Page 25 of Rockland

We reach the first black gate to the Village. He rolls through. Then the second. Every gate brings us closer to my home. Where he wants me buck naked over the couch. The very idea has my nipples tight as drums against my bra. I cross my legs, press my inner thighs together, try to alleviate some of the mounting pressure growing there.

We rumble onto Second Street. There’s a group of Beauties walking home from dinner. A girls’ night out at a new wine and tapas bar. I was invited and passed. Now I’m wishing I’d accepted the invitation.

He sees the girls and waves. Revs the engine. It roars, sputtering smoke and crackling loudly. He knows how embarrassed I am to be riding in this jalopy, and he’s bringing even more attention to the damn thing to piss me off. The women laugh and wave. Whisper to one another behind their hands. I can just imagine their words: Damn, has Rockland gotten hotter since he last left? Must be that island sun. Did you see his tan? How is Tess going to keep her hands off of him… or his hands off her ass. Thank God he finally showed up—our dear Tess is a hot mess. Rockland will fix her. Lucky girl.

Shushing the imaginary voices in my mind, I shrink down in my seat and complain, “Why couldn’t you have come in the Mercedes? Huh? That thing is classy. This… this…”

“Truck, I believe is the word you search for, princess. You seem to be having issues with simple vocabulary today. You’d best stick with numbers.”

“This monstrosity is so ugly.” As I say the words, Mary and Sasha look up from their stroll down the opposite sidewalk and wave. Rockland honks the horn. Twice. I slouch down further in my seat.

We pull up to my house.

He parks front and center. Just as I found the truck earlier today when I came home from work.

I sit, choosing between my two terrible options. Number one—I stay in the truck. He drags me out—possibly by the hair—for all the world to see. Throws me over his shoulder, kicking and screaming as he did last year this time. Second option, I get down from this giant beast as ladylike as possible and save my fight for the privacy of my own home.

I choose the second option. He opens the door and I slide toward the edge of the slick leather seat. I swing my legs over and they dangle down the side of the truck, looking for ground. As I prepare to jump down, hoping to find earth beneath me, I find his hands suddenly scooped beneath my arms. My mouth agape, I stare as he holds me. Our eyes lock and within his gaze I find strength and tenderness and care.

All things absent from my life.

All things I crave.

He lifts me from the seat as if he’s lifting a ragdoll. I feel light, small, vulnerable. He holds me there a moment, my feet dangling above the sidewalk. He pulls me toward him and I can see those brilliant flecks in his eyes. Smell his cologne. He’s holding me so close I feel the heat radiate from his skin. My lips are too close to his and for a brief moment, I remember the taste of his mouth. The feel of his kiss. Enchanted, my hands go to his chest, steadying myself and he slowly moves me to the ground. My palms slide down his warm, muscled wall as I descend. My body brushing against his.

When my feet find steady ground, his hands remain wrapped around me, lingering a moment too long. The static of electricity dances between us and when he pulls away I feel lost. Empty.

He’s done something to me. What—I’m not sure. But that small unassuming gesture has me completely rattled. Unsure what to say, I murmur, “Thank you.”

I step around him, toward the house, gathering my emotions. Behind me, I hear him shut the door of the truck. He’s by my side and then… my hand is in his. Holding it gently. His thumb caressing my skin.

And I let it.

He leads me up the concrete front stairs.

The warm fuzzy feeling I’m allowing to creep into my chest suddenly freezes, my insides going cold. My teeth clench, my brow furrows.

He’s pressing his thumb against my keypad. Letting himself into my house. For the second time today.

The day Brett died, Bronson must have had Joshua reprogram it so Rockland can come and go as he pleases. Like a member of my household. Which he is not.

And I have no say in the matter.

As quickly as he put me under his golden-eyed, chivalrous/sexy, helping me down from the truck spell, it’s gone. My delicious tingles vanish into thin air and I’m left furious. It’s as if a switch has been flipped in my heart. He wants to control me. Punish me. Turn my life upside down. He’s encroaching on my space. Entering my home as if it’s his.

And this house does not come with a guestroom.

I hope he likes that ten thousand dollar couch I’ve bought, because he’ll not be sleeping in my bed. That’s for damn sure. I tug my hand from his. Push past him planning to enter my house before he does.

He grabs my hand back in his. Whirls me around to face him. Gives me a hard stare. So different from that enchanting glance he gave me earlier. He’s pissed. I’ve ticked him off with my anger, my abrupt tug from his handhold. The short-lived comradery between us vanishes and his face conforms to the mask of frustration he wore in the diner. He tugs me through the foyer. He’s leading me up to the living room.

Where he intends to punish me.

A queer feeling upsets my stomach. A mix of shame and dread and to my absolute disgust… excitement. My eyes fall on my beautiful white leather Chesterfield sofa. I swallow hard, my knees suddenly weak. When I’d bought it, I’d loved the look of the low, rolled over back, dotted with gold buttons set deeply in the tufted fabric.

Now as I gaze upon it, I realize it’s the perfect spanking couch. I’ve accidentally purchased a piece of furniture that I could comfortably be laid over the back of for quite some time.

It was probably the first thought in his twisted mind when he saw the damn thing.