Page 28 of His Dad Will Do
He stands up, and pushes the chair back with his foot. “Go drink that water, Silas. Don’t make me tell you again.”
I pull my jeans and underwear up over my blistered ass with some difficulty, then stumble to the kitchen and drink the freaking water. Logan comes into the kitchen, too, and bustles around, opening cabinets and drawers, getting ready to start making dinner.
“I’m gonna wash my face,” I mutter at him, gesturing vaguely at the stairs. Logan nods.
“If you jerk off up there, I won’t let you come for the rest of the night.” Logan’s deep voice floats up from the base of the stairs just as I get to his bathroom.
“Yes, Daddy,” I call back. I think about jerking off anyway—I’m so turned on I can barely think about anything but how much I need to come—but I want to be good.
Well, I want to be bad too—that spanking was freaking hot—but I’m choosing to be good.
For now.
I splash cold water on my face until I’ve cooled down somewhat. Before I go back downstairs, I duck into Logan’s bedroom and turn my back to the large mirror over his low dresser. I ease my jeans and underwear down over my ass, and look over my shoulder at the reflection.
My cheeks are mottled various shades of pink and white. There’s a faint outline of overlapping handprints covering each cheek and my skin still feels hot to the touch, especially where the marks are darkest. No bruises and the marks are already starting to fade, but I like the contrast of the dark pink with the pale white of my skin.
It’s evidence that someone wants me. Evidence that Logan put his hands on me and claimed me as something that belongs to him. And even if his claim won’t last much longer than the marks will, at least I got to see it.
I pull my jeans up and manage to tuck my dick away without stroking it—which is a near thing—and button up. Then I head back downstairs to Logan.
Sixteen
Logan
I’m cutting raw meat into chunks for dinner when Silas comes back downstairs and joins me in the kitchen, so I can’t pull him toward me for a kiss. He perches gingerly on a stool on the other side of the island and props his chin in his hands.
“Can I do anything to help?” he asks.
“You can open that wine bottle,” I say, jerking my chin at the Riesling on the counter. I generally prefer red wine over white, but this recipe calls for deglazing the pan with half a cup of white wine and it’s a waste to not drink the rest.
Silas is familiar enough with the kitchen that he knows where I keep the wine key and the wine glasses. He opens the bottle with the efficiency of an experienced waiter and pours me a glass without being asked. He sets it near the cutting board where I’m slicing pork loin into chunks, but out of the way of stray raw meat juices.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
He smiles and resettles on the stool. He lets out a small hiss and stills, then shifts position, no doubt to accommodate his blistered ass.
“Feeling better after your spanking?”
His cheeks flush a dark pink and he ducks his head so his hair falls into his face. “Why was that so hot?” he mutters to the countertop.
“The pain gives you an endorphin rush,” I tell him. “Endorphins are also released during sexual activity. For you, they’re essentially the same.”
“Do you like pain?”
“Not the way you do, baby. But I like hurting you.” My skin tingles with the memory of watching my hand mark up his ass. I was hard the entire time I was spanking him, though I don’t think he noticed, and my cock is still half-hard behind the prison of my pants. It’ll keep, though.
“Isn’t that kind of fucked up? You wanting to hurt me? I mean, would you still want to hurt me if you, like…” his throat works in a swallow. “Cared about me?” he finishes.
“I do care about you, baby.” I shove down how very much I care about him. “But what else do you feel along with the pain? Can you tell me how you feel right now?”
“Well, my ass is freaking sore,” he says, and I think he means to be snarky, but his tone is too languid to manage it.
“What else?” I insist. “What about the rest of you? Inside your head?”
He doesn’t respond right away and I wait. I chop two chicken thighs into roughly bite-sized chunks before he answers.
“Quiet,” he finally says. “Calm, I guess. Like I don’t have to think about anything and I can let go and just be here.”
