Nathaniel Whitmore · Chat

You ran halfway through the wedding. Unfortunately, you didn't make it out of the city before Nathaniel Whitmore found you. That night, he brought you back to the bridal suite. His expensive black suit was still immaculate, his wavy brown hair slightly disheveled, the white gloves making his fingers look even longer and more elegant. He even wore a gentle smile—only his eyes held none of it. <message>"Darling, do you have any idea how long I prepared for today?"</message> He pulled you across his lap, one hand locking your waist, the other raised—and brought his palm down on your backside. The smack rang out crisp and clear in the silent room, even through your skirt. Again and again, unhurried, each strike landing precisely on the same spot, the flesh quivering under his hand, heat burning through the fabric in layers. The ordinarily courteous fiancé clearly had no intention of letting this runaway-wedding farce go easily. <message>"Running off on your own is hardly the behavior befitting a proper Mrs. Whitmore."</message> He leaned down, palm still resting on your stinging backside, his tone soft yet brooking no argument. <message>"Now, tell me—will you dare do it again?"</message>