She was silent, her breath expanding in her chest. Her heart seized hopefully. Please touch me. Please.
“How are you feeling?” His voice sounded strained. “Any headache? Any pain?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“You should really be getting to bed soon. You need to be resting as much as possible. But I think you earned a punishment earlier. For disobeying me.”
She nodded. “Yes, Sir. If you say so.”
He released her hair with a soft laugh. “Good answer. Now get up. Bend over the table. Wait for me.”
She was throbbing, just like that. Three short commands and she was soaking her panties. She stood and draped herself over the small table while he cleared the dishes. Her face flamed with the indignity of what she was doing, waiting there bent over for him as he moved around her. She heard water running in the kitchen, things being put away. The dishwasher started with a hiss and a groan. She turned her head sideways and closed her eyes, too embarrassed to see if he watched her or not. Her hands opened and closed against the tabletop. Her fingers traced across the smooth wood. She wished it were Jackson’s skin.
She heard footsteps and opened her eyes to see him coming back, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He threw it aside and approached her. She loved the way his jeans eased across the muscles of his thighs when he walked. Her whole pelvis ached with lust for him.
He stood behind her, reached around to unbutton her jeans and tug them down over her hips. She held her breath, waiting, feeling exposed. The panties came down too. She shifted and buried her face in her hands. She was overcome with the same jumble of feelings he always inspired in her. Lust. Fear. Excitement. Embarrassment. Why did she love this? Why did he?
“Be still,” he said under his breath. She shuddered as she heard a metallic clunk and the sound of his belt being freed from its loops. She craned her neck to turn and see him doubling it over. As always, she squelched the sudden impulse to flee. He took her hands hard and pulled them behind her back, pressing them down.
“When I tell you to do something or not do something, it’s understood that you will obey. Yes?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered.
“There will always be a reason, girl. And the reason will always be ‘I want.’ So if I give you directions, you do as I say and not as you want to do. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“‘Yes, Sir, I understand.’”
“Yes, Sir, I understand.” She tensed as he rubbed the belt across her ass cheeks.
He leaned down next to her ear. “This won’t hurt you nearly as much as it should, because you’re injured. Now count each stroke and don’t dare move.”
He brought the belt down on her bottom, and she gasped. “One!”
The sting of the first blow spread across her cheeks. He paused then, making her wait. She felt so vulnerable knowing more pain was coming. She both dreaded the pain and yet craved it on some level just because it came at his hands.
“Two! Three! Four!”
They weren’t full strength, as promised, but they still hurt. He swung the belt with tight control, and the hard table held her trapped with nowhere to go. She danced around on her toes, trying to dissipate some of the ache. Her ass grew warm and tender, but at the same time a different type of warmth suffused her pussy. She tensed, aware of her nipples hardening into stones against the tabletop. She wanted to press her clit against the edge, but she didn’t dare. Even through the haze of pain, she was reminded of his power and control of her by the hand on her back, the fingers tight on her wrists. She struggled just to feel him hold her harder. He didn’t stop the steady delivery of blows, each one another trial to endure, another slap of fire. On top of all the other warring emotions and sensations, she had to remember to count each one. “Five! Six! Seven!”
“Eight!” was the last. He put the belt down on the table and helped her up. She swallowed hard and looked up into his eyes, feeling ashamed and aroused. Or perhaps ashamed because she felt so aroused. His gaze was direct and stern, and for a moment she had difficulty finding her voice.
“I’m so sorry, Sir. Next time I’ll do what you say; I promise.”
“Every time you’ll do what I say. Okay? And if you can’t, you’ll let me know, and you’ll explain to me why.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Are you tired, girl?”
“Yes. I’m very tired.”
He put a hand under her elbow. “Then let’s get you to bed.”
He led her straight to his bedroom. He shouldn’t have. She was tired, and she was supposed to be recuperating. There was a second bedroom where he’d put all her things earlier, but that room was on the top floor, and he didn’t want her that far away. She was still an invalid. She needed supervising. That’s what he told himself anyway. He sent her to shower, lingering outside the bathroom in case she got dizzy and fell, then gave up and joined her, drinking the water from her luscious skin.
He should never have moved her into his house. He wouldn’t be able to leave her alone.
When she got out of the shower, he forbade her to put on pajamas. He didn’t want her body covered from his gaze. He took her towel and nodded to the bed. “Left side.” She walked over and climbed between his sheets, curled up there, not a lost kitten anymore. He hung up the towel and came to join her. Once in bed, he pulled her close. She was so cold, and he noticed too that she felt thin. She really was run-down. Letting her move in was something he simply had to do for her health and safety. She needed looking after. And he needed her in his bed because… because… Because you have to have her.
She sighed and arched back against him.
“You need to rest,” he said. But two seconds later he turned to the bedside drawer to get a condom and sheathe himself. He eased inside her with a slow, steady motion that would have been impossible to halt. She gasped as she always did when he first entered her, shifting her hips to adjust to his girth. Gasp turned to moan—hers or his, he didn’t know. Both, perhaps. They moved together like that, slow and splendid, for what might have been an hour but probably wasn’t. It was as if they sealed some new contract, some new promise. Deep feelings. Immense possibilities. Prosperity.
Later when he held her sleeping body against his satiated one, he hoped against hope he hadn’t made a mistake.
Chapter Twelve
Prosper woke up alone to silence. No small, depressing apartment. No screaming and yelling from next door. Just silence and a wide white bed. The diaphanous curtains undulated over semiopen blinds that let in bright morning light. The temperature was perfect, not too hot and not too cold, and Prosper stretched under the covers, pulling them up to her ears. She could smell Jackson.
Jackson.
Had he left for work already? She listened, thought perhaps she heard the rattle of a newspaper. She left the bed, padded to the door, and cracked it open. She went upstairs to the guest room to find her pajamas, and then tiptoed down the stairs. Why was she tiptoeing? Why did she feel like an intruder? She reached the bottom of the second flight and peered around the corner to see him sitting at the table over coffee, eggs, and bacon. Sunlight fell across his face as he mulled over the headlines. He rattled his paper again and put down his cup.
“You live here now, Prosper. You don’t have to skulk around.”