She freezes.
I run my fingertip down her cheek, over her bottom lip. “Isn’t it? Does all this talk of a big strong man taking you over his knees, controlling you, punishing you, does it make your little kitty all wet?”
She gives a shiver. She whispers, “That’s beside the point.”
My fingers slide down, brushing against her breast. I can feel her hardened nipple beneath her coat. “Is it? The way I see it—it’s the point exactly.”
Stepping back from me, she makes a harrumphing noise. Her face is red.
I don’t want to push her temper too far. Might get her into trouble before I can even show her the house. “Let me tell you a little secret. The women have all the real power.”
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“They make the decision, have the final say. Of course, once you’re committed, you may not like what you’ve signed up for at times, but still, you sign up for it willingly. You choose to let the man dominate you.”
She is quiet for a moment. “The women have the power. Because they are the ones who say they want this... lifestyle?”
“Bachman women crave this lifestyle. They aren’t happy without it.”
Her voice is small. She looks up at me, unsure of herself. “Do you think... I crave it?”
“Yes.” I lean down. My mouth hovers by her ear. I slip my hand over her ass, squeezing her curve. She gasps as I dig my fingers into her flesh. “Do you?”
Her breath catches in her throat just as my lips press against it. I kiss and suck at her neck, all the while grabbing her ass harder. She’s on tiptoe, breathless.
The word I long to hear escapes her lips. “Yes.”
My cock hardens. I press it against her. My mouth moves to hers. My tongue slips between her lips, caressing her mouth.
Her body melts against mine. Kissing her makes the world disappear. My mind is lost in touch, taste, feel.
Paige.
I want her. But I’ll wait.
She’s worth the wait.
I pull away. Her mouth remains open, wanting. Her brown eyes shine with desire. Her hands clutch at me.
“Patience,” I say, giving her a wink.
She pouts. My heart beats a little faster.
I take her hand in mine. I point to my door. “This is me.”
Her eyes take in the exterior of my home. Dark gray paint with white trim and wrought-iron accents. Not a feminine touch in sight. She asks, “One Eighteen?”
“Yes. One Eighteen, Fifth Street.”
“How many streets are there?” Her voice is filled with nerves. Her hand tightens around mine.
“Seven.”
“All Bachmans? Are you all related?” she asks.
“Yes. But by choice. By pledge. We are family, closer than family. But only a handful of us share DNA. And only a few are decedents of the original Bachmans.”
She looks me over. “Which are you?”
“Bloodline.”
“And how do the others join? Is it like a gang initiation or the mafia or something?” she asks with a nervous giggle.
She isn’t far off. The process of becoming a Bachman man... brutal. It’s secretive, grueling, and once you’ve undergone it, you’re a Bachman for life. Or your life ends. I swallow hard and say, “You aren’t too far off the mark for the men.”
“And the women? How do they join?” she asks shyly.
My heart tugs, a feeling I’ve only known her to bring out in me. I say, “One can only become a Bachman woman by marriage. There is no divorce in our world.”
Too much to lay on someone for a first date? Though going out with the head of New York’s largest crime ring is hardly a normal experience. I press my thumb. The door opens. Leaning towards the panel, I say, “Home.”
All the lights in my house flicker on.
“Impressive,” she says. Her eyes are wide. Her hand grabs mine.
“Thank you. Joshua handles all our tech. He’s great. His wife—”
She interrupts me. “Wait. Let me guess—his wife does the vacuuming for the town? Stays home ironing the suits?”
“No. She’s our lawyer. Best in the state.”
Paige gives an impressive nod. “So the women are allowed to work outside of the home?”
“We’re doms—not cavemen. Trust me—no one respects the strength and intelligence of women like the Bachman men. We just like to spank their asses when they get out of line.” I give her ass a swat.
She shoos me away with her hand. “So, this Joshua... he doesn’t mind if his wife makes more money than him?”
What a strange question. “Of course not. Why would he?”
“And Mary—she chooses to be a stay at home wife?”
“Of course.”
“It’s just that you all don’t really fit into any mold,” she says, eyeing me.
“Neither do you.” I flash her a smile, showing her into my foyer. Having her here with me, I feel relaxed. Almost jovial. It’s what she does to me.
The familiar scent of home greets me. Lemons and lavender. A fresh bouquet of white flowers graces my entryway table. The cleaners must have come today. Which means my fridge is stocked and there will be white wine, chilled.
Sometimes it pays to be the boss.
Paige looks around, taking in the décor. It’s all white and black. Classic bachelor pad. If the bachelor has good taste and limitless funds.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
“Thank you. I enjoy decorating it.”
“You have impeccable taste,” she says.
“Takes one to know one. May I take your coat?” I ask.
I help her out of the coat—my favorite purchase to date—and hang it in the hall closet. I shrug out of my suit jacket, hanging it next to her coat. I like the way our outerwear looks, hanging in the same closet beside one another. Shaking the silly notion from my mind, I ask her, “Wine?”
“Yes, please.” She folds her hands in front of her, following me into the kitchen. The white marble countertops gleam. There’s a fire crackling in my kitchen’s fireplace. The gray stone floor shines thanks to the recent polishing.
