Chapter 2

This was wrong.It was totally wrong and awkward and crazy, and I was pretty sure I ought to be committed, but I couldn't not do it. I had to know what he meant. I had to see how he'd changed. I needed to know if he could actually change me.

Aside from all of those thoughts and curiosities, there was the way Lennon looked at me. He really looked, and when I spoke, he listened. But it wasn't just that he made me feel seen and heard for the first time in ages, though that would have been enough.

Whenever he thought I wasn't looking, though, I caught him leering. In a sexy way, not an obnoxious, predatory way. He would look at me like I was a precious flower, a present waiting to be unwrapped, and like he wanted to devour me. It had been so long since anyone, even my own husband, now ex-husband, had looked at me like that, but it was unforgettable. So was the way it made me feel. I really had no choice but to see this through, then. Because even though he was a former student, a good fifteen years my junior, and every ounce of propriety in my veins was protesting, Lennon was making me feel like a woman.

And I wanted it.

So I did it. I slipped my hand in his. He glanced up, and his surprise was evident, but he stood, too, slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and led me out the door.

"Your place or mine?" he asked once we were outside away from the prying eyes of other café patrons.

My mouth fell open. I hadn't thought that far. Going to his place seemed so intimate, almost dirty, surely too presumptuous, but inviting him to mine somehow seemed like all that and more. "Yours," I finally squeaked. "How are we getting there? I drove here."

"As did I." He frowned. "We can take your car. I'll grab a cab to pick mine up later. Or we can go in both and meet there. Can I trust you to not change your mind and run?"

There was something about the way he asked the question, like he was truly afraid that would happen and it was the worst thing he could imagine.

Truthfully, the instinct to run was still at the forefront of my brain, so I could understand why he was worried. "Give me your address," I said finally, handing him my phone.

He programmed it in, and I got into my car, sitting there while I watched him get into his. Mine was a beat-up Kia Sorrento that had seen better days. His was an Audi A8 sedan. I waited for him to pull out of the lot, then slowly followed.

The drive to his apartment building, [on the top floor of a downtown skyscraper], took less than ten minutes, and he was waiting for me at the front, chit-chatting with the doorman when I arrived.

"And here she is," he said when I walked up, flashing me a dazzling smile. He offered his arm, and I slid mine through it. "Shall we?"

The doorman held the door for us, and we rode the elevator to the top floor of what was probably one of the ritziest buildings in Philly. I vaguely remembered something about Lennon and his friends winning the lottery during their last week of college.

My heart pounded in my chest, so loudly I couldn't hear anything else, as Lennon guided me to a door at the end of the hall. I watched him as he unlocked it, and swept his arm as if to say, "Ladies first."

I stepped through the doorway and immediately felt guilty for all the thoughts I'd had about Lennon wasting his talent. He clearly wasn't wasting it; he just wasn't showcasing it. Some might argue those were one and the same, but that wasn't my opinion.

"Wow," I breathed.

His apartment didn't match the ritzy snootiness of the building. Bright murals covered the walls. Built-in shelves boasted an array of interesting pieces from all over the world, and his furniture was bright and eclectic—a stark contrast to my prim-and- proper neutral palette, and I was instantly jealous.

"Wow," I breathed. "It's?—"

"A little crazy, I know."

"No!" I shook my head emphatically. "It's amazing." I turned to face him, and was surprised to see his eyes light up and a faint blush of pleasure brighten his cheeks. His smile spread across his face, highlighting his deep dimples.

"Thank you. Can I take your coat?"

"Please." I turned away and allowed him to help me out of it, watching him hang it on a colorful hook on the wall, perfectly placed to appear to be part of the carefully crafted mural.

"Let's get started, shall we?" He gestured to a bright purple couch and for the first time I remembered why we were here and what I had agreed to. My stomach twisted into knots.

Relax.It's just a spanking. You get them every week.

Something told me this one was going to be very, very different.

The source of all my college wet dreams was sitting next to me on my couch, and in a few short minutes, she'd be over my knee. If everything went the way I hoped, it wouldn't be a one-time occurrence. I immediately wished I'd set the meeting for evening instead of morning so I could have a drink to settle my nerves. I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Expelling a deep, ragged breath, I took her hand, inwardly cheering when she didn't pull it away.

She was feeling the awkwardness, stuck in it, and a bit more closed-off than other clients on a good day, but our history was still thick and heavy between us. At least in her mind. That much was obvious.

"Zoe." I said her name softly, catching her attention, and waited until she shifted her gaze to meet mine.

"Yes, Lennon?"

"Sir," I corrected, gently reminding her of the power balance between us. It was imperative that it stayed at the forefront of her mind. "Or, Daddy, if you prefer to begin as I intend you to end."

She drew a shaky breath. "Daddy." Her voice wavered. "It feels weird."

"That will fade in time," I assured her. "Do you understand why you are getting a spanking?"

Her eyes shuttered, and I could tell she was fighting off a snarky response. I bit back a smile, and hoped that in time she'd be comfortable enough to actually make whatever comments ran through her head. Or maybe her self-preservation skills would always be too high for that kind of brattiness. I hoped I would find out exactly what kind of submissive Miss Zoe Kramer would be.

I raised my eyebrows and inclined my head, sending her a silent message.

I'm waiting.

Her breath came out in a soft sigh before she spoke, the only sound in my eerily silent apartment. "Because I lied on my initial application."

"That's correct. You put time management and productivity, which we both know are not areas you actually need help in. What should you have put instead?"

She shrugged and sighed again. "I don't know. I don't feel like there is an area where I need extra accountability in my life. I just need…" She trailed off, her cheeks flushing pink as if admitting what she needed was too much.

