“As it should, young lady. The purpose of a spanking is to leave a naughty girl with a burning bottom that makes her consider the consequences of her actions.” I spank again, harder, right in the center of her left cheek. “You always needed more than you got.”
She squirms, crying out, “Who are you to say?”
I spank her right cheek, left cheek, right cheek, ensuring each smack is perfectly placed, perfectly timed. Each punishing spank bringing her right where I want her. I say, “That’s why you were spanked so often. You’ve never been punished thoroughly enough to make you truly consider your actions.”
“I’ve heard you whispering that behind my back, thank you very much. It was none of your business how your brother handled me!”
“It’s my business now.” I pepper her bottom with short, stinging spanks. She whines and moans and squirms over my lap. Her dress is inching up and I pull it back down into place—I’m a gentleman after all. Her hand comes behind her and she’s flailing it about to protect her bottom. I grab it in my wrist, pinning it to her lower back. I spank her harder, saying, “You know you need this.”
At that, a sob escapes her lips. A few more good hearty swats and the tension drains from her muscles.
I’ll not be so lenient next time, but for today, I’ve punished her enough. Especially since she’s never been properly spanked before. One more good smack and she’s right where I want her—lying limply over my lap, the fight drained from her. All her anger gone. I help her up and stand her before me. She looks down at me, those big brown eyes pitiful. She’s wiping her eyes, her full bottom lip pouting at me. She says, “You’ve punished me. You can go now.” Her beautiful face is blotched with pink. Her skin stained with her tears.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Hold her gaze though it makes a thick welling rise in my chest. When I speak, my voice is thick. I say, “I’ve made a vow. I obey the rules of the family and the Brotherhood. Bronson’s given me a command, and I will carry it out... to its fullest.”
I stand, the need to touch her, comfort her, suddenly overwhelming me. I choose to place my hands on her shoulders.
She says, “I don’t need you. I don’t need the Brotherhood. I only need—” Her words drop off. Her eyes are now soft, full of sadness and fresh, unshed tears.
Beneath the weight of my heavy hands, her shoulders begin to shake.
I know not what I do but somehow, now I’ve got her pressed against my chest. One hand pulls her toward me, flat against her lower back, holding her to me. My other finds her hair, stroking the soft red locks, smoothing them down. I feel her spine through the fabric of her dress, her fiery mane and ass.
From deep within my belly, the feeling arises.
One I’m all too familiar with.
One I only feel... whenever I’m alone with Tess.
Desire.
In the past I’d made it a point to never be alone with her. If ever we were at a family gathering, the two of us the last to leave a room, I’d feel the tug, the pang. It hurt so good. And made me feel as though I was losing my sanity. I’d exit as quickly as possible.
For she was always my brother’s wife.
And my inappropriate desires infuriated me to no end.
But now—
I shove the welling deep within me. Where all my other emotions are buried.
I remember why I’m here.
My hands leave her. I try to step away. But then her doe-like eyes find mine. She’s absolutely lost in this world without him. She needs someone to be strong. To take her and make her forget about what she’s lost. Her hands go to my chest. Her lip trembles. She says my name. “Rockland.”
She’s always had a beautiful voice. It was the first thing that drew me to her. Low and husky and just so damn... sensual, though she doesn’t mean for it to be. Hearing her speak has always made me wonder what noises would arise from her if I were to—
“Rockland.” She says it again and I’m watching her full lips as they wrap around the syllables of my name.
I can’t. I won’t.
But now my lips are on hers.
My dead brother’s wife.
I’ve wanted to taste her for so long, the guilt doesn’t even come.
I lean down further, taking in more of her. My mouth presses against hers. Warm and wonderful and softer than I’d imagined. My hands go to either side of her precious face. Holding her cheeks against my palms. Feeling her smooth skin for the first time. Her face is tiny in my hands. So delicate.
But I know how strong she is.
Her tongue finds mine. Her cheek nuzzles against my palm. She gives a little moan. And it’s my undoing.
