“I enjoy it. Let me take care of you.” He smiles at me. Serves me a dish. Comes around the counter and sits beside me. His shoulder brushing against mine as he does. “Eat up.”
I gaze at the dish, taking in the colorful food. “It’s beautiful. Almost too pretty to eat.”
“Eat up.”
It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. I eagerly stab the pasta with my fork, twirling the strands around the tines. Pop the bite into my mouth and chew.
It’s the most delicious pasta I’ve tasted. I take another bite, and another. Moments later, my plate is empty and I’m asking for seconds.
He laughs. Fills my bowl. Says to me, “I guess this dish finally has a name.”
“What is it?” I ask between greedy mouthfuls.
His soulful eyes turn to mine and he smiles. “The Good Girl.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I finish my food.
When we go to bed, it’s the same routine as the other nights—other than last night when we fell asleep on the couch together. He gets ready in the closet. I get dressed in the bathroom. We crawl into bed, the pillow wall separating us. We bid one another goodnight.
He falls asleep.
I lay in the dark, the memory of the food, the new name of the pasta whirling in my mind.
The Good Girl.
* * *
In the morning, I wake. Eat the breakfast he’s prepared. Say goodbye and head off to work. The entire day feels... off. I get home in a weird mood. Decide to take some time to myself. Say a quick hello to Rockland then jog up the stairs to take a long shower. Try to wash away the unnamed angst I’m feeling. Throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt. Mosey into the kitchen to find him cooking steak. Baking potatoes. Another glass of wine waiting for me.
Joy warms my heart at his nearness, his tender loving care.
And it’s annoying the hell out of me. I don’t know why, but I’m overtaken by the desire to anger him. Push him. Make him respond to me.
I now know what’s been bothering me all day. I’ve become accustomed to that damn fluttering, silly, weak in the knees feeling I get whenever I think of him. And it’s making me long for him. Want him to touch me. Which he hasn’t been doing. We’ve been living as roommates. Ones who carefully dance around each other.
Long story short, I’m horny as hell. It’s making me irritable.
I’m not a big fan of meat. Growing up poor, I guess I never got used to the taste. Even though his steak is perfectly seasoned and melt in your mouth tender. I don’t finish my plate. I demand a second glass of wine, testing his patience.
I admit—I’m pushing him to see what he’ll do.
Fed up with my nonsense, his dark brow shoots sky high. He says, “Being a naughty, naughty girl. Aren’t you?”
Second guessing what I’ve gotten myself into, I say, “Well... I’d say I’m... strong willed, n-not necessarily naughty, per se—”
“Per se, my ass. You’re as naughty as they come. And you need your ass lit up by a strong man who’s willing to tell you so.”
“I—ah...”
“You want me to take your naughty little ass right over my knee and spank it until you’re crying for me to stop. Don’t you? You’re testing me. Trying to brat your way into a good hard spanking.”
It was precisely what I had been doing. Not that I would ever fess up to it. “I—er...”
“Well, you won’t be getting what you want. Instead, there are other ways to punish a bad girl.”
I swallow, hard. Squirm in my seat. Say, “Like what?”
“Reach your hands down your panties and see how wet your little yoni is, just from hearing the word ‘spanking’ come from my mouth. See how slick and ready your sex is from me telling you you’re going to be spanked by me.”
His words make me wet. Covering me in shame. A false sense of anger raises in me at his lewd command. I say, “Now just a minute... I’ll do no such thing! How dare you ask me to commit such an act for your enjoyment and pleasure!”
His hand finds my upper thigh. Squeezing its warmth. He purrs, “Is it for mine, or yours, princess?”
“I... ah...” And in that moment, between my stuttered syllables he reaches out, grasps my t-shirt covered nipple between his forefinger and thumb, and squeezes—hard. “Ouch! What the hell are you doing!” Despite my pain, a gush of arousal leaks from between my legs.
He didn’t let go. “You know I don’t give warnings. Now, do as I say or you’ll pay the price.”
