My eyes slowly turn upward, meeting his gaze. He says. “It looks like you’ve been lying long enough to have earned yourself a good strapping.”
My nipples tighten beneath my bra. My ass cheeks clench beneath me. He comes closer, looming over me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
I feel small. No longer thinking I could kick Bachman ass. “Carter, I told you... I’m a bad cook.”
“Yes, you are. But you get better by practicing. Not lying and sneaking.”
I don’t look at him.
His hand cups my chin, his grip warm and firm, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Tell me, Sasha. Have you been bad?”
I hate when he makes me say it. “Yes. I have. I need... to be punished.”
“Then the only question now, is should you be strapped over the bed? Or over your naughty pony. With your ass facing the window?”
The naughty pony.
Just the words make my tummy drop.
I say, “Carter. I think I’d like to give cooking another try. What do you say we mosey downstairs and I’ll cook us up something twice as nice as the café—”
He almost smiles. Almost. Instead, he says, “Get yourself over to the window.”
I stand, dragging my feet as I go. White heat flushes my face. I peek out the window. Luckily it’s late and I don’t see anyone on the street. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean they might not see me from their bedroom windows. I hold in a sigh.
The naughty pony is a miniature pommel horse, like those used in gymnastics. Carter has adjusted it so that it’s the perfect height for me to stand in front of it, bend over it, and have my ass strapped.
The dark sky through the windows is to my right. Carter, to my left. Waiting with his arms crossed. The strap now dangles from his right hand.
I give him a long look. His jaw clenches. I unbutton my pants, shimmy them over my hips. Pull them down until they are just at my mid-thigh. I leave my panties in place. Gone are my daily thongs—a thing of the past. I just have a handful of them left and I’m only to wear them if I’m in workout gear. Carter has filled my drawers with stacks of colorful bikini briefs. Not a single one black. Pink with flowers and a little bow on the front is what I wear now.
I allow myself one more sigh, then I bend over the smooth leather of the pony. My shirt rides up and my bare skin presses against the bench. My head and arms hang over, my long ponytail almost touching the floor.
I wait.
His hand is on my bottom, smoothing over my cotton panties. My nipples are taut. His fingertip lightly traces the dip between the cheeks of my ass. Goosebumps rise on my bare thighs. I give a shiver.
His hand pats my bottom lightly as he lectures. “You were a bad girl. A very bad girl. And what do I have to do when you’re bad?”
I wince, preparing myself to say the words. “Spank my bottom.”
“And when you’re extra naughty, like you’ve been this week, hiding things from me, lying... what do I need to do, then?”
“Give my naughty bottom a good strapping.” My cheeks are burning. I can’t believe the words are coming from my mouth.
“I’m going to warm up your pretty bottom with my hand, first.” He spanks me softly. It doesn’t even sting—not yet. His hand comes down, over my panties, on the center of my cheeks. Back and forth as he says, “Tell me. Do you miss your black thongs? They were so sexy. So grown up. Too bad you’re just a naughty little girl who doesn’t get to buy her own panties anymore.” His hand comes down in a hard slap. It makes me rise up on my toes and whine. He spanks again, harder this time. Then his hand is peppering my bottom with hard smacks. His palm lands with stinging strikes all over the curves of my ass.
The pain spreads quickly, like a fire. I’m dancing from toe to toe.
“As much as I like them, let’s go ahead and take these panties down.” He stops spanking and I’m grateful for the break. My ass starts to throb. He pulls my panties down over my curves, leaving them right at the tops of my thighs. I can sense his gaze on me.
“Beautiful. Now for my strap.”
My smarting bottom is begging me to at least make some form of plea. “Carter, I really don’t think I need the strap. I’m sorry, and I’ll go right back to cooking. I promise.”
“Oh, I know you will, baby. When we are finished here, I am going to pull your jeans up just high enough that they meet your bunched-up little panties. Then you are going to march yourself down those stairs and cook a proper meal. With your naughty, red, strapped bottom hanging out while you work.”
