Chapter 6

CHAPTER

SIX

Saverio

W hen I went to meet Anya at her workplace, I didn't plan on doing this. Yes, I was going to punish her for not calling me because she has to learn that breaking the rules isn't an option. Her life depends on her obedience. I can only keep her safe if I can control her.

However, I wasn't going to tell her to bend over and present her ass like a gift. The lesson I had in mind was making someone she cares about disappear, someone like the guard who stared at my girl with too much admiration for my liking.

I would've followed through on the fantasy of bashing his head in if it weren't obvious that Anya considers him a friend. I could tell from the caring smile and warm greeting she gave him. His saving grace was that her affection was clearly platonic. I don't mind her hate and fear—she'll only detest me more when she finds out what I have planned for her—but for an inexplicable reason, I suddenly find myself reluctant to burden her with the guilt of knowing she's responsible for a man's death. She only saw me slit the throat of her boss last night. That's more than enough trauma for one week.

That leaves me with one option, and I'd be lying if I say the thought doesn't turn me hard. Anya might have believed my threat was idle, but I did check with Nicole who told me a little light spanking won't be harmful for the baby. Of course, she meant consensual spanking, the erotic kind that's done in the bedroom. Anya may not agree with the punishment I'm about to dole out, but she will give me her consent. I don't need it, but discipline is more effective when the offender buys into the process. Personal experience taught me that.

Anya stares at me with her beautiful, cat-like eyes, her pink lips parted and her stunning face pulled into an expression of disbelief. "You're not serious."

She's in denial, thinking—or hoping—I don't mean it, but I'll wrench a yes if not a pretty please from her yet.

I advance another step, forcing her to take one back. "Do I look like a man who jokes about anything?"

She flicks out her tongue to wet those soft, luscious lips. "I told you I forgot."

We walk toe to toe like dancers, me directing and she following my lead.

"Forgetfulness is an unfortunate characteristic," I say, folding my right sleeve up to my elbow.

Her delicate jaw sets into a hard line. "Your spy told you. You were there." When her backside hits the table, she stresses her point. "You were present when the police questioned me."

I chuckle. "It's the principle that matters. You neglected to call me, disobeying a direct order, and I'm going to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"It won't," she says, catching her weight with her palms on the table as I lean into her space. "I promise."

"Yes," I drawl, inhaling the intoxicating smell of summer on her skin and in her hair. "After the lesson you're about to learn, it won't."

"You don't have to do this."

Studying the elegant arch of her neck, I fold back the other sleeve one more time. No, I don't have to. There are crueler and more effective punishments, but I won't starve her or lock her in a dark basement. I won't submit her to the adverse effects of such treatment, and it's not only because she's pregnant.

Since last night, she's my most valuable asset. My stay-out-of-jail card. I need her alive. I can't take risks with her wellbeing. As long as I value my freedom, I'll take real good care of her, and I take my freedom damn well seriously.

Besides, a perverse part of me is curious to test my reaction to her further. Judging by how I almost combust from her nearness, last night wasn't an isolated incident. If this is how turned on I get from the sight of her dressed in her faded blue sundress, I don't know what her naked body will do to me. Yes, I'm a deviant man, and yes, I don't own an ounce of principles.

My tone is uncompromising. "Turn around."

Her pulse beats in her throat. Instead of obeying, she locks her arms and braces herself in a pose of resistance.

"I'll tie you up if I have to." I brush a glossy curl from her face. "I won't mind binding your hands and feet to the table." I lower my voice. "On the contrary, I'd like that." I add with huskiness I can't hide, "Very much."

I mean it. I'd love to play tie-up with her, to render her helpless, ruffle her prim and proper demeanor, and see just how hard I can make her come. I don't just want to wrestle consent from her perfect, lithe body. I want her pleasure. I want her to beg for my cock. On her knees. I want her to look at me and see a god. Her god.

