Sadie Mae immediately sensed she was in trouble the moment she caught the sound of Luke’s voice—low, steady, and disarmingly calm, like the quiet before a storm.
“Sugar, what exactly are you doing on my kitchen counter?” he inquired, his words slicing through the air like a knife through butter.
She glanced over her shoulder, a mischievous smile curling her lips as she delicately sprinkled flour into the dough she was attempting to knead into submission. The kitchen was filled with the warm, comforting aroma of yeast and hope. “Thought I’d surprise you with fresh bread,” she purred, her eyelashes fluttering with an exaggerated innocence. “I wanted to have it ready before you came home.”
Luke stepped closer, each footfall a deliberate, resonant thud on the wooden floor, like the ticking of a clock counting down to an inevitable moment. “Is that so?” he murmured, his voice a blend of skepticism and amusement.
She nodded, her fingers deftly working the dough, soft and pliable beneath her touch. Yet, the intense heat in his eyes was unmistakable, a smoldering fire that told her he wasn’t fooled by her playful charade.
“Sadie Mae,” he murmured, coming to stand directly behind her. His hands slid around her waist, firm and unyielding. “The timer’s not even set, and this dough’s a mess. You rushed it.”
She squirmed, her cheeks flushing. “I just wanted to—”
“To cut corners?” he interrupted smoothly. “To play in my kitchen and hope I’d be too distracted to notice?”
Her breath hitched as his hand slipped lower, delivering a sharp swat to her hip. “Luke,” she protested, but her voice lacked conviction.
He turned her gently, his gaze pinning her in place. “You know the rules, sugar. If you’re going to bake, you follow the process. No rushing, no shortcuts. That’s not just about bread—it’s about us.”
Her pulse raced like a wild river. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
"I know you are," he murmured in a deep, velvety tone, his hands gliding over her hips with a deliberate slowness that pulled her closer to him. "But you're still getting a lesson."
Before she could voice any protest, he lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed no more than a feather, setting her down on the flour-covered counter with a graceful ease. Her skirt bunched around her hips, the fabric gathering and folding like rippling water in a stream. His palm landed in a firm, deliberate rhythm against her backside, each impact resonating through the room like a rhythmic drumbeat in a quiet, echoing chamber. The mix of the cool, crisp air of the kitchen, the warm, soft flour beneath her, and his punishing yet precise touch left her breathless, caught in a whirlwind of sensations as complex and layered as a symphony.
With each swat, a delicate puff of flour rose into the air, swirling around them like a cloud of powdered sugar in a patisserie, dusting her skin in a gentle, ethereal flurry. The sting of his hand built deliciously, a crescendo of sensation that made her squirm and whimper with each precise, deliberate strike, her body reacting instinctively to the intricate dance of pain and pleasure.
"Luke, someone could see," she gasped, her cheeks burning with a vibrant heat that rivaled the setting sun.
"Then maybe you’ll remember next time to follow the rules," he said, his voice low and rough, laced with a desire that crackled between them like electricity.
By the time he stopped, her skin was flushed a rosy pink, and her breath came in shallow, rapid pants. He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear with a feather-light touch.
"Now, we're going to finish this bread together," he murmured, his breath warm and tantalizing against her skin. "And later, when the house is quiet, I'll remind you exactly who you belong to."
Sadie shivered, a delicious flush of heat spreading through her like wildfire, as she whispered, "Yes, sir."
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