by Emma Roberts
I smoothed a hand over her warm, red ass. She winced when I set her upright on my knee. I brushed the tears away with my thumbs and kissed her very gently.
"I've got to do it, baby girl. Do you understand?"
She nodded and let out a shaking breath. "No one has ever h-hit me before. None of the nannies would have dared."
And that was part of her problem. But I didn't say it out loud.
"Head upstairs. There's a guest bedroom prepared for you up there. In the bathroom, there should be some Arnica gel. It will help with the sting. And try to locate some pants. I'm sending you out with a fashion consultant today, and I doubt she would appreciate dragging you out in your underwear."
Whitney's cheeks flushed almost as red as her abused backside. "I thought you said I needed to learn control."
"You do. Which is why I'm giving you an assignment. I want seven work appropriate outfits by the time you're done today. And I've given you a thousand dollars to work with."
Her pink lips popped open in surprise. "A thousand? That's impossible."
"Some of my employees in the flyover states live on less than that in a month. Figure it out, baby girl."
"And if I don't?"
"Then I hope you enjoy standing for the duration of your stay here."
She huffed and flounced away, disappearing into the hallway. James had the decency not to look at the abundance of bare leg on display.
"She's going to be trouble," James muttered to me.
I bared my teeth in a fierce smile. "That's what I'm hoping for."
5
Whitney
I’d always been afraid I was a little frigid.
Well, fears allayed, I guess. For the second day in a row, I found myself aching with unmet desire and wanting to climb on Jace McCarthy like he was my own personal jungle gym.
Now that I'd done it once and found out exactly the right way to touch myself, I was pretty sure I could do it again. I wasn't convinced it would have the same earth-shattering effect as when he was inside of me, but the urge to see was strong. But I didn't do it, for two reasons.
One: The consultant that Jace had hired, Alma Lewis, was probably old enough to be my grandmother and looked like she hadn't indulged in a sexual impulse since the late Cretaceous period. Even if I was some sort of exhibitionist, I was sure the grandmotherly vibes rolling off of her would quash any enjoyment I would get out of the experience. The other, more distressing reason was that I didn't want to break the rules again.
His anger had pierced me to the core. I'd known the moment I’d flung the paper at him that I was messing with fire. Part of me had wanted him to react badly. A bad reaction was still something. If I'd done something like that to my parents, they probably would have walked away or slashed my budget. But there wouldn't have been any outward reaction to my misbehavior except a shrug and a sigh, as if to say; "Oh, it's just Whitney."
The look of stern disapproval on his face had done more to hurt me than the actual spanking had. The stinging had gone down enough now that I could sit in the plush leather interior of the Mercedes without any undue discomfort. But that look still haunted me.
"Whitney, have you heard a word I've said?"
I jerked my attention away from the streets of Rochester speeding by outside. Alma was giving me a half-exasperated look, her lined face set in displeasure.
"I'm sorry, no. I've been a bit distracted."
“Thinking of Master Jace?”
I jerked in surprise and stared at Alma, reevaluating my first impression of her. She gave me a tight, chilly, little smile. “Yes, I’m aware of his proclivities. It isn’t just business wear we’ll be purchasing today. But any of your clothes not for work will not come out of the balance on this card.”
“How did you--? I mean, do you…”
“My husband and I have been participating in the scene for many years, dear. Long before either of you were even a twinkle in your parents’ eyes.”
I relaxed into the plush seats, staring at the front seat. Did the driver know, too? Was everyone in this car aware of what we were doing? Or did Jace just require all of his employees to be kinky sons of bitches?
Curiosity bubbled through me. If Alma was close with Jace, then maybe she could answer some of the questions that had been nagging at me since I’d woken for the day.
“Did you know his wife?”
Alma’s face clouded over with sadness, and her grin faded. “Yes, I did.”
The answer was infuriatingly cryptic. Was anyone going to tell me about this mysterious woman who had so captured Jace’s heart?
“What was she like?” I hesitated before pressing forward, hoping I wasn’t about to stick my foot solidly in my mouth. “Am I anything like her?”
Alma laughed. “Maybe a little. In the beginning. He has a soft spot for hard cases, Jace does. I’d say she was even worse than you. You’ve never served jail time, I assume?”
My mouth popped open in surprise, and I could only shake my head. I’d gotten one DUI in college, but that was it. If his late wife had been worse than me, maybe I was going to bore him, eventually. Maybe that was what would make him leave me.
All of my boyfriends had left for one reason or another. I took too much time and attention and nothing ever satisfied me. Much easier to move on to a less attractive but easily pleased woman than to put up with the drama that came with dating Whitney Farbridge.
Alma considered me for a moment. “Don’t fret. If you’re in his bed, you’re his sole focus. He’s not comparing you to anyone.”
I flinched. How had she cut right to the core of my fears? Was everyone in this lifestyle so perceptive? I hoped not. I didn’t like being read like an open book. If anyone saw how pathetic I could really be, they’d leave.
Alma, thankfully, let everything be after that and took me into uptown Rochester to shop. We clashed instantly when I made a beeline for a rack of short, thigh-length dresses. Alma grabbed me by the back of the arm with a pincer-like grip and held me firm.