I let out a low groan. Before I can protest, the strap comes down on my bare, sore ass. I cry out as the leather meets my skin. A vicious line of stinging rises across my cheeks. Before I can catch my breath, the strap comes down again and again. I’m sucking in air between my teeth. Tears are forming in my eyes. I cry, “Please, Carter.”
The strap comes down again. This time just above that delicate skin where the bottom of my ass meets the tops of my thighs. I’ll not be sitting down tomorrow. I whine. I whimper. He strikes again and again. Once more. The pain is blinding. It’s all I can think about. Every inch of my bottom is throbbing and smarting. I feel naughty, chastised. No longer the strong-willed woman running my man as I please—he’s taken over, made me his vulnerable little girl.
He lifts the strap again and I beg, “I’m sorry, I’ll never lie to you again. I promise. I was bad and I’ll be good. I’ll be so good.”
He can hear the remorse in my voice. He knows he has my submission. My regret. That I fully understand the line that I’ve crossed, and I’ll not do it again.
He drops the strap.
His hand brushes over my sore bottom. I hang limp, letting the tears fall from the corners of my eyes.
He says, “Come here, baby.”
I rise, shuffle into his arms. I lean against his chest, my balled-up hands pressing against my eyes. His big arms reach around me. His knees bend so he’s face to face with me. He kisses my lips as he pulls up my jeans from my thighs. Bringing the fabric up to sit just under the curve of my ass, like he promised. My sore bottom hangs out, exposed, over my jeans and panties. His hands go to my stinging ass cheeks and he gives them a squeeze. He straightens, kissing the top of my head. Wraps his arms around my back. Holds me as my breathing slows.
His finger and thumb grasp my chin. He directs my gaze to his. In his eyes shine love and absolute, total authority. He says, “You can never, ever lie to me again, baby girl.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“There’s my good girl,” he says.
I lay my cheek against his chest, snuggle in further. He rubs my back and murmurs sweet nothings.
I’m cozy and spanked and loved and full of love. Too soon, he pulls away. Our eyes meet and I know it’s time for the second part of my punishment. He takes my hand in his and leads me all the way down to the first floor. To the dreaded kitchen. I’m shamefully shuffling. The jeans and panties constricting my movements. The stiff denim is pushing the curve of my bottom upward.
We’re in the kitchen. I stand there, face burning, ass burning. My hands clench in front of my partially exposed pussy. I don’t know what to do. I await instruction.
He leaves me standing awkwardly in front of the countertop where I do most of my prep. He goes to the dining table in the eat-in area of the room, grabbing a chair. He brings it over and plops it down, right in front of me. He takes a seat. There’s a bemused smile on his face.
He’s going to watch me work. With my punished bottom on display for his enjoyment. And he’s going to love every second of it. “Why don’t you cook me the dish you’ll be bringing to Brett’s service? It will be good practice for you.”
I’d forgotten all about the funeral—or Celebration of Life, as they call it. In one week, we Bachmans will join and I will experience my first family burial. Though Carter has warned me it’s nothing like my grandmother’s funeral was, the only one I’ve ever been to. I have no idea what to expect, but
I’m nervous about the meal that follows. All the wives make food for a ginormous after party. People talk about the dishes that are served for weeks afterwards.
And they will be lining up to try mine, wondering, has Carter whipped any domesticity into Sasha yet?
Best get cooking.
Ignoring the flush in my cheeks, I pull things from the fridge. Peppers, onions, linked chicken sausages. I go to the pantry. My jeans are constricting my movements. It makes me do a funny shuffle as I collect my pots and pans from the cupboards.
I hear a chuckle.
“Not funny,” I murmur, putting a pan on the stove.
He crosses his arms over his chest. He has his right leg casually crossed over his left thigh.
He’s having a great time.
I ignore my audience and focus on what Mary taught me: Get your potatoes boiling before you do anything else. They take the most time. Chop the veggies small and even. Pan on medium. Heat up the oil first, before you put anything in there. Garlic first, always garlic first. Then onion, then the veggies. Last, the meat. I slice. I dice. Pretty soon I’m so focused on what I’m doing, I find I’m enjoying myself. As I cook, I forget my exposed bottom. Carter and I chat about our days. We laugh.