Her slender throat convulses as she swallows. She watches me with those huge, whisky-colored eyes as if she's trying to figure out if I'm for real.

Gripping her waist, I show her just how real I can get when I spin her around. She utters a gasp and catches the sides of the table. Her body is flush against mine, her tight, round ass pushed against my groin.

Fuck.

She passes the test with flying colors.

My reaction is much more volatile than anything I could've imagined. With my dick cushioned in the crack of her ass, I'm ready to shoot my load, which is a first for me. No woman has driven me to the point of coming in my pants without laying a finger on me.

But Anya is unlike any woman I've had before.

Our dynamic is different.

Her life is mine and mine alone. No one has ever belonged to me so completely.

Despite keeping perfectly still, making sure I don't rub myself over her, my cock pulses as if it has a life of its own. She can't not feel my length that rests like a steel rod against her ass. Indeed, she stopped breathing, her ribcage no longer expanding with breaths. If she's surprised, so am I. That she makes me this hard, this eager, catches me off guard. I had no fucking idea I was into spanking, not until her.

"Let me go," she says, glaring at me from over her shoulder.

I'm trapping her with my body against the table. It's pretty damn clear I have no intention of letting her go. Ever.

I sweep a palm up her back, tracing the delicate line of her spine. "Your life is mine, treasure. I can do anything to you, whatever I want, and you know it."

She freezes at the statement.

"Don't worry." I bend down and press the promise with a whisper on her ear. "I'm not going to fuck you." Straightening, I keep my hold on her back but give her a little space to maneuver. "Now be a good girl and pull up your dress."

Her eyes grow round. She didn't expect that. She either thought I was bluffing or that I'd protect her modesty by tanning her ass through her dress.

"You have two options," I say, petting her shoulders with gentle strokes. "Either you take ten stripes, or I lock you up in my cellar and come back when I reckon you've learned your lesson."

My words have the desired effect. Her beautiful face pales.

"What will it be, Anya? Ten strokes that'll last thirty seconds or a few days in a windowless bunker?"

"I have a job," she exclaims before adding like a threat, "People will ask questions if I disappear."

"Of course I'll let them know you came down with a bug. Poor darling. What kind of boyfriend will I be if I don't let your employer know you're incapacitated?"

Her nostrils flare. "You're a … a monster."

I utter a soft laugh. "We already established that. Can we move on to your decision now? I have a flight to catch."

I don't miss the hope that washes over her expression at the knowledge that I'll be away for an undefined period of time.

"Anya." I raise an eyebrow. "I'm waiting."

She strains in my hold. "It won't happen again. I won't forget. I promise."

"Sorry, tesoro . Actions have consequences. The sooner you learn this lesson, the better it'll be for you. As it's your first offense, I'll only use my hand. Think of it like this—I could've opted for a paddle. A hairbrush works beautifully for that purpose."

She glowers at me. "You seem well educated on the matter. Do you have a fetish for hitting women?"

"Not like you think." I chuckle. "I'll share a secret with you. You're my first."

She opens her mouth, but her gasp is silent.

I don't give her time to ponder that fact. "Decide. I'm waiting."

Clenching her jaw, she bunches the hem of her skirt in her fists. The act is an answer in itself, but that won't do.

"Use your words, tesoro . Do you want a spanking or to be my prisoner?"

"Spanking," she says through gritted teeth, cutting me into pieces with her gaze.

I click my tongue. "What was that? I'm not sure I heard right."

"Spanking," she spits out with a little more volume.

"Answer in full sentences, please. Do you want a spanking?"

"Yes," she cries out with a frustrated huff. "I want a spanking."

"Thank you," I say, rewarding her by rubbing circles over her back. "You can go ahead now. Pull up your dress."

She reluctantly lifts her skirt, her cheeks flaming as she exposes a pair of cute blue cotton panties with polka dots. I enjoy her discomfort, perhaps a little too much, and as if sensing it, she turns her face to the front and hides her expression from me.