“You are dressing to represent Master Jace. You will look like a proper young woman, not a streetwalker.”
“Did you just call me a hooker?”
“If the moniker fits,” she said with a shrug. Then she pushed me toward the back, into the section I usually avoided like the plague. It was filled with all of my mother’s favorite staples.
“Shove me in a pantsuit, and I will kill you,” I warned her.
Alma chuckled. “Nothing so dour, Miss Farbridge. I think there’s something here that will be enticing but classy.”
If there was, I didn’t see it. I saw a million shades of dull grays, blacks, and whites. Most of the blazers had shoulder pads, and there wasn’t a short skirt in sight. I was barely on board with this job thing already. I didn’t want to look like a nun while doing it.
I found my answer in the very back of the shop. It was a splash of color in an otherwise monochrome room, and I nearly cried when I saw it. I pulled a red pinafore from the bunch and showed it to Alma. “How’s this?”
She pursed her lips and glanced at the length. “Acceptable, if you wear stockings.”
“Excellent,” I purred and draped it over my arm.
I spent the next hour browsing the rack. A lot of the clothes were styles from the season before, which meant a discounted price as well. I found a sleeveless blouse paired with a pink A-line skirt, a green peplum dress, a thigh-high pinstripe dress that Alma grudgingly approved of, a pale blue tea-length lace dress, an ivory silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar and a pencil skirt, and a hideous sweater vest, which was my only compromise with Alma about business casual clothing.
In the end, I was one dollar under budget. My phone pinged about ten minutes after we left the restaurant, headed to another shop downtown. Alma was going into this one alone, with specific instructions on what to buy from Jace. Apparently, I was going to be left in the dark as to what I was supposed to wear as his submissive. That was alright with me.
I flicked the screen on and saw that I had a text message from Jace.
A dollar and five cents left. Good job, baby girl. I’ll reward you when you get home. Leave your panties in the car for me.
I blew out a shaky breath and squirmed in my seat. There he went again. The urge to relieve the ache between my thighs was strong, and only the knowledge that the driver or Alma would report me kept me honest.
Alma returned with a veritable suitcase full of clothing. I got one good look at a plaid schoolgirl skirt before she tucked it out of sight.
“What happened to her?” I asked Alma. I was still glowing a little from the fact that Jace considered his home my home, too. I wanted to be back there so badly it hurt. “April, I mean. He doesn’t talk about her much.”
Alma pursed her lips. “That’s not my story to tell, dear. Ask him if you want. And accept it if he doesn’t answer you. He’s still hurting.”
I didn’t want to accept it. I wanted somebody to give me a straight answer for once. I bit the inside of my cheek until It bled and worried the spot until It was raw all the way back to the house.
Just what was I to Jace? Alma had said I wasn’t a replacement, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t just a distraction. A rebound girl to ease him back into the dating scene. When he was through with me, would he cast me aside and train some other girl to be his new, submissive wife? The thought made my eyes prick with sudden tears.
No, no, no. I couldn’t do this again. Just because I’d had one night of phenomenal sex with him, that didn’t make him my boyfriend. If I sank my needy little claws into him this early, I was going to end up on my ass and broke again when he decided I wasn’t worth the effort.
We pulled to a stop, and the driver escorted Alma in, dragging the giant suitcase of sex paraphernalia and my modest-sized bundle of professional clothing inside. I hesitated before reaching beneath my skirt and pulling down the panties I wore. I hadn’t had a chance to change out of the ones from the night before, so these had seen better days.
I laid them on the seat next to me. Then, on impulse, I took a picture of them on the seat and sent it to Jace.
His response was brief, but it made my heart pound faster than ever before.
Good. Now get up here, baby girl.
I took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. I had a feeling I was going to ruin all of the goodwill I’d built up with this shopping trip. I had to know. I had to.
I needed to know about April. Daddy’s little princess and my rival for his affections, even though she was long dead.
Coming, Daddy was all I replied.
6
Jace
Whitney entered the room slowly and with such a grave look on her face, she could have presided over a funeral. The tension that crackled in the air around her made me think that she was preparing for it to be her own.
I frowned. What had I done to provoke this reaction? Normally, the fear and trepidation that accompanied my sub’s behavior might titillate the part of me that wanted to keep her on edge and seeking my approval. But I'd made it clear this was going to be about her pleasure. There would be begging involved. She might fear I'd never let her come -- I'd been wanting to start training her to cum on command -- but at its core, this session would be about rewarding her for a task well done.
"I want to ask you a question," she began slowly.
"And you may ask it once you've addressed me properly."
She blinked once in confusion before cottoning on. "I want to ask a question, Daddy."
I pushed away from the oak desk and patted one thigh. "Sit here."
Whitney crossed the room slowly and hesitated before she reached the desk. With a sigh, I reached out and hooked her around the waist, drawing her into me.
"What's that look for?"
"What happened to April? I asked Alma, but she wouldn't tell me anything. She said it wasn't her story to tell."