Before I can stop myself, my hands are tangled in her hair. My lips move against hers and I’m gathering her hair at the nape of her neck. It’s bundled between my fingers. I slip my tongue into her mouth and tug at the handfuls of the soft tendrils I hold.
With that small gesture, she catches fire. And I’m engulfed in her flames. Her tongue is exploring me, desperately seeking what she needs. Her hands are on my waist, grabbing my ass.
To hell with decorum. I know what I do is as immoral as the devil himself. But he’s got his burning clutches around my soul. And I’ll take what I can get.
After all, half a decade is a long time to lust after a woman.
Her fingers are undoing my buttons. They are trembling and I grab them in mine. I press her hands to my waist, removing the shirt myself. I push the fabric from my shoulders and her gaze falls on my tattoo. I toss the shirt to the chair; it lands flat and smooth. I look to her and her hands press against my bare skin.
They’re warm. And small. She strokes the outline of my black marking with the tip of a finger. She begins to say, “I’ve always wondered what this was for. Why do you have it—” I stop her words with the passion of my kiss. I don’t want to talk.
I want to fuck.
It’s all so wrong. But feels so right.
My gaze locks on her and time freezes. In her eyes I see grief, lust, desperation.
My gut twists.
Despite my desires, my long infatuation, I’ll not go any further.
Fucking a widow? One year after her husband’s death? A day doesn’t go by that she doesn’t think of him.
She would never forgive herself.
And the last thing I ever want to do is cause her more pain.
I hold her, one last time. My lips find the top of her head. Kiss her gently.
I hold her for another moment. Feel the warmth of her body pressed against my bare chest. Inhale her sweet scent. Wrap my arms tighter around her until her trembling ceases. I kiss the top of her head. Give her one last squeeze. Then I tell her, “We need to go.”
She looks up at me, trusting, vulnerable, broken. Nods. Accepting that this will never happen between us.
I release her. Put on my shirt. Button it with shaky fingers. Tuck it in. We straighten our clothing.
I take her hand and lead her to the dinner.
* * *
Tess
We’ve just arrived at Brett’s memorial dinner, and I can only think of one thing.
That kiss.
I must focus on the day. I give my head a little shake, forgetting the kiss. In the void of thinking of our lips pressed together, the memory of him spanking me drifts in. Now I can only think of one other thing—
My throbbing ass.
It’s unbelievable that he spanked me. I should have seen it coming—hell, I knew it was coming—but still, having him take me over his knee was shocking.
In some strange way, Rockland’s punishment was... cleansing. The pain somehow drained the anger from me, taking away my gritty edges and softening me. Allowing me to focus on the task at hand—greeting and accepting condolences from our precious family.
Rockland holds out a chair for me. It’s not lost on me that he’s chosen a hard wooden one over the plush velvet chairs we have at the rooftop bar. He leans down, whispering into my ear, “Sit do
wn. Let the soreness of your ass remind you of how you’re to act.” His hand presses down on my shoulder, the skin beneath it tingles at his firm touch. His gold-flecked eyes lock on mine. “Be a good girl and I’ll go get you a drink from the bartender.”
My eyes are burning from crying. My ass is aching, pressed against the unforgiving surface of the chair. But the pain is good, cleansing. And it’s keeping me grounded in this tumultuous time. Rockland brings me a chilled Chardonnay. My hands tremble as I take it from him. Our fingers brush against one another as we make the transfer.
The hand that punished me.
Our eyes lock and the gaze that passes between us is so intense, my stomach clenches. My eyes rove over the full lips of his mouth.
The one that kissed me.
The energy is still there between us, but now in the presence of others, it seems more of a partnership. You spank my ass and I’ll not put on a crazy emotional display that I’ll later regret.
I look away. I sip from the glass. The cool wine slides down my throat, calming me. Rockland stands behind my chair. His hand rests heavy on my shoulder—and it feels as if it belongs there. It makes me feel safe, protected. His touch relaxes me and I take another sip of wine.