Paige sits down at one of my white leather barstools. With her dark hair, olive skin, and high cheekbones, she’s a classic beauty. She fits right in, making my kitchen feel warm, cozy.
To have her here, in my home, she’s so, so... mine. I want all our clothes mingled together. Lying in a heap on my bedroom floor.
I want her to stay with me tonight.
Maybe forever.
And I know she wants to stay with me. The flush in her cheeks, the sultry look in her eyes, she wants it as badly as I do.
But I’m the head of the family for a reason. I don’t jump into things. I don’t do relationships. So if I’m going to make an exception for Paige, I will need her commitment.
I pour the wine. One question burns in my mind. Will she accept my proposal?
I won’t waste her time, or mine. I hold the glass out toward her. Our fingers touch, as I pass the glass to her. Before I let go, I say to her, “I won’t have you unless you are mine.”
Chapter Six
Paige
It’s a lot to take in.
The wine helps.
Bronson Bachman is a bloodline Bachman. He’s the head of the Bachman family. Essentially, I sit drinking wine with the man who happens to be the head of an organization much more powerful than the New York mafia is or has ever been.
Even in their heyday.
Though without any of the senseless violence, I have been assured.
Is that supposed to make me feel better? Violence is violence. Isn’t it? But when I look at him as he speaks, I know that inside of him is good.
And the Bachmans not only own the largest crime ring. They own a huge chunk of the city. Making them, I assume, billionaires.
Collectively, they own every building that lines their Village. They cleared the inner area, building the seven streets of row homes with the p
arklike setting in the center. Each one has access back into the city, via their businesses.
He really does have a lair. And a secret exit. And he has never done a lick of paperwork in his life.
I’m sitting next to an extremely powerful man. One who just ate my pussy in the alleyway leading to his secret world.
I take another long swig of wine.
And the women.
Bachman Beauties, as I’ve begun referring to them.
Powerful, intelligent. And all submissive to their dominant Bachman men.
It’s almost too much to take in.
And yet...
My mind keeps flashing to the image of Tess, standing bare-bottomed in her window, her punished ass on display for all to see.
Will that be me, one day?
My pussy clenches, gushing in my panties.
Who am I trying to kid? Myself?
The entire time he spoke, his handsome face remained free of emotion. It was as if he was giving me a lesson in history. Not telling me about his very complicated, very secretive life.
As he spoke, all I kept thinking was, makes sense to me.
Is there something wrong with me?
Wouldn’t most women run for their lives when the man they’re with declares himself a criminal? Hightail it out of there at the first sign of a secret black gate?
Well, I guess not every woman... there are the Mrs. Bachmans.
Badly behaved women put on display.
But these women agreed to this lifestyle. They want it.
And deep down, I know I do too.
Or at least I want to want to.
But my God, the commitment of it all.
I can’t even stick to a lipstick color, much less a man.
And to agree to his... correction, his discipline, even when I didn’t want to?
It sounds impossible.
But I want him.
There is no denying that.
I want him in that deep way that you want a tall glass of water after walking ten city blocks in Jimmy Choos on a sweltering New York summer day. (Not all of us get the pleasure of disappearing to the Hamptons when the thermometer reaches the hundreds.)
It’s a yearning that starts in the center of my core and rises up in my chest. My pulse feels weak at the idea of not having him.
I’ve become a different person, just knowing Bronson.
I want to grab his hand, pull him up to that third-floor master bedroom and make love to him all night long.
There’s only one problem.
A little bomb he dropped on me just moments ago.
He won’t fuck me unless I agree to be his.
And he is only giving me to the end of the night to make my decision.
Now that I’ve seen this place, that I know of the Bachman Village, I have to commit, or cut ties. All ties. And never see him again.
He isn’t trying to be cruel, he says. That’s just the way it is.
It’s not a marriage proposal, but he’s asking for a hell of a lot more commitment than any other boyfriend of mine has ever asked for. (Okay, so I’ve only had one boyfriend, for six months, but still.) I have some idea of how romantic relationships normally work.
And this is not it.
It is so much more... intense.
I would have to be exclusive. No texts, phone calls, or dates with other guys. In fact, I couldn’t even be alone with a man who isn’t a Bachman or a patient.
I am too embarrassed to tell him that shouldn’t be a problem—I’ve been running a little dry in the dating department, like, for years.
I’ll have to keep this place a secret, never tell anyone about it, never show them the Village.
Most of my friends are senile. Half of them can’t remember their names.
And I will be subjected to his discipline. His dominance. Even when I don’t agree with him. He will have the final say.
Those words almost make me come.
I’m seated on his white leather couch. I twirl the wineglass in my hand, waiting for Bronson to return. He moved me upstairs to the living room. He’d insisted on making me something to eat, but I feel he’s giving me space to think. We’d left the restaurant before we’d even ordered. The smell of garlic wafts up the stairs and into the room.
Like I could stomach a meal right now. Nerves sit in tiny bundles, tightening in my belly.
