”
To her utter shock and horror, tears filled her eyes. “That’s not a choice!”
“The only choice little girls have in this house is to do as they are told before or after their naughty bottoms get turned nice and red.”
She absolutely did not want another spanking, especially since those ruffles looked kind of scratchy. “Fine. But for the record, I hate pink.”
“Duly noted,” he said with a chuckle as she stepped into the poufy concoction. After he tugged the shorts up over her welted backside, he pulled the matching tank top over her head.
Taking a step back, he tilted his head, studying her with a satisfied smile. “Perfect. Go potty and then I’ll put you to bed.”
“What sick kind of game are you playing here, Rinaldi?”
His eyes hardened a moment before his hand gripped her chin, squeezing her cheeks together uncomfortably. “You behaved like a foolish child tonight, so I’m treating you in kind. You should be grateful I didn’t call the police.”
“Uncle Gio will see you dead for treating me this way.” Gio meant to see him dead, anyway, but it seemed unwise to share that information.
“I’m sure Giorgio and I can reach an understanding.” Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her toward a door across the room and propelled her forward with a heavy-handed slap to her backside. “Potty, then bed.”
She sent him another icy stare over her shoulder before shutting the door sharply behind her. Moving silently, she searched the cabinets for anything that might possibly be used as a weapon. All she found were some towels and toilet paper. Worst case scenario, she might be able to strangle him with a towel but it wasn’t ideal. Emilio was taller and stronger than her, and it would take far too long to kill him that way.
Giving up on the weapon hunt for a moment, she considered her options for escape. There was a window to the right of the sink, but despite her trim figure, she wasn’t sure she could squeeze through. Unfortunately, no other options made themselves known.
She climbed onto the sink, which thankfully had a good bit of counter space. Placing the heels of her hands under the window sash, she gave the window a hard shove.
Nothing. It didn’t budge an inch.
“Think, Amara,” she mumbled to herself. A man like Emilio wouldn’t leave his house unprotected. Of course the windows were locked. Balancing precariously on the countertop, she searched for some kind of mechanism to release the window from the inside, but she couldn’t find anything.
She slammed her hand against the glass. “Fuck!”
“It doesn’t open.”
It was a miracle she didn’t tumble right off the sink at the sound of his voice. Carefully twisting to face him, she shot him a glare. “You’re a sick son of a bitch.”
Leaning against the doorframe, he gave a careless shrug. “Perhaps.” He pushed away from the door, stalking toward her.
Trapped, she had no choice but to let him help her down from the counter. Once again, she found her chin caught in his grasp, forcing her to look up into his eyes.
She’d expected anger, but she found instead a glint of excitement that was far more terrifying than his rage had been.
“Naughty Amara,” he murmured, giving her head a little shake. “You’ve earned yourself a red-hot bottom.”
Before she could protest, he spun her around and pushed her down over the sink. The ruffled shorts were jerked to her knees, leaving her ass bare and defenseless. Emilio reached past her, and a flash of fear sliced through her when he picked up a heavy-looking wooden hairbrush. Somehow, she didn’t think he meant to brush her hair.
Her assumption proved to be true when he tapped her backside with the smooth wood. “I had hoped I could trust you not to try and escape, Amara. I guess I was wrong.”
In the mirror, she saw his lips curve upward. “Liar,” she hissed.
He answered her accusation by cracking the hairbrush against her bare skin. The impact took her breath away. Suddenly, she missed the pink ruffles—at least they would have provided some kind of protection. Even her thin gown had lessened the impact of the belt when he’d whipped her earlier.
The hairbrush connected with her opposite cheek and she shrieked at the explosion of pain. She’d never been spanked before, not even a single swat as a child that she could remember. This was torture, plain and simple.
She tried to twist away, desperate to avoid another swat from the evil brush, but Emilio wrapped his arm around her waist, pinning her to his side. Relentlessly, he paddled her, each searing spank building on the pain of its predecessors.
“Emilio, please, stop!” She was perilously close to begging, a fact that thoroughly humiliated her, but the pain had stripped her of her pride.
“It’s Daddy to you, little girl.”
