Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Staring at the gargoyle in the rafter beams, Chloe chewed on her bottom lip, her sketch pad in her busy hand drawing and shading in charcoal. This was her fourth attempt. No matter what she did, it just wasn't coming out right and she didn't know what she was doing wrong. Her proportions looked right; it wasn't that she couldn't tell what it was supposed to be. As far as work went, it was probably one of the best sketches she'd yet done in the whole of her life, but something just… wasn't right.

Throwing her charcoal stub on the table, she rubbed her face with both hands and didn't even care that her fingers were spreading coal dust everywhere they touched. So now her face was coated in it too. She sighed, staring at her work in growing frustration until she suddenly realized, her heart simply was not into it.

Where was her heart instead?

Standing abruptly, Chloe wandered across the small three-room cabin to stand in the bathroom doorway. Gazing on the empty tub, she hugged herself, her hands rubbing her arms as if the very real touch of her own embrace could somehow erase the phantom caress of Hamish's hands from her mind.

He'd done things to her bottom. He'd bathed her, for heaven's sake. His caress as he'd washed and rinsed her hair had been the most soothing touch she could remember receiving from any other person in her life. Except Grandpa, but grandpas didn't count at times like this.

Not that there wasn't a distinctly paternal gentleness that had accompanied Hamish as he took care of her. It was in the way he'd spanked her–and yet it was anything but fatherly when his hand came to rest on the hot surface of her sorely punished bottom.

His lecture had felt paternal, too. He'd scolded her for each sin committed, but it definitely hadn't felt fatherly when he'd put his fingers in her bottom, first one and then two as he'd lubed her up and gently stretched her for the buttplug. Something that had hurt as he'd slowly worked it up inside her, winning squeals every time he pulled the widest part of the plug out of her only to have it relentlessly invade her. Again and again.

It was two in the morning now, and her backhole was still tender. So was her bottom, and there was nothing about any of that that whispered "dad" to her. But it did whisper "Daddy" and "Dominant", and oh, what those feelings had done to her. Why did just thinking about what he'd done make her this… bothered? This… anxious and needy?

Why did it make her want more?

As much as it had hurt at the time, as much as she'd begged him to stop, if only he were to suddenly walk into her cabin and announce she'd been naughty all over again… She shivered, not an unpleasant sensation. Quite the opposite. She ached for it.

But he wasn't here, ready to punish or not.

No matter how much she wished otherwise, she was alone.

And she needed him. To enfold her in his strong arms and whisper in her ear exactly how he expected his Little lassie to behave, his deep rumbling voice driving her pussy crazy with each seductive threat.

Turning from the bathroom, she had to walk away. Something that should have helped center her in the reality of her being alone, but it didn't. She still felt the caress of his hands on her skin and in her hair. She felt the sensuous champagne bubbles sparkling just beneath her skin and the butterflies dancing in her tummy. The humiliation of standing in the corner, her hands on her head while she waited out her "naughty" time, as naked as the day she'd been born, burning her face.

And just like that she knew what she wanted to paint. Grabbing another canvas and all the paints she'd bought in town, she hauled her chair from the kitchen into the open doorway of the bathroom and quickly sketched out a preliminary image.

For the first time all night, she didn't have to scrap and start over again. From the moment her small nub of charcoal touched the canvas, her hand knew exactly what to do. She put herself in the tub with Hamish's bigger form on one knee beside it. His hands were in her hair, just the way she remembered them.

She put a lantern by the sink, working in yellow and amber lighting to match what paint colors she had, and the next thing she knew it was 6 am, a brilliant sunrise was pouring light through the bathroom window, and her painting was done.

She looked at it for the longest time, her heart in her throat and tears flooding her eyes.

It was perfect–from the bubbles dotting the tips of the knees her image hugged to her chest, to the line of her chin as she held her head tipped back under warm water from the cup poured down her back.

As an observer, nothing of her well-spanked bottom could be seen, and nothing of her torment with the buttplug showed in her artwork, but she knew it was there, hidden in the details. Locked in her memories. Tickling at her already fluttering belly, the pulsing of her quickening heart as it beat its heady melody into the bonfire-hot thrum now planted solidly between her thighs. She clenched them, needing to kill the greedy ache her neglected pussy was trying so hard to convince her needed assuaging.

No stranger to masturbation, in this case as her hand reached of its own accord to cup that special place between her legs, it didn't feel right. For the first time in her life, it felt naughty.

It felt like she should get into trouble for it.

She couldn't bear another spanking, not right now anyway. And yet, that was exactly where her mind went. To once more being taken across Daddy Hamish's lap so his hand could cup her hot, stinging bottom, squeezing to make the tenderness worse, caressing to ease the discomfort back into wanton heat all over again.

She felt the heated mortification as he spread her bottom cheeks apart to lube her naughty hole, hurting her in that special way that felt every bit as good as it didn't.

Her fantasies took off. As soon as the buttplug in her mind was firmly seated as deep into her as it could go, that was when his hand began to wander to places it hadn't yet gone: her pussy.

Oh, how she longed to feel the caress of his fingers combing through her folds in search of her clit. She couldn't help herself. Her fingers became his as she imagined the moment when he found it.

The thrill heightened beyond measure. Sighing, she hung her head, her thighs and buttocks clenching as she stroked herself.

Occupied as she was, she never heard the front door open. One minute she was alone, and in the next the soft click of the door as it shut let her know she wasn't alone anymore. She whipped around to find Hamish standing there in nothing but a pair of gray sweats.

He gazed at her, his face dark with such hunger that she shivered, her whole body reacting to his presence and the roving of his gaze as it climbed from her hips to her eyes.

"Tell me to leave," he told her evenly. "Tell me right now, or I'm not leaving until I've had you."

Shivers wracked her again, deeper now. A shudder that shook her right to her toes.

She said nothing. She didn't even open her mouth, because not a single protest leapt to the tip of her tongue.

She didn't want him to go, and there was no mistaking what his staying would mean. It wasn't a good idea, and she knew it. So did he, but he wanted her and god knows she wanted him every bit as much.

Chloe couldn't help herself. Lifting her arms, she held them open with all the consent she could give.

The moment his self-restraint broke, freeing him from whatever kept him frozen in place. She watched him come, his steps long and full of purpose, coming at her like a starving man being offered the world's best steak.

His arms came around her, his lips crashed into hers and the hunger with which he ravaged her mouth left her breathless. He broke the kiss, but only long enough to grab her bottom in both hands, lifting her feet clear off the floor. Her legs automatically wrapped around his waist, her arms hugging onto his neck and shoulders. Her breathy mewl of a gasp was his undoing. His mouth once more locked on hers, he carried her to bed.