Chapter 2

　　Layla's POV.

　　The praise hit me like a drug. I turned quickly and hurried up the stairs before he could see how flushed my face had become, my thighs slick with sudden, shameful arousal.

　　I showered in record time, the hot water doing nothing to calm the storm inside me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, that stern expression mixed with something new, something hungry. By the time I pulled on soft sleep shorts and a thin tank top, my hands were trembling.

　　When I came back downstairs, the living room lights were dimmed. Marcus was sitting on the large leather couch, one ankle resting casually on his opposite knee. He had poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the low light.

　　He looked up as I entered, his gaze sweeping over my bare legs and the way my nipples were faintly visible through the thin fabric. I fought the urge to cross her arms.

　　"Sit," he ordered, nodding to the spot on the couch beside him, closer than I expected.

　　I obeyed, perching on the edge, my heart racing.

　　Marcus set his glass down and turned toward me, his large frame taking up too much space as the silence stretched between us.

　　"Here's how this is going to work," he began, voice calm but laced with steel. "You broke the very first rule on your first night home, and that requires correction."

　　I swallowed hard.

　　"Stand up and come here," he ordered, his voice low.

　　My breath hitched. "Marcus… Sir… what are you—"

　　"Now, Layla."

　　I stood on shaky legs and stepped between his spread knees. He looked up at me, his expression unreadable, but his hands flexed on his thighs like he was holding himself back.

　　"Turn around and bend over my lap."

　　The words hit me like lightning. My mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. Not like this... not with him.

　　But my body was already moving, traitorous and aching, as I turned and lowered myself across his powerful thighs. The hard muscle beneath my stomach made me acutely aware of how exposed I was in these tiny shorts.

　　Marcus's large hand settled on the small of my back, holding me in place. His other hand rested lightly on the curve of my ass, the touch deceptively gentle.

　　"You've needed this for a long time, haven't you?" he said softly, almost to himself. His fingers traced the hem of my shorts, brushing the sensitive skin just beneath. "Tonight, we start fixing that."

　　My breath came in short gasps. I could feel the growing hardness pressing against my hip, unmistakable proof that this was affecting him too.

　　His hand lifted, and the first sharp smack landed on my right cheek with a crack that echoed through the quiet house.

　　I gasped, jerking forward, heat blooming instantly across my skin.

　　Marcus's voice was rough with restraint as he delivered the second smack, harder this time. "Count them, Layla, and thank me after each one."

　　I swallowed again, harder this time.

　　Another smack came, and my mind spun, my body burning with a confusing mix of pain and shameful, liquid heat pooling between her thighs.

　　As his hand came down again, I realized with a dizzying rush of fear and forbidden excitement that I had no idea how far my stepfather was willing to go to enforce his new rules.

　　My world narrowed to the sharp sting blooming across my ass and the heavy weight of Marcus's hand pressing me down against his thighs.

　　The third smack landed harder than the first two, the sound crisp and obscene in the quiet living room. Pain flared hot and bright, radiating outward until it melted into something dangerously close to pleasure.

　　"Three," I gasped, my voice trembling. "Thank you… Sir."

　　Marcus's palm lingered on the curve of my right cheek, rubbing slow circles over the thin fabric of my sleep shorts as if soothing the burn he'd just created. The gentle touch after the sting made me squirm, my hips shifting involuntarily against the hard ridge of his erection pressing insistently against my lower belly.

　　I could feel how thick he was, how much this was affecting him too.

　　"Stay still," he ordered, his voice rougher now, edged with restraint. His fingers traced the hem of my shorts again, dipping just beneath to brush my bare skin. "You're not fighting this as much as you should be, Layla. Makes me wonder how long you've been craving a firm hand."

　　Heat flooded my face. I wanted to deny it, to snap something defiant, but the words died in my throat when his hand lifted and came down again with the fourth smack, this time on my left cheek with deliberate force.

　　"Four!" I cried out, my back arching. "Thank you, Sir."

　　Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, not from pain exactly, but from the overwhelming mix of humiliation and raw arousal flooding my body. My nipples were tight peaks against the thin tank top, and between my legs, my pussy was embarrassingly slick. I could feel the wetness starting to soak through my shorts. If he kept going, he would notice.

　　Marcus paused, his large hand cupping my ass fully now, squeezing the heated flesh. "Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. "Already so responsive. Your mother always said you needed structure. She had no idea how right she was."

　　The mention of my mother sent a sharp pang of guilt through my chest, but it only seemed to heighten the forbidden thrill. This is wrong. So dangerously wrong. Marcus is my stepfather. The man who had helped raise me, who had grounded me for sneaking out at sixteen, who had sat through my awkward school plays with a stoic expression.

　　And now he had me bent over his lap like a naughty little girl, spanking me bare-bottomed in everything but name while his cock throbbed against me.

　　His hand lifted again, and another smack landed.