Accidental Surrogate

Ella

Every instinct I possess is telling me to get away from Sinclair as fast as I can, but he catches me around the waist before I can move two feet. I know I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I don’t have any idea where the impulse to strike him came from. I’ve never raised a hand against anyone in my life, and certainly not a man as dangerous as Sinclair – a predator who could snap me up in one bite.

When I’m yanked to a stop in his arms, I panic. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what happened.” I exclaim, squirming despite my injuries. He lugs me up against his chest, keeping my body flush against him.

Sinclair emits a dark chuckle, and I realize he hasn’t lost his temper. Far from it, he’s entirely in control, but he’s also not going to let me get away with hitting him. “Tsk, sweet Ella, I know exactly what happened.” He purrs, “but you’re not sorry – not yet anyway.” His lips graze my ear, his deep voice turning my insides to jelly, “But you will be.”

“Dominic please–” I beg, squirming in his arms, desperately trying to free myself from his grasp.

“I warned you, little one. This was your last strike.” He answers coolly, “Now stop wriggling before you hurt yourself.”

At once I’m struck by the difference I feel being trapped in his arms. If one of those rogues had caught me, I would have been too afraid to anger them to risk rebelling. After all, I’ve experienced the dreadful paralysis that occurs when you’re too terrified to fight back against an attacker more than once. Yet I feel no such fear with Sinclair. I know he means to punish me, and yet I feel completely safe.

The ball gown is stripped from my body, and Sinclair settles on the bed, laying my body face down over his lap. “What are you doing?” I whimper, trying to rear up.

One of Sinclair’s massive palms settles at the base of my spine, holding me in place as his free hand traces the curve of my bare bottom. “What do you think I’m doing?” He inquires, sounding as though he’s taking far too much pleasure in this.

“You can’t be serious!” I protest, “This is barbaric! I’m not a child!”

making the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs swell and plump with rushing blood. “you’re not a child, which means you

remind him, hoping he’ll take mercy. “You could hurt the

ago.” Sinclair drawls, massaging the tense muscles of my

seems impossible that I could truly be in this predicament. I’ve known plenty of punishments in my time, but none like this. None from someone who

insist, trying to ignore the flames engulfing my body. I can feel myself growing wet already, and I’m horrified when Sinclair scents the air, a satisfied rumble sounding in his

no. I think. It’s too embarrassing!

isn’t fair, you’re not the boss of me!” Why am I still provoking him?

discipline. When the first swat finally lands, I rear up, crying out in

his strong arms than I did when I was lashing out wildly? He lands another swat, on the opposite cheek this time

someone deeply disturbed would enjoy this. He’s actually spanking me, like I’m a naughty child instead of the mother of his baby. The worst part is his deliciously dirty words, telling me what a bad girl I’ve been, scolding me for my misbehavior and yet praising my arousal – telling me how natural it is, how

until I stop trying to escape his hold, until I submit to his discipline and let go of my own control . When his relentless swats finally slow, I catch myself undulating, raising my bottom to meet his hand. With considerable effort, I force myself to still. “Is it over?” I ask miserably,

would be,” Sinclair shares, sounding resigned now. “But you need to cry, Ella. You need to deal with

I moan,

to help you.” Sinclair promises, stroking my spine. “And afterwards I promise I’ll

want to cry.” I confess, my voice very small

not?” Sinclair asks. “What’s so terrible