Page 65 of Redline Baby

That gets a quiet laugh out of him.

"Noted."

"Is it okay if I call you Daddy?"

Soren's whole face softens.

"Absolutely, sweet boy."

Then he sits back. Pats his thigh.

"Come here."

He's wearing dark jeans, socks, and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. I look at the ceiling. Then the wall. Then some fascinating microscopic imperfection in his floorboards. I'm so nervous.

Finally, I look at Soren's face. He's still waiting. No impatience. I remember the corridor. The word yes coming out of my mouth. I walk to him. Then I lower myself over his lap. My stomach drops like I'm on a roller coaster. My chest tightens.

Soren helps me settle, careful even though I'm mostly healed now, making sure my weight is comfortable before one hand comes to rest flat against the small of my back. My fingers find the edge of the couch cushion and grip it. He says nothing. His palm stays warm and steady against me. He waits for my breathing to settle.

It doesn't. It gets worse. Each inhale is shorter than the last. Each exhale shakes on the way out. I don't make sounds like this. I make jokes. I make noise. I make deflections.

"Still yes?" Soren asks.

I swallow.

"Yes."

"Ready, little one?"

That pet name goes directly through me.

"Yes..." I close my eyes. Then open them again even though I'm staring directly at a couch cushion. "Yes, Daddy." The word leaves my mouth before I can reconsider it. Daddy. It's the first time I've ever called him that. Everything in me goes still. Soren does too. Just for one heartbeat. His hand moves slowly over my back.

"Good boy."

Oh.

Then the first swat lands. My body goes completely, utterly rigid. It's not the pain. The pain is exactly what I expected. This isn't my first rodeo. It's everything around the pain that feels different. The second follows. Then the third. The fourth. The fifth. And so on.

Soren's rhythm is almost irritatingly consistent, but he doesn't keep striking one exact spot. His hand shifts, spreading the heat instead of concentrating it. It stings and burns. My hips still jerk involuntarily. Every time. There’s always the awareness of his other hand resting warm and solid against my back.

After the tenth, I make a sound. And realize, with horror, that it was dangerously close to a moan. I do the only reasonable thing. I start talking.

"Is that it?" The words come out thin, half a register too high. "I've had massages that hurt worse." Nothing. "I went to a guy once who used his elbows. Basically attempted murder."

Soren's hand lands again. Same measured force.

"You're not even going to defend yourself?"

Another.

"Wow. Terrible conversationalist."

His steady hand remains on my back. The striking hand keeps its rhythm. And the contrast between them does something to my nervous system I am completely unprepared for.

Then Soren stops. His palm settles over the heat he's already built. I tense, waiting.

"Kit."