Chapter 5 #4
The day passes so quickly, I’m shocked when I look up at my office clock and find that it’s a quarter to six.
I’ve got to get back for dinner. A smile plays on my lips as I stride home.
I open the door, kick off my heels, and take in the smell of roasting garlic.
I enter the kitchen and there he is. The bare tanned back of rippling muscles becoming a familiar fixture in my kitchen.
I take a seat on my stool. I’m surprised to find a chilled glass of white wine waiting for me in my favorite cut crystal stemmed glass.
Silly, I know, but not wanting to have him tell me it’s a fluke and take this from me, I say nothing.
I pick up the glass and take a long sip.
It’s cold and delicious and the bright floral bouquet bursts in my mouth.
His back still toward me, he says, “Don’t get too excited. It’s just one glass.” He turns over his shoulder to look at me. Whatever he sees on my face makes him give a chuckle. I put the glass down and he gives me that half-cocked smile. “How was your day?”
He turns back to his cooking and I say, “Great. How was yours?”
He shrugs. “Good. A bit long, but got the job done. Do you like pasta?”
“Love it. That’s probably what formed this ass of mine.”
“Then I’ll be serving pasta every night.”
His flirtatious comment warms me along with the wine. I take another sip and say, “What dish are you making?”
“Doesn’t have a name. Just a little something I came up with a few years ago. The Parish seems to love it. Angel hair spaghetti with garlic, oil, basil, sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, a little parmesan—I think that’s it.”
“It smells heavenly.” I sit, happily drinking my wine and watching him cook as the scent of the food further fills the room.
I’ve never really had anyone cook for me, considering growing up my mom thought heating up a can of ravioli or throwing a pastry in the toaster was cooking.
It makes me feel warm, protected, cared for.
Flutter, flutter, flutter. Damnit.
I finish the wine. Pout when he replaces it with a glass of iced water. He chuckles. Serves the pasta into two low-sided bowls I don’t recognize. I suddenly feel guilty for all the work he’s doing for me. I say, “You know… you don’t have to go out of your way for me. I can cook—”
“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.