That's all right. The task that awaits demands all my attention. Anticipation builds in my gut. I imagine her naked and bound, kneeling at the foot-end of my bed, ready for my punishment, and the image nearly makes me come here and now. Who could've guessed I had such deprived cravings? Maybe it's easier to let my imagination go wild with her. Unlike in relationships, I don't have to care about her disapproval or her desires. I can do anything I like with her, and what she thinks about me doesn't matter.

I take in the roundness of her ass and the creamy thighs she presses together. She has gorgeous legs. Her back is a sculptor's wet dream.

"Higher," I order.

Ever so slowly, she pulls her dress up an inch.

"Higher."

Another inch.

"Keep on going," I say. "I'll tell you when to stop."

She pauses for a second before baring her lower back.

When she reaches her waist, I tell her, "There. Hold your dress up and keep your hands where they are, or I'll add five lashes."

She shifts her weight, brushing her globes over my groin. I swallow a groan. What she does to me, this slip of a woman, without even trying.

Giving her a foretaste of what's to come, I prepare her for a more intimate touch by dragging my hand over her ass. She shivers at the light contact. I caress both cheeks, learning their shape and firmness with my palm. Instead of relaxing her, the soft exploration turns her stiffer than a wooden doll.

That's enough. Now that she knows how my hand feels on her ass, I grip the elastic of her panties and pull them down to expose her naked skin. She shudders and drags in a sharp breath, but she doesn't let go of her dress. She clings to the fabric with a newfound tension that draws her body tight. I won't hesitate to remind her that she chose this, twisting her words and using them to my advantage.

I want a spanking .

Because I'm more than ready to deliver.

Leaving her with at least some of her modesty intact, I stop just before baring her pussy. I prefer to unwrap my gifts slowly. I like to make the enjoyment last. Her ass is even prettier than the picture I conjured in my mind, her globes round little melons and her skin pearly white.

The moment I touch her without the barrier of cotton between us, I know I'm not going to walk out of here without busting a load. Her skin is like silk under my calloused palms. The way she trembles only excites me more.

"Ready?" I ask, my voice hoarse as I knead her naked ass cheeks.

I don't expect an answer. The question serves as a warning, preparing her before I anchor her to the table with one hand on her lower back while bringing the other down on her ass.

The slap of my palm on her right cheek reverberates with a sharp lash in the room. She hollows her back, lifting her upper body off the table, but she doesn't utter a chirp or move her hands from her sides.

Good girl.

The imprint of my fingers leaves a pretty shade of pink on her milky skin. The sight does something to me. It makes me want more. More of her.

Two down. I only have eight chances left to play with her and to bring us both somewhere neither of us intended to go. I certainly didn't envision the ending I'm heading toward when I started this game. I only wanted to see how hot she could make me. Losing my control wasn't part of the deal. I just can't help myself when it comes to my new possession.

"Ready?"

And this time, I do want an answer, because it matters. It matters, because the rules have changed.

"Just get it over with," she says, gracing me with a fleeting but no less cutting look.

"If that's what you want," I say with a smile, devouring the canvas in front of me with my eyes.

Soon, her porcelain skin will glow red.

I'm mindful of my strength when I deliver the next blow, swatting her left globe. She sucks air through her teeth. I'm going easy on her, the sting in my slaps mild. If I wanted to, I could've had her in tears by now, begging me to stop. But that's not what I want. I want her to beg me not to stop.

I give her a second to breathe before I tan her right cheek again.

Three.

Her left cheek.

Four.

At five, I go faster, my rhythm no longer timed to give her a pause to drag in air but rather to steal her breath. She arches her back with every slap I deliver. The burn warms my palm, a delicious heat tingling down my spine and drawing my balls tight. What a sight she is with her panties pulled down and her ass painted red with my handprint.

