CHAPTER 0022- Daddy's punishment

I took my time cleaning up.

Washed between my legs until the water ran clear. Brushed my teeth. Fixed my hair like it might make a difference. The whole time my pulse stayed too high, a steady thud under my skin that refused to calm down.

When I finally came downstairs he was in the living room.

Standing. Waiting. The TV was off. The only sound was the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. He had his sleeves rolled up and his expression locked down so tight it made my stomach twist.

“Sit,” he said.

I didn’t.

He looked at me for a long second, then crossed the space in three steps, grabbed my arm, and steered me to the couch hard enough that I dropped onto it. He didn’t sit beside me. He stayed standing, looking down.

“You fucked the plumber in my house.”

“Yes.”

“While I was on a call twenty feet away.”

“Yes.”

His jaw flexed. “Was it good?”

The question caught me off guard. I blinked. “What?”

“Was. It. Good.” His voice stayed quiet. That almost made it worse. “Did he make you come? Did you think about me while he was inside you? Or was the point just to make sure I knew?”

I lifted my chin. “Both.”

Something dark flashed across his face. He leaned down, braced one hand on the back of the couch beside my head, and got close enough that I could see the thin ring of lighter brown around his pupils.

“You wanted me jealous.”

“I wanted you to feel a fraction of what I felt when I watched you with my mother.”

“And now?”

“Now I want you to stop looking at me like you’re deciding whether to throw me out or fuck me through the floor.”

He exhaled once through his nose. Then he kissed me.

It wasn’t kind. It was teeth and punishment and the kind of heat that came with wanting to leave a mark. I shoved at his chest and he caught both my wrists in one hand, pinned them above my head against the cushion, and kept kissing me until I stopped fighting and started kissing back just as hard.

When he finally pulled back we were both breathing like we’d run.

“You don’t get to punish me with other men,” he said against my mouth. “Not in this house. Not anywhere. You want to be angry, be angry. You want to hate me, hate me. But this—” his free hand shoved between my legs and cupped me through my shorts, rough, possessive “—stays mine. Understand?”

I should have told him to go to hell.

Instead I whispered, “Then prove it.”

He had my shorts and panties off in seconds. His own pants shoved down just far enough. He didn’t bother with fingers or teasing. Just hooked my knees over his arms, lined himself up, and drove into me in one hard thrust that made my back arch off the couch.

The stretch burned in the best way. I was still a little sore from the plumber and the dual ache only made everything sharper. Elias fucked me like he was trying to erase every other man who’d ever touched me — deep, punishing strokes that shoved me up the cushions. One hand stayed locked around my wrists. The other gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise.

“This what you needed?” he muttered, voice rough. “To get fucked angry? To feel how much tighter you are when you’re pissed at me?”

I moaned and he clapped his hand over my mouth, not gentle.

“Quiet. You already made enough noise upstairs.”

He kept the same brutal pace, the wet sound of it loud between us. Every thrust dragged against the place inside me that made my eyes roll. I came hard and fast, shaking under him, muffled cries trapped against his palm. He didn’t slow down. Just fucked me through it until I was twitching and oversensitive, then pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach, and shoved back in from behind.

This angle was deeper. Meaner. He gripped my hips and snapped his against me hard enough that the couch shifted. I buried my face in the cushion and took it, the anger still burning under the pleasure, the two things tangled so tight I couldn’t separate them anymore.

“You’re going to feel this tomorrow,” he said. “Every time you sit down. Every time you walk. You’re going to remember who actually owns this cunt.”

“Then stop talking and make me remember.”

He cursed and went harder. The rhythm turned sloppy, desperate. When he came it was with a low, broken sound against the back of my neck, buried so deep I felt every pulse of it. He stayed there for a long time after, breathing hard, still inside me, one hand splayed across my lower stomach like he was holding his cum in.

Eventually he pulled out. I felt the immediate warm leak of him down my thigh. He watched it for a second, then dragged two fingers through the mess and pushed it back inside me.

“Leave it,” he said quietly. “I want you walking around the rest of the day with me dripping out of you. Not him. Me.”

I turned my head enough to look at him over my shoulder. My voice came out rough.

“This doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know.”

“I’m still angry.”

“I know that too.”

He stood, fixed his clothes, and looked down at me still sprawled half-naked on the couch, thighs shiny, chest rising hard.

“Next time you want to hurt me,” he said, “you do it with your words. Or your hands. Or by making me work for it. But if another man puts his cock in you again, I won’t be this calm about it.”

He left me there.

I stayed on the couch a long time after, face pressed into the cushion, his cum slowly leaking out of me, the anger still alive under my skin — only now it had nowhere clean to go.

Revenge had felt good for about ten minutes.

This felt like I’d just handed him the last piece of leverage he didn’t already have.