Yummy smells begin to waft through the kitchen. I stir my pan. The food actually looks good. Hey, I’m cooking!
I serve the food onto two plates. He takes them from the counter, carrying them over to the table. I want to pull up my clothes before I sit down. I give him an inquiring look. Which he ignores.
So I sit my bare, still throbbing ass as gingerly as possible onto the wooden chair.
Ouch.
My traitorous pussy gushes at my predicament.
He takes the first bite. I stare at him in anticipation. He smiles and says, “Delicious.”
I take a bite to see for myself if he’s just being generous. The veggies are tender, but still have the right amount of crisp. The potatoes are creamy, the garlic and butter making my mouth water as I chew. My brows rise in surprise. A feeling of pride wells up in my chest.
He takes my hand in his, holding it on the tabletop. He says, “I knew you could do it. You just needed a little help focusing.” He gives my hand a squeeze.
I kind of want to stick my tongue out at him. But my ass hurts too much to risk repercussions.
Chapter Six
Sasha
The day of the funeral has come.
I shouldn’t even be going. Since we aren’t yet married, I’m not officially a Bachman. But Bronson made an exception for me, as John is related to Carter, and Brett was like a father to John. I think Bronson’s decision to allow Carter to include me is Bronson’s way of holding out an olive branch to me.
He knows how hard I’m working to get the hang of this whole submissive wife thing.
I’m trying my best, but the gods know I’m a work in progress.
I carefully pack my—what should I call it? sausage potato pepper, best made with your ass hanging out—dish into my lidded casserole pan. I tuck it within the soft fabric of the carrier Mary has gifted me. It’s blue and white checked, with two strong handles. The material it’s made of will keep the food hot until it comes time to serve it.
A week ago, after I’d finally nailed fried chicken—Carter’s favorite—she’d handed it to me, pride radiating from her face, and told me I’d graduated from her cooking school.
Holding the straps, I walk to the foyer. A glimpse of my reflection catches my eyes. I barely recognize myself.
My long, dark hair hangs over my shoulders in soft, tumbling curls. During Paige’s last visit to the village. Bronson had invited us over for an impromptu grill out. While the men were discussing dinner on the patio, she’d grabbed my hand, tugging me upstairs. She insisted she show me how to use a curling iron. It’s not fair—you have such beautiful hair and just looking at it, I know it will hold a curl all day long. Let me show you.
She pushed me down into a chair, strong for her tiny size, and got to work, pulling and tugging my hair into tendrils. When she was on her last strand, Carter had entered the room, telling me it was time for us to go home. His eyes lit up when he saw me, saying, “Daddy likes.”
His unexpected words made a rush of heat melt through my core and a tension rise between my legs.
It made Paige giggle.
So today, I took special care to curl it myself. And it doesn’t look half bad.
My fitted, sleeveless white dress—Carter reverently told me we wear white as it’s a celebration of life, not death—looks stunning against my olive skin. I’ve never really been one to wear light colors.
And in my hands, my stylish food carrier. The picture of a domestic goddess.
“What has happened to you, Sasha?” I breathe to my reflection. But on my face is a wide grin.
A horn honks and I rush out the door to meet Mary. She’s driving John’s red Porsche Panamera. We will meet our significant others at the site of the burial. Though what all the ceremony entails, or if there will even be a burial, I have no idea.
When a member of the brotherhood passes, all of the men spend the night before the ceremony in a closed chamber with the body of the deceased.
What they do in there, I’ll never know. But Mary’s offered me a ride, and I’m grateful to not be going alone.
Nerves twist in my stomach. I have no idea what to expect. I open the door, peering down at Mary.
Mary shoots me a reassuring smile. “Hey, sweetie. Put your food in the trunk. I’ve got a lead foot and with no men to catch me, we’re going to fly. I’d hate to spoil your dish. Or find out what happens to two girls who spill a casserole in one of John’s cars.”
