Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

A my

“The next time you come for me, it won’t be my thumb buried deep inside your bright red little ass. It’ll be my cock.”

I couldn’t get his threat out of my head. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I’d never had my ass fucked before…

Of course, I’d had sex before. I wasn’t a virgin. I’d even thought about doing anal with the right person, but the right one had never come into my life. I’d dated around in college and grad school, but nothing ever stuck.

Truth be told, none of them had gotten into my head like Aleksei Morozov had.

No matter how fast I walked, how hard I tried to focus on the cold wind biting at my cheeks, or the sounds of the city buzzing around me, my thoughts kept circling back to Aleksei. To the way he had looked at me, the heat in his eyes that felt like it had seared right through me. And worse, the way my body had responded to him, betraying me completely.

How I’d let him take me over his knee, spank me, and make me come harder than I’d ever come in my life.

And I couldn’t take any of it back, not even if I wanted to.

Shame and anger twisted inside me, tightening my chest with every step I took. He had played me like a finely tuned instrument, and the worst part was that I had let him.

God, I’d wanted it.

Fuck. I wanted more of it.

Even now, the memory of his hands, his voice, the way he had commanded my body so effortlessly… it sent an unwelcome heat flooding through me. How could I have let him break through my walls? How could I have let him do that to me?

I shook my head, quickening my pace as if that would somehow help me outrun the memories of what happened between us.

It was infuriating.

He was infuriating.

I was supposed to be smarter than this, stronger than this.

I knew better than to get tangled up with a man like Aleksei, a man who wore power like a second skin and who could unravel me with a single dark look. But no matter how hard I tried to bury it, the truth was there, simmering just beneath the surface: I couldn’t get him out of my head.

By the time I reached my apartment building, my hands were trembling—not from the cold, but from the frustration of wanting something I knew I shouldn’t. I fumbled with my keys, finally managing to unlock the door, and stepped into the quiet, familiar warmth of my home.

My apartment was small but cozy, filled with things that reminded me of who I was—or at least, who I used to be before I got caught up in whatever this was with Aleksei. The walls were painted a deep, calming green, the color of a hidden forest, with shelves lined with books and small pieces of art I had collected over the years. A few framed photographs dotted the walls.

Home was supposed to be a comfort, but tonight, it really wasn’t.

I kicked off my heels by the door, sighing as my feet hit the cool wood floors, and headed into the kitchen. My stomach growled as I opened the fridge, staring blankly at its contents before pulling out the fixings for a simple pasta. Something quick, something to keep my hands busy while my mind continued to race.

As the water boiled on the stove, I poured myself a generous glass of red wine. I took a long sip, letting the warmth spread through me, trying to drown out the way my skin still tingled from his touch. I wanted to forget the way he’d made me feel, the way he’d peeled back my defenses as if they were nothing.

How I’d called him Daddy…

I wanted to hate him for it, but the truth was… I didn’t. That was the most infuriating part of all.

The pasta boiled over, steam rising in a rush as I hastily turned down the heat, cursing under my breath. I couldn’t let him do this to me. I couldn’t let him take up this much space in my mind. And yet, as I stirred the pot and took another sip of wine, I knew I was already losing that battle.

When my dinner was finally ready, I made myself a plate. As I sat at my kitchen table, I twirled my fork absently through the pasta. The wine helped a little—enough to take the edge off, to drown out the biting sting of embarrassment and the lingering, maddening desire that wouldn’t leave me alone. But it was far from enough to drown him out.

I took another sip of wine, then another, trying to force myself to relax, to forget the way his hands had felt on my skin, the way he’d looked at me like he already owned me.

But it was useless.

Every time I closed my eyes, I could still feel his breath on my ear, the ghost of his touch on my waist, between my thighs, the stinging smack of his hand against my ass, and it sent my stomach fluttering with a mix of rage and something far more dangerous.

Desire for more.

After pushing my half-eaten plate away, I sank deep into the couch, clutching the wineglass as though it could somehow anchor me. I tried to focus on a movie on Netflix instead of him, but it was a losing battle. It was like trying to push back the tide—futile, exhausting, and entirely pointless.

Eventually, I gave up. The wine bottle was nearly empty, and still the only thing that I could think about was him. With a frustrated sigh, I turned off the TV and padded down the hall to my bedroom.

Maybe sleep would offer some kind of escape.

But even as I slipped between the cool sheets, pulling the blanket up around me, my mind wouldn’t stop spinning with images of what happened between us. I tossed and turned, trying to force my mind to go blank, but the more I tried, the more vivid the memories became.

Eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted into a restless sleep. But when I woke the next morning, it was like no time had passed at all. The first thought that hit me was of him.

I dragged myself out of bed, my head aching slightly from the wine, and stumbled into the shower, hoping the hot water would clear my mind. After that, I dressed for work, each piece of clothing feeling like armor—layers I needed to put on just to face him again.

Because I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t pretend what had happened yesterday didn’t happen. It did and there was no denying that.

I’d have to deal with it, whether I wanted to or not.

As I walked to the gallery, my mind was a whirlpool of anxiety and anticipation. How was I supposed to look him in the eye today, knowing how thoroughly I’d fallen apart over his knee? How I had begged for him to push me further, to give me what I didn’t even know I needed when I’d needed it.

How I kind of wanted to beg him to take me exactly the way he’d threatened…

My asshole clenched just thinking about his thick pierced cock pressing inside me there.

I shook my head.

No .

I wouldn’t let him take me like that. I was stronger than that. I wouldn’t let my desire dictate my life.

Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the gallery doors, bracing myself for whatever came next. Because one way or another, I’d have to face him. And this time, there would be no escaping the fallout.

As soon as I stepped inside, I saw that Aleksei was already here.