What do I do? Face the utter and total humiliation of touching myself in front of him? Pleasuring myself for his enjoyment? Or risk another tweak of my nipple?
I study his face. It’s nothing but angles and that beard that gives him a dangerous edge. And those golden eyes flashing at me—promises of ecstasy glittering in his irises.
My hand slides down my belly. A deep breath fills my chest as my fingertips slip past the loose waist of my sweats. I wear no panties—as he’s commanded—so at least that’s a barrier of shame I don’t have to cross. My fingertip slides between my folds, slick with moisture. I find my clit and press shamefully onto my swollen bud. Despite my best efforts to maintain my dignity, a soft moan escapes me.
“You like that, don’t you? Pleasuring yourself in front of me?”
I snap my hand from within my sweats, placing it on my lap. “Not really—you made me do it. Had it been my own choice I would never—”
His smoky gaze locks on mine, sending shivers down my spine. “Do it again. But like you mean it this time.”
“I can’t. I just can’t take my hand and—Ow!” Between his fingers is my other nipple. He pinches and the pain mixes with a thrilling desire to feel pleasure. Any. Even if it’s my own hand rubbing out the tension between my legs. I break his gaze, my fingers sliding once more beneath the fabric of my pants.
This time, I close my eyes. I lean back in my chair. I block out the shame, the self-consciousness. And I allow myself to enjoy the pleasure. My finger slides down and up. My hips begin to rock with my movement. I’m slippery and wet and hot and bothered and my finger rubs harder at my clit. Up and down, back and forth. The pressure builds and just as I’m about to climax I hear those words.
“Good girl.”
I explode. No longer thoughts or feelings. I’m nothing but a bundle of sensation. Ecstasy. Freedom. An animal meeting a primal need. I moan. I freeze as the climax hits its maximum and then ebbs.
I whisper his name.
He takes me in his arms. Holding me tightly. Pressing me against his chest. Whispering in my ear, his beard tickling the skin of my cheek, over and over, “Good girl. Good girl. You don’t need to be naughty anymore.”
He takes my hand and leads me up to the living room. Tucks a blanket around me and puts on my favorite show, Romance in Rome. He likes to make fun of me for liking it, but tonight, he sits beside me and watches it.
When we go to bed that night, listening to his soft snores, I kick myself for putting up that stupid wall of pillows.
Chapter Six
A few weeks later
Tess
It’s almost ten. I’ve changed into my soft flannel pajama pants and an oversized tee. Rockland’s only been here a few weeks and already, the pants are fitting better and no longer sliding down my hips. My hair is tangled on top of my head in a messy bun, damp from my post-workout shower.
He’s making me jog alongside him three days a week. I hate it. I get so sweaty and gross. I huff and puff next to him, him going as slowly as possible while my sneakers thud against the pavement. Beauties pass by and stare at me curiously as I try to smile and wave. He says soon I’ll look forward to these runs.
Don’t bet your billions on it, buddy.
Now I’m yawning. Stretching my sore muscles. Shuffling down the hallway in my fuzzy pink slippers.
But I don’t want to go to bed yet.
Not alone.
I hover in the doorway of the office, watching him.
He sits in t
he floral armchair, the blue and white slipcovered one, the least elegant piece in my home. It’s his favorite when he works nights, checking on the Parish and wrapping up his day. He sits, long legs propped up on the matching ottoman, computer in his lap.
Wearing old torn-up jeans. No shirt, his tattoo swirling around his bicep.
And he has on the glasses.
The specs he only wears at night, when staring at the glare of his computer screen. The frames are black, made of thick plastic. They make him look older than his age. More distinguished. And when he wears them, I get a little rush... down there. He peers over them, stroking that rough beard. His features a mask of concentration.
Aye, Papi!
Apparently, I’ve got a thing for a man in glasses. Maybe it’s the daddy complex in me that I’ve been accused of having. I’ve always loved a no-nonsense man and those frames...
He’s typing away. He hasn’t even noticed me. I’m enjoying the feeling of spying, observing him in all his sexy masculinity without getting caught. I know I should make my presence known. Bid him goodnight. Go up those stairs and lie on my side of our pillow wall.
