Kiss Me Goodnight (Love, Daddy 4)

TWENTY YEARS LATER

“You look beautiful.” Ace slides up behind me as I fuss with my dress, looking in the mirror as I try to decide if I need a tummy tuck, a breast lift or a full body something-or-other. “More beautiful than the day I met you if that’s even possible.”

“Sure,” I mock. “You with your man face that ages like a two-hundred-year-old bottle of Scotch. You get better looking every year. Don’t think for a second I don’t notice girls half my age looking at your crotch like it’s the damn Holy Grail.”

He wraps his arms around my waist, and I twist and try to slap them away, but as usual, he’s having none of it.

“You’re never too old to be a brat. And I’m sure you understand by now, after twenty years of marriage and a quarter century of knowing you, that I can tame that brat no problem. You’re never going to be too old for me to bend you over my knee and ripen that ass of yours. I’m still your Daddy, and I’ll do what you need done, and right now it’s very damn likely what you need is an over the knee spanking.”

“Whatever, big man.” I’m annoyed. Not at him, but at time.

Both the girls left for college yesterday. Yale. We dropped them off and flew back home with me crying into Ace’s shoulder the entire way.

Today I just feel old.

Useless.

I had the twins after the miracle of conceiving them and was never able to get pregnant again. Ace was the best father. I stayed home, and our family was—and is—my life.

He’s also the best husband. He’s built his own empire in real estate just like his sister and still never missed a soccer game for Miriam or a ballet performance for Emily.

Today, I just feel like I’m disappearing, and even though I love Ace as much today as I ever have, he’s taking the brunt of my self-pity.

“Just go find yourself two girls half my age and put me out of my misery.” I pout, knowing I’m being mean and Ace would never look at another woman.

“Alright, my little lamb. Daddy knows best.”

I yelp in protest, but he’s got me around the waist, tugging me to the large armchair under the windows of our bedroom. Before I can take my next squealing breath, my dress is up around my waist, and I’m secured over his knees.

I kick and squirm but I know I’m not going anywhere. It’s not the iron-clad grip Ace has on the back of my hair that does it.

It’s not that he outweighs me by three times either.

It’s not that I know he could kill someone with a single hand.

It’s that I’ve learned many things in the last twenty years with my husband.

One big one is that the vast majority of the time, he really does know what I need.

Even when it’s not what I want.

The first stinging slap on my bare behind sends red flashes sparking into my vision, and I squeeze my eyes shut, knowing the next strikes are close behind.

I surrender to the moment.

To the sensations.

Ace brings his hand down, over and over. Alternating the placement of each slap with a precision I’ve come to trust and admire. He knows how to give me exactly the right amount of pain, pushing me until I don’t think I can take another swat. Then he moves the location of the connection, igniting a warmth and desire that to this day I could not explain to anyone.

“Who do you belong to?” he demands, laying a full palm on my heated flesh, digging his fingernails into the sore skin.

“You.” The simplest answer is the best, I’ve also learned. Tears edge over my lower lids and a wash of relief floods my entire being.

“That’s right. And do I take care of what’s mine?”

I nod, letting the sobs take me now as Ace’s arms shift and he pulls my dress down, sitting me up and gathering me into his lap in a warm embrace.

“That’s right. My babygirl. My lamb. My love. My life. Now tell me, what’s the problem? It’s not me, I know that. Remember, it’s you and me versus the problem—never you and me versus each other.”