At eight, I stop. The only sound she gives me is a shaky exhale. When I smooth a hand over her lower back, the tight set of her shoulders eases a little. That only lasts until I drag a finger to the top of her crack. She freezes when I trace that line from the top. Goosebumps run over her ass and her thighs, contracting her skin.

"What—" she starts, but her words are cut short when I reach her dark hole.

Her spine looks ready to snap as I part her cheeks and bury my finger between them to brush lightly over the pucker of her asshole. I run circles over the sphere of muscles, learning it's rosebud shape as she lies perfectly still.

I've been with women who were into anal sex. I know how to stimulate and prepare a female body well. I know just how much pressure to apply to tease. Anya's sharp intake confirms that I haven't lost my skills. She's apprehensive, a little scared perhaps, but the way she pushes back a tad tells me she's also curious.

I keep my touch light, rubbing that spot gently.

"Saverio," she says, stammering over the syllables of my name.

The laziness of my tone is designed to mask the urgency that drives me hard. "What is it, tesoro ?"

"You…" She swallows audibly. "We shouldn't do this."

This is exactly what we'll be doing, sooner than she thinks. I increase the pressure of my finger, stopping short of splitting her open. "Why, my treasure? Does it feel too good?"

Her breath catches on a hitch. "We should stop."

"Oh, but I'm not done yet."

"I…I don't think it's a good idea."

I move my finger lower, right down into the elastic of her panties, keeping it just above the seam of her slit. Even then she doesn't move a muscle. She keeps as quiet as a mouse that plays dead for a snake, not that playing dead will save her.

"Why not?" I ask. "Don't you like it?"

"No," she says quickly.

"It's perfectly normal to get turned on by what we're doing."

She jerks her face sideways to look at me. "By what you're doing, you mean."

"You don't have to lift a finger or take responsibility for anything. All you have to do is bend over, spread your legs, and let me take care of the rest. Would you like that, Anya, letting me look and touch as I please?"

She shakes her head so vehemently her curls fly around her face.

"Will you still deny it if I find you wet?" I ask, sweeping my finger lower and finding exactly that.

She's slick and warm between her legs, so damn inviting. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to sink my finger knuckle-deep into that heat.

Her cheeks turn scarlet when I shoot her a victorious smile.

Letting go of her dress, she reaches for my wrist. "This is?—"

"Five more lashes," I say.

She pauses, staring at me with those pretty eyes. "You said you wouldn't."

"I said I wouldn't fuck you, and I won't." I press the heel of my palm on her clit that's hidden beneath a thin layer of polka dot cotton. "But I'm going to be a gentleman and get you off before I continue with your punishment."

"I don't need you to get me off," she says, spitting every word at me, but when I rub my heel in a circular motion over the button at the apex of her sex, she doesn't push me away.

She balls the fabric of her dress in her fists and bows her back like a cat. "Saverio."

"That's right. You can say my name when you come. Now tell me again it doesn't feel good."

"If I tell you it doesn't, will you stop?" she asks through sputters of breaths.

I will, but I don't want to, so I rub her harder. Faster. Until she goes on tiptoes and lets go of her dress to grab the edges of the table. Taking aim, I heat that pretty ass with my palm, dealing the next two blows in quick succession as I bring her closer to the edge.

She trembles beneath me.

Ten.

Five left.

I'm going to make them count.

Just as a pure, high sound tumbles from her lips and her body tightens as if squeezed in a vise, I let lose. I swat her cheeks, left and right, wiggling them. She's so wet her arousal coats my palm through the fabric of her panties. My zipper is open before she's had time to process her orgasm. She's still shivering with aftershocks when my cock is in my hand. Using her arousal to lubricate my length, I pump my fist as I tan her ass two more times, once on each side. I aim the fifth right between her legs.

A strangled cry escapes her lips. I keep my hand on that soft spot between her thighs, applying enough pressure to lift her off her feet. Her lower body pulls tight again. When she climaxes for a second time, I come so hard that my vision splinters. The pleasure is unlike anything I've felt. The relief all but cripples me as white-hot release spurts from the tip of my cock.