But I can’t get my feet to move. I lean against the doorframe, nibbling on a few more bites of eye candy.
Why can’t I sleep without him?
I’ve grown accustomed to his scent. It’s perfumed all the bedding, my sheets, the very feathers of my pillows, they all smell of his masculine warmth. It’s that smell your skin gets when you’re lying on the beach, the sun shining down on you, and it’s time to roll over to your stomach.
Though, with my fair skin tone, that’s probably only after two minutes. Rockland on the other hand, when he takes off his shirt to climb into the bed, I can’t help but peek at that browned, sunbaked skin. How those ripped muscles must look when he’s up on his surfboard, riding over those turquoise waves.
Every night, he kisses the top of my head over the wall of protection. He rolls over. He falls asleep almost instantly. His breathing is soft, steady.
And like a total creeper, I watch him sleep. He’s beautiful.
Our days have fallen into a pleasant rhythm. When I wake, he’s already left the room. I shower and dress in privacy. When I come down to the kitchen, breakfast is waiting for me. And he’s standing by the stove, white kitchen towel flung over his shirtless left shoulder. Every day.
We say our goodbyes—never touching. I go to work, he goes off to do whatever it is he does for Bronson when he’s in the Village. When I come home, there’s a hot home-cooked meal waiting for me. When he’d first moved in, the evenings, I’d lounge around in the living room, he the office. But then we took to chatting. I’d brew a pot of decaf coffee and we snuggle down and just... well, hang out. We’ve played Scrabble, watched old movies, sometimes just read quietly, side by side.
We never socialize and I’m relieved he hasn’t suggested it. Something about our quiet nights in together make me feel peaceful, content. And secretly, I’m finding I’m loath to the idea of sharing that quiet time with anyone other than him.
Tonight, after dinner, he’d gone straight to the office. Said he’s working on a deal. Whatever that may mean. I found myself feeling disappointed that we wouldn’t be spending the evening together. I went upstairs, showered, put on my pajamas. Stared at the empty bed.
But somehow, I’ve found myself here. Skulking about the doorframe of the office. Watching him work.
His husky voice suddenly penetrates the quiet. “Can I help you?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I’ve been lost in my thoughts. I’d no idea he knew I was here. He says, “You’ve been standing there for some time. Do you need something?”
I look down at my slippers. “I... ah... I... I just can’t sleep.”
He peers at me over those glasses. “Bedtime, Tess. You’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
The way he’s looking at me. The tone. My core melts.
And I can’t go up there without him. But I could never, ever tell him this. I can’t let him know how accustomed to his presence I’ve become. How I miss him when he’s not here, how—
He’s tapping his thigh with his palm. He’s taking off his glasses. My nipples are hard, poking the thin fabric of my shirt. “Tess. Go to bed.”
It’s not a request. I know I should turn, go up those stairs. Crawl in my cold, empty bed and let him work.
I don’t.
Instead I say, “I’ll go to bed when I’m good and ready.”
He give me a half-interested glance. The glasses are tossed onto the side table. He’s standing, stretching his arms high above his head. The muscles in his torso tighten and pull with his movement. His jeans are low over his hips, showing the tops of his hipbones and just a touch of the trail of dark hair that leads down to places I’ve not visited since the first night he came back.
It just wouldn’t be appropriate.
Though my yoni highly disagrees.
He yawns. Then he puts his hands on his hips. Locking our gazes, he says, “You know I don’t give warnings.”
I gulp. He’s not spanked me again since he arrived. I’ve been a perfectly behaved woman—with the one exception of that naughty night he’d made me bring myself off in his presence.
I take a few steps back.
He’s across the room and over to me before I can protest. He pulls me through the doorway and over to his chair. Props his bare foot up on the ottoman.
His knee is bent. His right thigh now the perfect height to throw me over it. I’m on tiptoe, my stomach presses into his hard quad. He easily tugs down my flannel jams. I’ve got on nothing underneath—as he’s commanded.
