Total pages in book: 45
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 41327 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 207(@200wpm)___ 165(@250wpm)___ 138(@300wpm)
"Strip," he orders without looking at me, grabbing a towel from the neat stack in the open closet. "We need to warm you up and check your knee."
I hesitate, fingers plucking at my sodden shirt. "Jack—"
"Now. Get naked. And drop the ‘Jack’. If we’re around other people, then you can call me Jack, but any other time, especially when my dick’s inside you, you’ll call me Daddy." His tone leaves no room for argument and my body betrays me with a rush of wet warmth between my legs.
I peel off my wet shirt, hop off the counter and tug off my jeans and panties, shivering as cool air hits damp skin.
“Come here.” He crooks his fingers and I step his way, hugging myself as he takes me by the hips and sits me on the edge of the tub.
He kneels, taking my leg in his massive hands, fingers probing the scraped skin with careful precision. Blood has mixed with creek water, making the injury look worse than it probably is. "Skinned pretty good. Might need antibiotic ointment." He helps me into the tub, the warm water sending needles of sensation across my chilled skin.
I sink deeper into the water, watching him through the rising steam. "Are you angry with me, Daddy?"
He stands, seeming taller than before. Impossible, but perception is everything. His jaw hardens, arms crossing before he answers. "Not angry. Disappointed." Somehow, that's worse. " The current is strong enough to pull a grown man downstream."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry."
"I know you are, baby," he says, fixing me with a stare that pins me in place more effectively than his hands ever could. "When you're finished in here, you'll dry off, come to the living room, and stand in the corner by the bookshelf. As much as I want to bend you over and fuck some sense into you, I’m thinking that’s more a reward. So I’m going to set aside what I want to do for your best interests."
My mouth goes dry. "Did you say stand in the corner?"
"Hands on your head,” he continues, ignoring my question. “You'll stay there, not turning around, not looking anywhere but at the corner where the two walls meet until I say otherwise, got it? You think you can follow my instructions this time?”
Heat floods my face, a mixture of embarrassment and something darker, more primal. "Jack—"
“Yes or no, baby girl. And you already broke another rule by calling me Jack again. Seems we have some work to do, don’t we?" His eyes are steel, unmoving, as I finally nod. Then he nods back, turns and leaves me in the tub, door clicking shut behind him.
I sink deeper into the warm water. This is the moment—the line between whatever we've been doing and something more defined, and am I ready? Willing? Able to do this with a man old enough to be my father that I’ve known for only a few days?
The memory of David's control flashes under my fleeting doubt about Jack—how he'd check my phone, dictate my friends, my clothes. But this feels different. Jack's rules aren't about possession, they're about protection.
Not controlling who I am, but keeping me safe.
When the water starts to cool, I step out carefully, the bubbles clinging to my skin as the water sloshes around my exiting legs. I dry off, pulse jumping in my throat. The logical part of me says to get dressed, to reject this bossy dynamic and assert my independence. But a deeper part—the part that melts when he gives me that look, that melts when he says "good girl"—already knows what I'll do.
I pad out of the bathroom, feeling weirdly vulnerable walking through the house naked, to find Jack sitting in his chair by a roaring fire, reading something. He doesn't look up, but I know he's aware of me. The corner he indicated is a few feet to his left, waiting. Ten steps away. A lifetime away.
I cross the space on tip toes, my body prickling despite the blazing fire he stoked while I was in the tub. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I position myself in the corner, raising my hands to rest on my head as instructed. My back to the room. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of pages turning. Jack continuing to read as if nothing unusual is happening. The casual dismissal burns hotter than any scolding, leaving me achingly aware of my position—displayed like a misbehaving child, naked, waiting for his attention.
Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My arms begin to ache, muscles trembling from maintaining the position. Still, Jack doesn't speak. The only sounds are the occasional turn of a page, the crackle of the fire, the iron poker he uses to shift the logs, the heavy thud of my heartbeat in my ears.