As the first jet of cum hits her thighs, she goes still. Every one of her muscles locks into place. She's not moving an inch, but an animalistic instinct demands that I pin her to the table with my fingers curled around her nape while I paint her back and her ass, layering white ribbons of cum over the streaks of red on her skin.

Fuck.

I'm spent.

It takes a moment to find my balance. Catching my weight on my arms with a hand planted on either side of her hips, I hang my head and calm my erratic breathing. Breathe her in. She smells like summer and sex, and isn't that the most intoxicating fragrance?

She lies motionless under my hold with her face turned to the side and her eyes pinched shut.

I release her neck and step back to tuck my cock into my pants. A moment passes after I zip up, but I can't stop looking at her. Such a pretty portrait. So messy. So depraved.

I can look all day, but Giorgio is waiting. If I don't leave soon, Luigi will start asking questions.

Bending over her, I pull up her panties and lower her dress. The kiss I plant on the shell of her ear is meant as a consolation not for the spanking but for defiling her body in such a dirty way and for loving every second.

My words are hushed. "All right?"

She turns her face the other way in a futile effort to shun me.

I brush her hair from her sweaty forehead before lifting her into my arms and carrying her to the bedroom.

"I can walk," she says, pushing on my shoulders.

"I know." I tighten my arms around her. "Shower?"

She averts her eyes. "No."

I guess her motivation for declining has everything to do with not wanting to shower with me and nothing with wanting to soak in my cum, although I don't mind the latter. On the contrary, I welcome the idea. I like to know I branded her with my handprint and my seed. Like a caveman, I want every other male to understand that this woman is mine. My property. My own little toy treasure. I'll chop off hands and dicks to prove it.

Nevertheless, she needs to rest, and she won't nap well with sticky cum drying on her skin.

"Go have a shower," I say, lowering her to her feet in front of the bathroom. "I'll fix you lunch."

She finally meets my gaze, defiance sparking in hers. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat."

She makes to turn, but I wrap my hand around her wrist. When I reach for the hem of her dress, she steps out of reach. I reel her in, keeping my fingers locked around her arm, and lift the skirt to inspect her midriff. I want to be sure the hard edge of the table didn't hurt her.

Satisfied that there are no marks on her belly, I let her go. She all but runs into the bathroom and slams the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds on the other side. I chuckle to myself. As if a door would stand in my way if I wanted to get to her.

As soon as the water comes on, I walk to the kitchen and go through the fridge. I frown as I scan the contents. Except for the take outs I left last night, there's not much, and the pasta will be stale. The cream sauce may have gone sour, and the shrimps could be off. The food may smell fine, but that doesn't mean bacteria haven't already developed.

I dump everything in the trash, which leaves her fridge empty save for eggs, milk, juice, and a few condiments.

A quick inspection of the cupboards turns up the same finding. The shelves are almost bare. Surely, if she lives in a high-end apartment, she can afford food. Whatever little groceries she stocks—such as oats and a ginger infusion—are high quality, organic brands.

Not having a wide selection to choose from, I settle on an omelet. While it cooks, I set the table. By the time it's done, Anya steps from the bedroom, wearing a T-shirt, leggings, and socks. Her wet hair is brushed back, the wild curls tamed, and I'm so stunned by the unconventional beauty of her face that I'm tongue-tied for a moment.

"You're still here," she says with undisguised disappointment.

I pull out a chair by the table. "Where else would I be?"

She crosses her arms. "Catching a flight?" Adding with a bite in her tone, she continues, "Preferably miles from here."

"Sit."

She doesn't budge.

"Fine." I grin. "I enjoy carrying you."

That does the trick. She trudges over and plonks down in the chair.

I plate the omelet and put it in front of her. After pouring a glass of orange juice, I take a seat opposite her. "Eat."