His hand swats my bare right cheek. The spank comes from an angle and instead of his usual paddle-like smack, it leaves a stinging warmth that goes right to my pussy. I say, “Ow!” but it doesn’t really hurt. It feels good. Tingling and warm. His hand does the same little trick to my left cheek.
Both sides sting and now my tummy clenches.
“Little girls who don’t listen get their bottoms warmed before bed.”
I hold in a moan. He swats again. On the right side. Just like before. I’m gushing. And he’s saying, “When I tell you it’s bedtime, what does that mean?”
“Go to bed?” Now he’s spanking right, left, right left. With those little stingy swats. They’re driving me wild and I want to squirm. To find some release for the tension building between my legs. But I don’t want him to know what he’s doing to me. It would be humiliating. After all, this is strictly a business relationship. A simple enactment of the hierarchy, right? My core tightens, telling me differently.
“I’m going easy on you because I know you’ve been spoiled in the past. But rest assured the next time I tell you to get to bed and you aren’t under those covers within two minutes, you’ll be sleeping on your tummy. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Sir.”
He gives my ass one good smack right over the center. “Now get yourself up to bed.”
He lifts me from his leg. Straightens me up. Leaves me standing there, pants down over my ass.
He picks up his computer. Sits back down in the armchair. Puts on the glasses and goes back to work.
I quickly slip my clothes back into place, covering up the flesh I know is now light pink in color.
I go to leave the room.
But I just can’t.
I know I’m risking a real spanking—on that will have me in tears and sleeping uncomfortably on my stomach. But I hover in that doorway. Staring at him.
He looks up at me over those glasses. Examines my face. Takes them back off. Tosses them onto the table. Puts his hand up to his brow. Closes his eyes and brings his fingers together over his forehead. The way he does when he’s exasperated.
I feel my bottom lip sticking out. My voice is tiny, soft as I say, “Aren’t you at least going to tuck me in?”
He looks up, surprised. His features soften. He stands from the chair, closing the computer. He says, “I
guess I’m not getting any work done tonight. Am I?”
I bite my lip and wait. Hoping he’ll come to me. Hoping beyond hope he’ll take me upstairs. Stay with me. Kiss me and cuddle me. Tuck me in. Then crawl under the covers to join me.
He’s looking me over. What is he thinking? My stomach’s knotting and queasy. He’s up, moves toward me. Is inches from me. He looks down at me, staring at the lip my teeth are sunk into. There’s a look of desire in his eyes—I almost think he wants to kiss me.
Then he’s got his strong arms locked around the middle of my thighs. He’s lifting me up, throwing me over his shoulder. He’s saying, “Looks like you’re going to need a ride.”
I’m squealing with laughter. Clutching at what I can reach of his arms. I’m upside down and he’s jogging—jogging with me over his shoulder—up the stairs. I’m bouncing, my breasts pressed against his back, giggling. We reach the landing and he’s not even winded. He gives my ass a hearty slap. Carries me over to my side of the bed.
He bends over, delivering me onto the mattress with an ‘oompf.’ I land on my bottom. He lifts up the comforter and tells me sternly, “Get on in there.” But there’s a smile on his face when he says it.
I scoot into place. Lie my head down on the pillow. Curl up on my side, facing him. Wait for him to tuck the covers around my chin.
His gaze is soft as he stares. His lips part as if he wants to say something, then he gives a shake of his head. He pulls the covers up and over my shoulders. He tucks them in beneath my chin—just as I imagined him doing. He leans down, so close his beard brushes my skin. He kisses the top of my head, as he does every night. He whispers, “Goodnight, princess.” He hovers there a moment too long. As if he wants to say something, do something.
Anticipation roils in my belly. Falling to disappointment as I watch him walk away.
I try to close my eyes. I hear his jeans hit the floor. Feel the weight of the mattress shift as he climbs into the bed. The tug of the comforter as he pulls it over him.
I scoot a few inches toward him. Still facing away from him. But now, my back pressed against the pillows that separate us.
Rockland: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 10