Chapter 39
Rocco
Fucking Jackson. Love the kid like family. He’s hilarious, but Jesus, either the social cues aren’t there, or he just doesn’t give a damn.
Harper sits ramrod straight on the other end of the couch, refusing to look at me.
I turn toward her and gently ask, “What are you thinking?”
She picks at her nails and takes a steadying breath. “Is this a sex club?” she blurts.
A…what? I can’t help it—a chuckle escapes me, growing into a full laugh that rumbles deep in my chest. Her wide-eyed innocence is adorable.
After learning more about her strict religious upbringing, I wish I’d approached the contract differently, taken the time to explain it more thoroughly.
She probably thinks I’m a creepy old man with strange fetishes.
I’m surprised she hasn’t asked her brother to leave.
“No, kitten. This isn’t a sex club.” I shift closer, wanting to pull her into my lap but worried she’ll bolt.
Her shoulders relax, but confusion still clouds her eyes. “But the contracts…and the cabins…and whatever Jackson was talking about…”
Her cheeks flush pink, and I reach out, brushing my knuckles over her soft skin. The thought of that same color spreading across her body as she comes for me sends my blood rushing south.
“Jax and Aurora have a domestic partnership agreement—nothing like ours. He wanted to marry her, but I talked him out of it, offered him an alternative.”
Harper’s brows pinch. “Why?”
At the time, things were iffy with his father’s estate, along with other dangers. I didn’t want Aurora and a Rossi heir caught up in any of it. There was no need for them to be married when I could protect them, and he didn’t care whether she legally had his last name.
“It wasn’t beneficial to the family. There are greater civil protections outside the institution of marriage.”
“Okay…” she draws out. “What about the cabins?”
“The main house was built in 1922 as a hunting lodge catering to wealthy men during Prohibition. That’s how my mother’s family got its start—manufacturing and running booze.
We own close to two hundred acres. Cabins are scattered across the property, some in better shape than others.
Between my siblings, my nephews, and me, most have been restored or at least updated to a livable condition.
It’s nostalgic, I guess, peaceful, to stay in them.
If you want, you can pick one, and I’ll renovate it to your liking.
” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and cup her cheek.
“No sex club, I promise, but there is a speakeasy downstairs.”
She leans into my touch. “And the sex menu?”
I want to kiss her so fucking bad, but I’m afraid I won’t stop. “You’ve been reading our contract?”
She nods. “I have a lot of questions.”
“I bet you do. You can ask me anything, but let’s go to my room.”
Let’s go to my room? What am I, seventeen and eager to get into her pants? That sounds ridiculous to say as a fifty-year-old man.
Rightfully, her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“For privacy.” I raise my hands in surrender. “Just to talk. Nothing will happen unless you want it to.”
I stand and offer my hand. She slips her fingers into mine, and I breathe a little easier. I lead her down the hall, hyperaware of her presence beside me and the fact that no woman has been in this bedroom, other than Mrs. Harris to tidy up.
We reach my door. I push it open and flip on a light. This is my sanctuary: dark wood, soft lighting, worn leather, black-paneled walls, shelves of books and records.
It’s clean and modern, but not as sleek and meticulous as my office building or condo.
It doesn’t overlook the lake directly—I value darkness when I’m away from the fluorescent glare of the city—but it opens onto an enclosed porch with a fireplace, a sunset view of the water, and a separate entrance. This is where I go to hide.
“Make yourself comfortable.” I gesture toward the sitting area, then head to the built-in bar.
As I prepare our drinks, I watch her. She studies my books and records, hands clasped behind her back as if afraid to touch anything, then perches on the edge of the leather couch.
I return and offer her the wine. “Relax. Put your feet up. This room—this house—is yours too.”
She takes a sip and licks her lips, her gaze drifting to the bed before darting away. “Mine?”
“Yours.” I sit beside her, swirl the amber liquor and ice, then take a swig. “I want you to feel at home. Now, ask me your questions.”
“The sex menu…” She takes a generous sip. “Those are things you like?”
“No.” I drain my whiskey in one swallow and set the glass on the end table. “It’s your preference sheet. Nothing more. It helps establish boundaries and explore desires safely.”
“Could I get a list of your preferences too?”
“If you wish, but only after yours is finished so you’re not influenced by mine.”
She tucks her legs beneath her and sinks into the cushions. “And if I dislike certain things on your list?”