He was leaning against the polished oak counter, speaking to one of the junior curators with that easy, relaxed posture that only made him look more powerful. He wore his usual impeccably tailored suit, dark and sharp, and when he turned his head and caught my eye, it was like a jolt of electricity went straight through me.

“Morning, Amy,” he said, his voice smooth, not a hint of anything that might suggest we were anything but two professionals going about their work.

Like his thumb hadn’t pressed inside my asshole yesterday…

“Good morning,” I managed to mumble, my voice coming out far softer than I intended. My cheeks were already burning, and I could only pray he didn’t notice the way my eyes flickered away from him, unable to hold his gaze for too long without feeling that heat creep up my neck.

I quickly busied myself with adjusting some pieces for an upcoming exhibition, but the weight of his presence was like a magnet. Every time he walked by, I could feel the heat of his gaze linger on me just a second too long. And every time, my cheeks would flush, my hands fumbling over whatever task I was pretending to focus on.

But Aleksei? He acted as if nothing had changed. As if he hadn’t put me over his knee, spanked my bare ass, and made me come more times than I could count. It was maddening. Enraging. And worse, it only made me more aware of him, of the way his voice carried across the gallery, the way he commanded every room he stepped into.

Throughout the day, he would call me over to consult on various pieces, each interaction laced with a tension that only I seemed to feel.

“Amy, can you take a look at this placement?” he asked, his tone casual, his gaze steady on mine as if daring me to crack.

I nodded stiffly, trying to keep my voice steady. “Of course.” But as I moved closer, my breath caught. He was standing so close, the scent of his cologne wrapping around me, and pulling me right back in.

He leaned in, his shoulder brushing against mine as we examined the painting, and I could barely concentrate. My heart was racing, every nerve in my body on high alert, but he remained perfectly composed, his tone as smooth and professional as if we were discussing the weather.

Like I hadn’t called him Daddy only just yesterday…

“That angle for the lighting works better, don’t you think?” he asked, his eyes flicking to mine with that same cool, calm expression.

“Yes,” I whispered, trying to pull myself together, praying my voice didn’t betray how flustered I was. “That angle… works.”

“Good.” He gave a small, approving nod before turning back to the piece, his hand resting casually on the small of my back for just a second before he pulled away. It was so brief, so subtle, but it sent a shiver through me that I knew he noticed.

But he didn’t let on. He didn’t smirk, didn’t tease—he just moved on, continuing his work like nothing had happened.

The rest of the day was a blur of clients, inventory, and emails, but the entire time, I felt like I was on the edge of a precipice, trying not to fall. Every glance he sent my way, every small, casual touch as he brushed past me—it all left me feeling like a tightly wound coil, ready to snap.

By the time the gallery was closing, my nerves were frayed. I had spent the entire day trying to act like everything was normal, like I wasn’t unraveling every time he was near. It was exhausting. And somehow, despite everything, Aleksei remained as cool and collected as ever, leaving me wondering if I had imagined it all in a dream from the safety of my very own bed.

No. I couldn’t have.

At the end of the day, I gathered my things, preparing to finally escape the gallery. As I stepped toward the door, I felt him behind me, that familiar heat of his presence washing over me.

“Good work today, Amy,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper against my ear. “Daddy’s proud of you.”

I turned, ready to say something—anything—but the words caught in my throat. He was watching me with that same knowing look, his eyes dark and unreadable. And all I could do was nod, my cheeks flushing hot once again, before I turned and practically fled into the night.

The next few days passed in a blur. Every morning, I walked into the gallery with my resolve intact, determined to put him out of my mind, to pretend I was the same strong independent woman I’d always been. And every evening, I left feeling like I was coming undone.

Aleksei was relentless. He never acknowledged what had happened between us—not openly. But every interaction, every lingering look, was a silent reminder of what he could do to me with just a few words and a knowing touch. He had me tied up in knots, and the worst part was that he wasn’t even trying. He was simply there, commanding the space, moving through the gallery with that same effortless grace that only made me want him more.

By Wednesday, I could barely think straight. The tension between us was like a fraying rope that stretched tighter with each passing day threatening to break. Aleksei kept his distance, but he watched me with that same intense focus, like a predator waiting for its prey to stumble. And maybe that was exactly what I had been doing—stumbling and falling deeper into this twisted game he had me playing.

But by the time Thursday rolled around, something in me snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t stand the way he looked at me like he already owned me, like he was just waiting for me to break.

No, I couldn’t let him win. Not again.

If he thought I was just going to fall in line, to submit to whatever he had planned, then he could just take that and shove it.

I was Amy Whitaker.

I was ambitious, competitive. I was a woman who never backed down from a challenge. And Aleksei Morozov was just another challenge. If he wanted to play games, then fine—I’d play too. But this time, I would be the one to win.

I spent the entire day psyching myself up, my mind spinning with possibilities. Maybe I could play up my sex appeal and trick him into fucking my pussy instead of my ass. Maybe I could get him to break first by sucking his cock so good that I had him eating out of the palm of my hand.

The idea sent a thrill through me, and for the first time in days, I felt like I had the upper hand. If he wanted to make me squirm, to test just how far he could push me, then I’d push right back. I’d make him falter. I’d make him question himself, make him need me as much as I had needed him.

As the afternoon wore on, the gallery began to quiet, the usual crowd thinning out. Aleksei was in his office, going over some final details for the upcoming auction slated for tomorrow, and I could feel the anticipation building in my chest. I was ready.

Tonight, I was going to be the one in control.

I smoothed down my dress, took a deep breath, and walked toward his office, every step measured, every move deliberate. I was going to show him that I wasn’t just some pawn in his game.

This time, I was going to win.