The Institute, Daddy Issues(80)

“You didn’t see them?”

“No. Did they…” He didn’t fin­ish his sen­tence but he didn’t have to. The look on his face said it all.

“No, noth­ing like that,” I said hur­riedly.

“Good,” Salt said darkly. “Or I would kill them both with my bare hands.”

“I be­lieve you,” I said grimly. “And be­lieve me, I would help.”

I was able to sit up now and I tried to flip my skirt down be­fore Salt could no­tice the dam­age the rid­ing crop had done. Un­for­tu­nately, I wasn’t fast enough.

“Stop!” He put his hand on mine and flipped the little plaid skirt back up.

“Salt…” I pro­tested, try­ing to hide my shame with my hands. “Could you just un­tie my feet and let me out of here?”

“Not un­til I see what was done to you,” he growled. “Be still and let me see, mishka.”

Blush­ing and shak­ing, I let him spread my legs and ex­am­ine me.

“Andi…” He looked up at me, his eyes wide and furi­ous. “How dare they do this to you—how dare they touch you!”

“Well, no one ac­tu­ally touched me with their hands,” I said, try­ing to laugh and fail­ing—it came out as more of a sob. “It was a rid­ing crop.”

Salt swore thickly in Rus­sian. “I will kill them!”

“No! Salt, you can’t!” I caught his arm when he would have gone out the door. There was murder in his eyes and I had no doubt he would carry through with his threat.

“Why not?” His eyes flashed. “They hurt you—beat you in a place you should never be touched with any­thing but love.”

“We’ll get kicked out!” I said in a low voice. “And then we’ll never make the case. And all of this…everything we’ve been through…will have been for noth­ing.”

“But you are hurt,” Salt pro­tested. “Just look at you. You are all red…all swollen and in pain.” He spread my legs again and I let him, though I prob­ably should have tried to keep him out. But my de­fenses were low and my feet were still strapped into the damn stir­rups.

“Mishka…” Salt leaned over me and be­fore I knew what he was do­ing, he had placed a soft, open­mouthed kiss on the sting­ing lips of my pussy.

“Ahh!” I moaned softly. My hips twitched in­vol­un­tar­ily but I wasn’t try­ing to get away from him. I don’t think Salt would have let me go even if I had tried. He was com­pletely fo­cused on me, his big hands hold­ing my thighs apart as he stud­ied my pussy.

“So soft and sweet,” he mur­mured. “Poor darling…poor mishka.”

Then he kissed me again, his mouth mak­ing more con­tact this time. I gasped as I felt his tongue slid­ing care­fully over my mound, first the outer lips, one at a time and then in the cen­ter, del­ic­ately tra­cing my slit. The hot sen­sa­tion made me bite the in­side of my cheek to keep from cry­ing out.

“Salt!” I pro­tested weakly. “What…what are you do­ing?”

“Kiss­ing you bet­ter.” He looked up at me, his eyes still fiercely pro­tect­ive but there was some­thing else in their pale blue depths too—a ten­der­ness that was meant only for me. “Do not try to stop me, mishka. Just re­lax and let your Papa care for you.”

His words and the deep, com­mand­ing tone they were spoken in sent a shiver through me. I knew I was drift­ing back into Little-space but I couldn’t help it—I stopped try­ing to stop him. In­stead, I re­laxed back and let my thighs drift apart, giv­ing him ac­cess to my most secret and for­bid­den areas.

Be­fore when Berkley had been whip­ping me with the crop, I had felt like my en­tire body was try­ing to draw in on it­self, like my sens­it­ive sex was try­ing to pull in­ward—to hide and avoid the sting­ing blows. Now, as Salt licked and kissed me, I had the op­pos­ite sen­sa­tion. It felt as though my pussy was open­ing for him, spread­ing like a flower yearn­ing to­wards the sun. As he lapped up­ward, his tongue slid­ing ever deeper into my cleft. I felt him bathe the tender little but­ton of my clit with his wet warmth and I nearly cried with need.

“Salt,” I begged. “Please…”

“Call me Papa,” he de­man­ded in a low voice.

“Papa,” I re­peated in a whis­per. I didn’t know why he wanted to do it this way, why he wanted us to be in our re­spect­ive roles while we ac­ted on these feel­ings that seemed to be between us. Maybe be­cause us­ing our pro­scribed names made our ac­tions here at the In­sti­tute easier to sep­ar­ate from our lives and our part­ner­ship out­side it. But for whatever reason, I was will­ing to go along. “Papa,” I said again.