My insides froze into a block of solid ice at the mention of her name. I tried not to think about her if I could help it. It was like being dragged over a bed of razor blades when I dwelled on that night for too long. It brought with it the echo of that first, crushing blow that had shaped my future so completely.
"She died. What more is there to tell?"
Whitney flinched away from my tone, and her soft hands landed hesitantly on my biceps. She was trying to catch my eye, trying to read anything from my body language.
Good luck, sweetheart. If this was a poker game, I was going to win. I could be downright inscrutable when I wanted to be.
"A lot, apparently," she muttered. "And you're asking a lot of me here, Ja-"
She broke off, biting her lip nervously before she corrected herself. "You're asking a lot, sir. You've moved me into your house, you've bought me a suitcase full of God-knows-what, and you're asking me to trust you with my body, no matter what you want to do with it. But we're virtually strangers. I'm not sure I want to trust my body to a total stranger. Especially when I don't know what happened to his last partner."
Damn it, but she was clever. She hid it well under the perfectly coiffed hair, glossed lips, and pleasantly empty expression most of the time, but there was a sharp wit and a manipulative little minx waiting just beneath the surface. Putting it the way she had left me with no choice but to explain myself somewhat to allay my submissive's fears.
It also rankled to be so thoroughly out-maneuvered. My careful control was being hijacked by my bratty little sub.
"Into the playroom," I ordered coolly.
She blinked once. "Excuse me?"
"Go to the playroom, strip for me, and wait."
"You can't-"
I raised one brow and gave her a hard look. "Finish that sentence, and you won't cum until you're sobbing."
Whitney swallowed hard and lowered her eyes demurely to her lap. Good. She was learning.
"To the playroom now, and do as I asked. I won't repeat myself again."
Whitney scrambled off my lap and left the room. I didn't relax until the door had closed behind her.
I massaged my temples. God, how did she manage to derail my plans for the day every time? She was infuriating. My impulse to go nuclear was rising to the surface. But I grit my teeth and held it in check. It was only our second day, and I hadn't set the parameters yet. She'd barely agreed to the fundamentals.
And on some level, she was right. She deserved to know something about me if we were going to establish trust. But that didn't mean that she wasn't going to get it for trying to manipulate me.
A vision of April was seared into my mind. April, who was physically Whitney's opposite. Short, with a cap of dark hair and a tiny little body that was easy to tuck beneath one of my arms. April, who'd looked impossibly smaller laid out on a coroner's table. April, who'd been almost impossible to identify past the lacerations and the bruising.
My hands shook, and I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that it bled, trying to contain a sound of agony.
Yes, it was probably best to explain to her why I would be a massively controlling dick for the next month and a half. Not just because our dynamic would demand that I assert that level of control on her, but because God or fate seemed determined to steal whatever I cared about at this time of the year.
Once I’d had a chance to gather myself, I strode with purpose toward the playroom, shedding my shirt in the hallway outside before I entered. She could look, but I wasn't about to let her touch me or herself.
Whitney was lying down on the bed, her long creamy body stretched out on the duvet. She watched me approach through hooded eyes; her perfect pink tongue touched her lips once before she nestled down into the covers with a coy smile.
I seized her chin in one hand and gave her a long, bruising kiss. She stiffened beneath me, making a small sound of pain. I pulled back just enough to whisper, "What's the safeword, baby girl?"
Her eyes slid out of focus as she strained to remember what we'd arranged just that morning.
"Pa
use," she whispered.
"Good. Here's how it's going to go. I'm going to punish you. I'm going to fuck you. And then you and I will talk honestly. I will tell you only what I think is appropriate, and you will leave it be. Push me, and I will punish you again."
Her lips curled into a smile beneath mine. "What if I like these punishments?"
I snorted. "If you turn out to be a SAM, I'll have to be creative in order to find something you don't like. Then I'll use that whenever you smart off to me."
Her brow furrowed. "What's a SAM?"
"Smart-ass masochist. April was one, too."
She stiffened beneath my touch. "Please don't compare us," she whispered. "I don't like it."
There was an aching vulnerability in her statement that made me pause. Was that what this had been about? April? Was she so insecure that she couldn't stand the thought of anyone else having a place in my head?
"I'm not thinking of her in here," I told her, skimming my nose along her jawline. "And you won't either. Is that clear?"
Her huge eyes filled suddenly with tears. "But you're always comparing me to her. I'm second rate. Everyone's second choice. Let's stop pretending I'm worthy of anything but contempt at this point. Everyone else thinks so."
"Everyone else can go to hell," I snarled. "You're worthy if I say you're worthy. Don't question my judgment again."
Her whole body trembled against mine as I slid my hands down her shoulders, grazed her breasts, and trailed my fingers down her thighs. Her hips gave one hopeful little roll before I continued the journey downward, stopping at her ankles.
"I'm going to restrain you now. Ankles and wrists."
She nodded once, and the shaking increased. A less experienced partner might have interpreted it as fear, but I knew there was a healthy dose of arousal as well. Her scent perfumed the air around me. I wanted more of it.
I seized the pair of fleece-lined leather cuffs from the bedpost and held out a hand. "Give me your wrist, baby girl."