"A spanking?" I prodded, gently. "Physical touch? The adrenaline and endorphin rush?"

"To feel something," she admitted, her voice a thick whisper.

That was the truth as she knew it, but I saw something more. A need she hadn't yet acknowledged. At least, not out loud. Reaching up, I caressed her cheek softly, then caught her chin in my fingers. Her mouth dropped open in a little ‘o' of surprise, and she let out a soft gasp, but she didn't pull away.

"I see it differently," I told her. "I think there are areas where you do need a little extra accountability in your life."

Her eyes narrowed into slits, and I could tell she wanted to protest, but she didn't, and I continued. "How often do you do anything just for you? For fun? For relaxation? For no reason other than you want to?"

"I do yoga every morning."

"That's great. For your mental and physical health. But is that why you do it?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Do you enjoy it? Do you love it? Does it refresh your soul?"

Her gaze dropped, as if the fact that she didn't love yoga was something to be ashamed of. "Well, no… but…"

I shook my head. "No buts. When was the last time you painted something?"

I saw it in her eyes. The fire, the passion she'd once had, consumed her. The love of the art. And then, just as quickly, the loss, the fear, the self-doubt. The longing.

"It's been years," she admitted.

"Now that," I whispered, emotion catching in my throat, "is a damn shame."

Her shoulders lifted and fell in a gesture of hopeless despair. "I just… I try sometimes. But I'd end up just staring at a blank canvas. My chest would get tight and I'd start to cry. Eventually I just quit trying."

Her voice broke on the admission and I could tell the loss of her passion was a source of great pain. I knew in that moment I would do anything in my power to help her find it again.

"See, there are things you need help with."

A tear pooled beneath her eyelid, and I brushed it away with my thumb. The air around us seemed to crackle with the electricity of our touch. Or maybe it was static, or my own wishful thinking.

"I guess." Her answer was shaky, and she looked away, rolling her eyes as she brushed at her cheeks.

"You'll paint this week." It was a command, not a question.

"What if I can't?"

"You can, and you will. It doesn't have to be a masterpiece, or the best thing you've ever created. You can fingerpaint, use a paint-by-number, for all I care. The important thing is that you create something."

She nodded, but I could tell she wasn't quite convinced, and I knew it was time to move on. We were discussing the future, but we still needed to deal with the past.

Releasing her chin, I patted my knee. "It's time for your spanking. We can discuss the rest of the things after."

Relief lit her eyes, but only for a moment. She looked at me, her expression wary with trepidation. "Do I just…?"

I chose not to answer her unspoken question with words, instead taking her hand and pulling her face down across my lap in the center of my oversized couch. "Are you comfortable?" I asked when I had her where I wanted her.

Her laugh was a light and melodic chuckle. "As much as I can be, I suppose, considering the circumstances."

"Do you have a safeword?" I was quite certain she wouldn't need it, not this first time, or probably ever, but having it established ahead of time was ideal.

"Picasso."

I grinned widely at her choice. "I like it. Picasso it is. Now remember, this is a punishment, so you cannot use it lightly. Only use it if something is wrong, if you need me to pause, if something doesn't feel right, et cetera."

"I understand."

"Can you keep your hands out of my way, or do I need to pin them?"

"I can keep them out of the way, but… could you hold them instead?"

I could tell how much it had taken for her to ask that. "I'll hold them." I gathered them from her sides, and pinned both hands at the small of her back, clasping them with one of mine.

"Thank you," she whispered shakily.

My skin seemed to sizzle from the heat of our touch and I wondered in the back of my mind if Archer had held her like this. The question ignited a burning stab of jealousy I didn't need to feel and was pointless to entertain. I knew Archer had been strictly professional with all his clients; his heart had already belonged to someone else.

I looked down at the flowy fabric of her skirt draped over my legs, cognizant of the fact that beneath it she wore panties, and beneath that, nothing. In a few short minutes, she'd be bare-bottomed over my knee.

I swallowed hard to dislodge the lump of heady arousal in my throat, and prayed she couldn't feel my erection through her layered skirt.

My free hand wandered to her waistband, and her back visibly tensed as her breath hitched. I had to remind myself that it was a normal submissive response to the realization that you were about to have your bottom bared and mercilessly spanked, but I still explained myself as if it wasn't. "Zoe, I'm going to lift your skirt now, and then lower your panties. I will always spank you on your bare bottom. Say ‘Yes, Sir' so I know you understand."

"Yes, Daddy." My heart grew in my chest as she did me one better, going a step beyond what I'd asked for. The awkwardness was still there, but it was fading by the second, and we were both pushing past it with everything we had.

With that hurdle cleared, I caught my fingers under her waistband, and tugged the fabric past her hips, revealing cheeky panties in a deep purple satin.

My arousal surged and I shifted uncomfortably. Her soft chuckle let me know she knew exactly what I was doing and why, but at least she wasn't jumping up in disgust or righteous indignation. That was something.

Thanking the gods while sending up a silent prayer that I did not screw this up, I pushed the satin fabric down to meet the folds of her skirt, resting mid-thigh. I'd have preferred her naked from the waist down, but I'd afford her the modesty, at least this first time.

Her bottom was perfect: round fleshy globes that somehow seemed to form a perfect heart shape. The skin was a milky-white, with soft cinnamon-colored freckles that matched the ones dusted across her nose and cheeks. I couldn't wait to watch it pink up under my handiwork.

Lowering my hand, I let it rest across the center of her right butt cheek, watching as her back tensed, then relaxed in response to my touch. "Zoe," I warned, my tone kind but firm, "It's time for your spanking to begin."