I smile and walk to the opened trunk at the back of the car. I carefully place my bag beside her matching red and white checked one.
She’s made her famous brownies. I inhale their sweet scent and I feel my dress getting tighter like I’ve gained five pounds. I shut the lid.
She drives fast. There isn’t a single man on the streets to catch us.
We arrive at an area of the property I’ve never been to or have even known to exist. We pull through an elaborate black iron gate.
Into a beautiful meadow. Despite the season the grass grows tall, lush, and green.
I give Mary a curious stare, which she ignores.
We climb from the car and meet the group that’s beginning to form a circle. All dressed in couture, all wearing white.
They’re breathtaking.
They smile at me as I approach, parting and moving away from Carter so I can join him.
I slip my arm into his. He looks down at me. His eyes are soft, sad. His hair is gelled back, his face freshly shaven. He wears a crisp white button-down. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him look more handsome.
He kisses the top of my head, saying, “It’s so good to see you, baby girl.”
“How are you holding up?” I ask. Despite his dapper looks, I’ve noticed the dark circles that hang below his eyes.
“It’s always heart-wrenching to lose a brother. Today, my thoughts are with John. It’s like he’s losing a father. For a second time.” His eyes shift from mine.
My heart tugs toward him, thinking of what he went through as a child. Both parents passing away tragically.
I look to John. His jaw is clenched; his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He stands tall, strong, but his arms cling to Mary.
Bronson steps forward from the crowd, to the center of the circle. He holds a strange black box I don’t recognize. I hear someone next to me whisper, “The chamber.”
I tug on Carter’s arm. “What’s that?”
He says, “Brett’s remains.”
“Was he cremated?” I ask. I’d always assumed the Bachmans would be buried in pine boxes or something since they’re obsessed with the circle of life, the natural order of things.
Carter begins speaking so quietly I barely hear him. “It’s fascinating,” he murmurs. His eyes are on the chamber,
glassy and faraway. His hand rests lightly on his chin. When he speaks, he sounds as if he is talking to himself. “First, the corpse is frozen at zero degrees. When the core hits naught, the body is placed in a vat of liquid nitrogen where the temperature drops to negative three twenty. A mechanical device vibrates the body, which disintegrates it within minutes. Next, the material is freeze-dried in a vacuum chamber, removing the water and reducing the weight to thirty percent of the original mass. What’s left is a fine, dry powder, which is placed in the chamber. Of course, there are many steps that come before this. The step I’ve outlined are only the final decomposition of the body. We would never touch it before we get the DNA extraction—”
His words catch in his throat, his eyes snapping open wide. He turns to me. His gaze is heavy as it locks with mine, holding it. His hand presses heavy into my shoulder. “My mistake. Sasha, you must never repeat what I have said.” He looks away, his eyes clouding over. His hand runs through his perfectly combed hair, mussing it. “Sometimes... I forget myself when I’m with you.”
His confession makes a welling in my chest. He’s a strong man. But with me, there’s a softness. A letting down of his guard that sometimes challenges his vow. A tug and pull between me and the family.
Causing a rift. One I would have gladly widened in the past, pestering him with questions.
But I’ve grown. So. Much.
I place my arm around his waist. I reach up and over, whispering in his ear, “Trust me, love.”
His eyes meet mine. They seem lighter than before. He places a soft kiss on my lips. “I do, baby girl.”
He grabs my hand in his, interlocking our fingers. He leads me to the other side of the meadow, where we join John, Mary, Bronson, Tess, and Rockland.
Everyone is tightening the circle. Standing around, their bodies are so rigid, it’s as if they are expecting something to pop up in the center of them.
My palm is sweaty against Carter’s. Nerves suddenly twist my guts. I shift my weight from one high heel to the other. My hand goes to my hair to tug. Carter softly places his hand that’s not holding mine over my nervous fingers and pulls them to my side. His mouth is by my ear. The scent of his aftershave and cologne waft toward me. He whispers, “Be still, baby.”
Carter: A Mafia Billionaire Romance Page 10