“Then we won’t do them.” I shrug. “It’s that simple.”
“Won’t you be disappointed?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I want to be with you. I want you as a person, not just for sex. Why would I be disappointed? I won’t enjoy anything you don’t.”
She studies me, her finger tracing the stem of her glass. “What if…” She pauses to finish her wine and set it aside. “What if I don’t know what I like? What if I want to try but have no experience—none, zero.”
I gave her the contract before I knew she’d never even had an orgasm with a man. She has a child, so obviously she’s had sex, but that doesn’t mean she’s experienced pleasure or explored her sexuality.
“You want to try?”
She answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
My dick twitches. I start unbuttoning my shirt. “Take your clothes off, kitten. Leave your panties and bra on.”
She stands, undoes her jeans, slides them down her legs, and kicks them away.
Leaving my undershirt on, I shrug out of my button-up and hand it to her. “Here, put this on.”
Her fingers twist in the hem of her sweater before she pulls it over her head. I catch only a brief glimpse of the swell of her breasts and the curve of her waist before she covers herself with my shirt. I don’t pry; I’ll see her body soon enough, once she’s secure with me.
My button-up engulfs her small frame, falling to her mid-thighs, and I can’t tear my gaze away. Seeing her in my clothes does something to me. I want this every morning, every night.
“Come here,” I rasp, voice rougher than intended.
She steps closer, and I guide her onto my lap. Her weight settles on me, and I wish I’d ditched my own jeans. My growing erection is about to be a painful problem.
I try to resist touching her, but it’s impossible. I glide my hands up her smooth thighs, clasp her hips, and draw her into my body. “What do you want from this relationship? Besides the divorce and housing for you and Danny?”
She takes a moment to answer, and when she does, her voice is barely audible, her eyes downcast. “I want to know what it’s like to be cared for—to be safe, respected, and provided for.
Even if you don’t have feelings for me, even if this is only an arrangement, an exchange, I’m willing to agree, because I’ve never had anyone care for me, for us. ”
My heart hurts. Those are basic human needs—the bare fucking minimum a man should offer. “I promise to protect you, provide for you, and respect you always. What does care look like to you?”
“This: receiving comfort without a hidden agenda, without fearing I’ll be made to feel weak or like a burden. Having someone consider my needs—not because it benefits them, but simply because.”
Again, basic shit, and I have to swallow to ease my tight throat. “Anything else, kitten?”
She lifts her head, her eyes a midnight blue in the darkened room. “Whatever you’re willing to give.”
Easy. “I’ll give you anything for a kiss.”
Her lips meet mine, always tentative at first. I tangle my fingers in her hair, and she melts. Her hands slide up my chest and around my neck. I deepen the kiss, and she whimpers so needily, it nearly breaks my control.
I pull back before I take things too far. “Ask me about something in the contract—one thing you’re curious about.”
She bites her bottom lip, considering. “Why would you spank me? Hit me?”
Her question gives me pause, the tone shifting immediately. I hold her gaze. “Are you afraid I’ll hurt you? Be cruel?”
“Not exactly—” Her shoulders slump. “I don’t know.”
She doesn’t fully trust me, not yet. I can’t say I blame her for not trusting men.
“Spanking isn’t about hurting you, and I’d never hit you.
I’d spank you—with your consent and participation—if you lied to me or put yourself in danger, for example.
” I run my thumb over her bottom lip where her teeth left indentations.
“The punishment, the sting, along with the aftercare and pleasure following, can be healing, freeing.”
“So it’s not supposed to feel good?” Her tone is curious, innocent, not judgmental.
“For some, it does. Spanking increases blood flow, heightening arousal. The brain releases endorphins, a response to pain, creating a euphoric feeling.” I shift her on my lap to ease my thickening erection.
“For others, it’s more about the surrender of control.
Trust is key. You trust me to know your limits, to read your body’s response, to stop if you say—which I would. ”
“Can you…” She hides her face in the crook of my neck, heat radiating from her skin. “Will you show me?” she asks, so soft, I almost miss it. “Just a little, so I know what it’s like?”
My body goes rigid. My heart rate spikes. I wasn’t expecting this tonight. “You’re asking me to spank you?”
She nods. “I want to understand before I agree.”
Well, fuck, I can’t really deny her request, can I? I mean, I could, but she does have a valid point. “Lie across my lap, kitten.”