I close my eyes, stilling my mind.
I sit quietly. My thoughts, my feelings, my fears melt away. This is the closest to praying I’ve ever come.
Opening my eyes, I place my wineglass down on the spotless glass coffee table.
I’ve made my decision.
He returns. There’s no plate in his hand, as I expected. Instead, in his opened palm sits a small red leather box.
At the sight of the box, my heart begins to beat double time. My hand flutters to my chest.
The word Bachman’s is etched across the top in gold, swirling letters.
I want to touch it. I want to cry just seeing it in his hand. I want to know what is in there. I can’t believe he’s chosen me to give a gift to.
He sits down beside me. His eyes are soft, his gaze almost unsure.
He holds the box out to me.
I take it from him. Hold it with trembling fingers. I peek up at him. He smiles and nods reassuringly, saying, “Please open it.” His first ‘please,’ yet.
I put my thumb and index finger on either side of the lid, lifting it. It opens with a quiet snap.
Inside the black velvet sits a ring.
My breath leaves my body. My head feels dizzy. I must be dreaming.
The blue diamond.
I’ve forgotten it even existed.
I hadn’t bothered to look for it in the window after he’d hired me.
And here it is, now, in my hands. A priceless gem.
My mouth forms a wordless ‘o.’
His voice is husky with emotion. “It’s yours. Whether you stay or not. I want you to have it.”
Words I never thought would cross my lips tumble out. “I... I can’t accept this. It’s priceless.”
“You’re priceless,” he says.
My eyes lock on his.
“I’d like you to have it. Hopefully as a sign of our relationship. But if you choose to leave, then think of it as a goodbye gift. A token for your troubles.”
A token? This thing could pay for the living expenses of me and the entire home for years. He sits beside me on the couch, his hard thigh pressing against mine. I sit, staring at the unbelievable gift I hold. His eyes catch mine. “May I?” he asks. I give him a small nod and he takes the box from my hand. Lifting the magnificent ring from its nest, he closes the box.
I hold out my trembling right hand.
He takes my right hand in his. He gives it a kiss. To my surprise, he presses it gently back into my lap.
Instead, he lifts my left hand, slipping the rock on my ring finger.
I don’t know what he means by this simple choice, but I don’t dwell on it. Because the ring is magnificent and sparkling on my finger. And it’s a perfect fit.
The diamond dazzles beneath the lights. It is many shades of blue. Darker at the edges of the cuts, lighter at the center. Tiny rainbows dance within the precious gem.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I turn my hand this way and that, letting the sparkles fly.
There are no words to show how grateful I am. So I whisper, “Thank you.”
His hands go to either side of my face, cradling it gently. He leans down, his mouth closing on mine. Our lips press together.
He pulls back slightly, his face inches from mine. His husky voice whispers, “What’s your answer?”
I lock my gaze with his. I want him to know that when I speak, I speak the truth. “I made up my mind... before you brought out the ring.”
He holds my face in his hands, his dark eyes studying mine. “And?”
I feel shy to say it. Disbelief fills my mind. He wan
ts to be with me? Shoving away my doubts, I say, “And... yes. I want to be with you. To be... yours.”
His eyes shine like a child at Christmas. I’ve never seen such joy on his face. Smiling, he presses his mouth against mine, kissing me again.
This kiss brings with it a new energy. It’s a kiss that seals the deal. A symbol of a commitment made. A kiss that signifies our union.
With this kiss, we are together. An item.
I have entered the world of the Bachmans...
The kiss deepens, our arms winding around one another. Our hands caressing each other.
A couple.
He pulls back from the kiss. His mouth finds my ear. His breath is hot. He whispers, “I have to have you.”
A yearning rises from deep within me. A need to be with him. To have him inside of me. To become one with him.
He takes my hand, leading me up to his room.
The master bedroom takes up the entire third floor. There is no door to open, just a threshold to cross. There in the center of the room sits a massive bed on a black iron frame. Crisp white duvet and sheets are neatly spread across the mattress, not a wrinkle in sight. A plush gray carpet sits before the bed. It looks so soft.
Above the bed hangs a huge metal sculpture of a bird. On either side of the bed are tall windows, the panes fused together with black metal.
So many big, uncovered windows.
Like the very same window Tess had been standing in.
I gulp.
He comes up behind me, his chest pressing against my back. He leans down, nibbling at my earlobe. “Do you like what you see?”
“It’s beautiful.” My pussy throbs as he kisses down my neck, brushing my hair back with his hand.
His hands slip down my chest, over my breasts. To my waist. His fingers tangle into the bow that ties my wrap dress in the front. He undoes the bow, the dress falls open. His hands go to my shoulders, slipping the fabric down my arms. The gown puddles at my feet.
I close my eyes, breathing deeply. His fingertips trail down the skin of my bare back. A delicious shiver runs down my spine. He finds the clasp of my bra, undoing it and freeing my breasts. The bra drops to the floor, onto my forgotten dress.
His hands go to my waist. He rolls my panties down, down, down to the floor. I step out of them. They join the rest of my outfit.
Bronson: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 9