Page 66 of His Perfect Little Storm

“Miles! Save her!” Hedda yelled.

Storm had no clue what Miles was going to do in a situation like this. What could he do? Stick his hands down her throat and dislodge the piece of chicken from her throat?

Yeah, no, thank you.

If there wasn’t a piece of chicken lodged in her throat, she would’ve told Miles not to come near her, but right now she just wanted this out.

She dug her fingernails into the skin on her neck, panic taking over her body. Storm could feel her body starting to get weak from the lack of oxygen flowing through her body.

“Miles!” Hedda yelled again.

Storm watched as Miles bent over her, grabbing the tray and handing it off before placing his left hand in front of her mouth. With his right hand, he started to pat her back, hard.

“Spit it up,” he said.

If she wasn’t in a panic, she would’ve glared at him. Did he really just tell her to do that? If she could have just spit it up, she would’ve already done that.

He started to hit her back harder and she had no doubt if this went on for much longer, she would have bruises on her back.

“Spit it up, now!” he commanded, hitting her back even harder than before.

The piece of chicken flew from her where it was lodged in her throat and up into her mouth.

Storm took a deep breath in, filling her lungs with much needed oxygen and relaxed into her bed.

“Spit it into my hand,” he told her.

She shook her head. That was disgusting. Why would she spit it into his hand?

“Spit the piece of chicken into my hand,” he said. “Do as Daddy says.”

Storm glared at Miles and shook her head once again.

“Now,” he said, raising his eyebrow. “Or I’ll have to punish you. I think some ginger in your bottom will do the trick.”

Her eyes went wide at the threat. Would he really do that? She was hurt.

“Putting ginger in your bottom won’t hurt your bullet wound,” he said. “You have five seconds before I go get the ginger.”

She stared at him. He seemed pretty serious.

“One,” he started to count.

Storm’s eyes went even wider when he started to count. She quickly spit the piece of chicken into his bloody hand and grimaced when she saw the spit along with it.

Yuck.

The least he could’ve done was make her put it in a paper towel, not his hand. She could see the blood starting to get wet again as her spit seeped into it.

She was going to puke.

“Good girl,” he said. “My good girl.”

She couldn’t help as her cheeks blushed when he called her good girl, especially being called his good girl. It did things to her.

Things she shouldn’t be feeling toward him.

He had been the cause of her getting kidnapped. He did nothing to keep her safe, but he decided that when he rescued her, she was his?

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