She narrows her eyes. "Are you going to watch?"

"Until you've eaten every morsel."

She scoffs. "I can take care of myself."

"I know." But I have ulterior motives for feeding her. I'm not only keeping my alibi alive and healthy. I can't stand the thought that she'd starve her baby. Which brings me to my question. "Why is your fridge so empty?"

"It's not empty," she says almost defensively. "Not that my fridge and its contents are any of your business."

"Wrong." I lean forward, pinning her with a flat smile. "Your kitchen and everything else that concerns your health are every bit my business."

She purses her lips.

"Answer the question, Anya. Why are your cupboards empty? Are you afraid of the weight you'll gain with the pregnancy?"

Her eyes flare. "Of course not." She lowers her gaze and stares at her plate. When she continues, it's in a soft voice. "I haven't had time to do the grocery shopping, that's all."

The muscles around my eyes tighten in an involuntarily reflex. "Do you always work overtime?"

She looks up. Swallows. "Yes."

"Why?"

"My job is important to me."

"More important than your unborn child?"

"No," she cries out again. "It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I need to prove myself, okay?" she says with anger sparking in her eyes. "I don't have a formal qualification. The industry is competitive. Right now, there are fifty people lurking like vultures on the sidelines, waiting for me to screw up so they can take my place."

"It's going to stop."

She gapes at me. "What?"

"Working overtime—it's finished. Done. You'll wear yourself out."

Her jaw drops. A second passes before she shuts her mouth. "Are you dictating my life now?"

"Damn right, I am."

"You're…You're?—"

"A monster?" I drawl.

"Unbelievable," she finishes, looking at me with a mixture of anger and hatred.

"Eat." I motion toward her plate. "I'm always happy to feed you."

Glaring at me, she grabs the fork and jabs it into the omelet.

For the next few minutes, I watch her murder her food, cutting and stabbing every bite before shoving it into her mouth.

She arranges her knife and fork diagonally in her plate when it's empty and gives me a saccharine smile. "Happy?"

I point at the glass next to her place setting. "Juice."

Holding my gaze, she tips back the glass and downs everything in one go before slamming it on the table.

My grin stretches. She's cute when she's angry.

"What now?" she asks with a lift of her chin. "Anything else you'd like me to eat?"

"Dessert."

She blinks and then pales. "You said you wouldn't."

I click my tongue. "You have a dirty mind, tesoro . I meant dessert as in ice cream or tiramisu."

The color returns to her cheeks with a flush. "I don't like sweets."

"What do you like?"

She shrugs. "Fruit."

"What kind of fruit?"

"Whatever is in season."

"What's your favorite fruit?"

"Strawberries."

"And cream?"

"Only strawberries," she says with a frown. "Why all the questions?"

"Just getting to know you."

Her laugh is mocking. "Am I supposed to ask what your favorite foods are now?"

"Only if you really want to know."

An obstinate line hardens her jaw.

As much as I'm enjoying this exchange, Giorgio is waiting, and after the unplanned scene that unfolded earlier, I'll have to go past my place to shower and change before we head to Boston.

I stand, round the table, and offer her a hand. "Come."

She pulls back, observing me with big, mistrusting eyes.

"You need to rest," I say, an amused smile tugging at my lips. "I'm not going to get into bed with you."

Ignoring my assistance, she pushes to her feet. When she reaches for her plate, I catch her wrist.

"Leave that."

She frowns. "I was just going to pack the dishwasher."

"I'll take care of it. To bed with you. Now."

She scoffs but pads to the bedroom. Once she's lain down on the bed, I draw the comforter over her.

"You have my number," I say. "This time, call me."

She stares at me with a mixture of fear and resistance crackling in those whisky eyes.

Oh, my pretty treasure. How I'm going to enjoy taming you.

Bending down to kiss the top of her head, I say, "Be a good girl while I'm gone."