The first of the family members arrive. I greet them with a smile.
Now more people are arriving. Rockland grasps my hand, helping me from the chair. He leans down, his beard brushing against my cheek, his lips only inches from mine. He whispers into my ear, “Behave yourself. I’d hate to have to take you home and whip your ass with my belt.” My sore cheeks clench together at his warning.
And something else... there’s a melting in my core at his words. A shameful hungering buried deep below my belly. An awakening in the center of my being that’s been dark, forgotten for so, so long.
Years. All the years.
I shift in my seat, ignoring the flames in my belly, the longing in my core.
I’m so horny.
And it makes me feel a terrible, heavy sense of guilt. For it’s only been a year since my husband’s passing. Is that long enough to have moisture pooling between my legs—put there by another man? Or should it have been a decade, hell—a century?
And my husband’s brother, no less.
I take a deep swig of chilled wine from my glass. I think of Brett—what his thoughts, his wishes would be. This past year every action I’ve taken, I’ve thought, ‘Would Brett approve?’ When I think of what happened... the kiss... the spanking... my swollen, pulsing vagina and damp panties... all that comes to mind is this; Brett would want me to be happy.
But I’m too lost to even know what that would look like.
Wanting to do right by Brett, I focus on my family. Brett had a huge heart and love for people. If he’s looking down on me today, I’d want him to be proud of me. I know he’d forgive me that kiss—a mistake made when I wasn’t in my right mind.
And so, though my heart is heavy, I’m smiling, shaking hands. Accepting condolences. Laughing at funny memories, thanking people for the beautiful ones. I tire quickly. Every so often, a wave of grief will come rushing out of nowhere, threatening to knock me down and drag me under its strong current. Those times, I want to crawl into my bed. Polish off a bottle of wine. Pop a few sleeping pills and bury myself under my covers.
Every time my mind drifts, thinking of the sweet bliss of my bed, Rockland’s hand goes to my lower back. Pressing gently and guiding me to the next family member to accept their condolences. He whispers in my ear, “You’re doing great.” His touch, his words, they keep me from utter and total destruction.
Without him by my side, I would crumple to the floor like tissue paper. I never would have made it through this day without him. Brett knew it, Bronson knew it, Rockland knew it.
I guess deep down, even I did.
When there’s a lull in the guests, I take Rockland’s hand in mine. Give it a soft squeeze. He looks down, surprised by my gesture, by my hand in his. I whisper, “Thank you... for everything.”
His eyes are soft. His lips part, as if he wants to speak. Then his brow narrows and his jaw snaps shut. He gives me a simple nod in response. Wordless.
But he gives my hand a gentle squeeze before he releases it.
Chapter Three
One year after the first memorial—two years after Brett’s death
Tess
I know I’m spiraling.
All the Beauties have come by, tried to entice me to go out. Promises of shopping, dining, dancing—all things I loved to do... before. I politely decline each invitation.
I can’t help it. I just want to stay in. Avoid seeing people. Drink until I can’t remember the pain.
As the days pass, Brett’s memory becomes cloudier, fuzzier. Now it’s two years since he’s gone and I can’t even remember his face unless I look at a picture. Which only serves to add guilt to grief.
It’s not even that I miss him so much anymore. It’s just that I haven’t been able to figure out how I fit in here in the Village. Husbandless. The lone widow. It’s isolating.
There’s been whispers of enacting the hierarchy again. Not just for a day, this time. For good. Or at least until I’m back on my feet. As far as I know, it would be a first for the Village—having a guardian move in with a widow.
The Bachman men have another think coming if they think for one second I’ll let Rockland take control of me.
Sure, the day of the burial, I needed him here. And the memorial, his guidance, his discipline—he kept me sane.
It makes sense... on paper. But when there’s real people and feelings involved, the hierarchy is nothing but bullshit. In the Bachman family, once you’re a Bachman, you’re a Bachman for life.
