Chapter 6
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 the 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.