And the two of us get along about as well as oil and water. I should have been concerned when I learned of the hierarchy—of what could happen. But I’d never worried about it before, because nothing was ever supposed to happen to Brett.
He wasn’t supposed to die. He wasn’t supposed to leave me.
One year ago, the night of Brett’s memorial, Rockland had brought me home. He’d given me wine, let me take a pill to calm myself. Then he’d helped me out of my clothes, dressed me for sleep, and tucked me into my bed. I may have been dreaming but it felt as if he stroked my hair for hours, kissing me gently on the cheek before I felt his weight leave my side.
In the morning, he was gone.
The only evidence of his stay was the blush pink still on my ass.
He left, as he should have. He flew off to his little deserted island to manage his natives. It must have been a result of my heightened emotional state, but when I walked through my house—strangely absent of him—I found myself missing him. There was a tugging in my chest, remembering his protective hand weighing on my shoulder.
My bottom was still sore.
And that kiss.
My lips tingle every time that kiss crosses my mind. Which it does more often than appropriate.
But that was a year ago. I’ve got to stop dwelling on it. It’s kind of hard now, though, with the second of the three annual memorials scheduled for this weekend.
He’ll be arriving any day now.
I shake the thought from my mind. It’s been a long day. I’ve begun to work from home, no longer bothering to go into the office. It’s strange—without the distraction of people, I can get a month’s worth of numbers accounted for in half the time it used to take me. Which has resulted in me procrastinating till the last minute and doing all the math in one hardcore session.
That day was today. I’ve just hit send and shot the final tally off to Bronson. I tidy up the items on my desktop. I push myself back in the rolling desk chair. I stand, stretching my aching muscles. I putter down the stairs from my office. Go into my spotless kitchen—I can’t remember the last time I’ve used it to cook. I’m opening a bottle of wine. There’s a knock on my door.
A heavy sigh escapes me—I’m in no shape to deal with people.
But
I must be polite. They are all family, after all. Wine bottle in hand, I putter down the hall, not bothering to smooth down my tangled hair or change out of my sweatpants. Sloshing a bit of the wine on my wrist as I move, I open the door.
Sasha is standing on my stoop, wearing... pink. A shocking change from her usual black spandex workout gear. Her little pearl white teeth are sinking into her bottom lip. Her hand goes to the end of her long, gorgeous dark ponytail and she gives it a nervous tug.
A trembling smile crosses her lips as she says hello. But she looks as if she wants to run in the other direction. Her gaze skates over my ensemble.
Am I that scary?
Is it Sasha’s tepidness—so unusual for her—or maybe her rosy cheeks and blush-colored clothing that are suddenly making me long for the Beauties? Loneliness tugs at my cold, dark heart—maybe I do need human connection. I plaster a wide, fake smile on my face and make a large welcoming gesture with my hand, saying, “Come in! Come in!”
She flinches backwards as if I will accidentally clock her with my vessel. Her face is clouded with uncertainty as if she’s not sure it’s safe to enter my home.
Suit yourself.
I take a deep swig straight from the bottle. I turn and head for the kitchen, leaving Sasha in a gaped-mouth, hair-tugging frenzy in my open doorway.
I call over my shoulder, “Want some?”
I plop the bottle on the marble counter, go to the cupboard, and take down two glasses. I pour a generous one for myself—the golden wine reaching almost the lip of the glass—and a normal one for my guest.
Apparently she needs a little courage to be in my presence. Hopefully, the liquid type will do.
I hear her close the door, sashay down my hallway. She gives me a tight-lipped smile, takes a seat on one of my new leather, high-back, tufted barstools. Each one had cost me well over a grand but I needed the retail therapy—I’ve had a bit of a spending habit lately, the main evidence being the exotic wine collection I’ve created over the past few months.
Sasha’s spine is ramrod straight as if she’s prepared to bolt if necessary. She thanks me for the wine but instead of partaking, she gives the glass a funny stare.
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 4