Swallowing past the uncertain lump lodged in her throat, Pam held up her menu and tried to smile. "I haven't decided what I want, yet. Have you?"
"I've decided I'll order for both of us. Take my hand, Pam."
She gazed up at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
"Trust, Pam. I want you to know everything I do is with your best interests in mind. Take my hand, please."
"Please…. I won't say anything more."
He crouched down so their eyes were level. "The last thing I want is for you to stop talking. I know you have questions, so I brought you here to answer them."
"But you're angry with me."
"No. I'm being firm because I want you to obey me. I'm not angry."
"Are you intending to punish me?"
"That is my decision to make, not yours."
"I'm scared."
"Yes, I'm aware of that, but I want you to trust me enough to do as I ask, despite your fear. I realize we're still getting to know each other, so I'll make some allowances, but no matter what I say or do, I require your obedience. I suggest you not strike out twice tonight. You're already on sufferance for not calling me. So, be a good girl and place your fingers on my palm."
Pam squinted to keep her watering eyes from overflowing but did as he asked.
"Thank you," he murmured, rising as he assisted her to her feet. Then he drew her into his arms. "Relax and breathe, kitten. You're safe."
The words were pure nonsense, since the last person in the world she could be safe with at this moment was Robert Peterson. But the endearment and reassurance brought a sob to her throat.
"I'm sorry—"
"No apologies. Just release all that emotion churning inside you. I've got you, and I won't let you go."
"I feel like such a fool."
"Why?" His hand roamed her back, rubbing and soothing.
"You haven't done anything evil to me, and yet I'm terrified when you gaze at me that way."
"What way?"
"Steely-eyed and implacable. Like, no matter what I say or do, you intend to carry out whatever plan you’re considering."
"If I look that way, I would suggest you obey me, and quickly. I've given you seven rules that are punishable if broken. Can you tell me what they are?"
A chill ran down Pam's spine, which his warm hands immediately traced. "I'm not sure I like the direction this conversation is taking."
"I’m sure you don’t, but I want you to repeat them anyway."
He ticked each rule off on his fingers as she relayed them. "Be respectful at all times. Never lie. Don't hesitate to obey you. Don't bite my nails. Get enough rest. Don't skip meals. Don't touch my backside after a punishment unless you give me permission."
He gave a nod. "Good. Next, tell me how many of those you broke today."
Now, she really didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. "No."
One eyebrow raised as his hold grew more confining. "Excuse me."
"I don't want to."
"I don't recall asking what you wanted, Miss Weston. What makes you think ‘no’ is an appropriate answer?"
"I can still refuse to participate, can't I?"
"You can, but there are consequences for that as well. What do you suppose they are?"
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his chest. "You'll relocate me."
"Correct. Is that what you want?"
"No, sir."
"Then answer my question, please."
"I only broke one rule today, sir."
"Interesting you see it that way. So, which one did you break?"
She glanced up to meet his gaze. "I didn't obey you."
"All right. And, how many times did you disobey my instructions, do you think?"
Pam had a sinking feeling she knew where this was leading, and she didn't want to go there. "Too many to count. Can we sit down again, please? I'm a little dizzy."
"Very well."
However, instead of taking her back to the table, he led her over to one of the armchairs by the sofa and pulled her down on his thighs.
She tried to resist, but her refusal was halfhearted at best, and both of them knew it.
"You don't need to hold me on your lap. I'd be content to sit beside you."
"I disagree. At the moment, I think it's necessary you are held and reassured, and guess who gets to make that decision?"
"You do," she replied, somewhat sullenly.
"Correct." A knock at the door cut him off. "Come in."
A young liveried waiter entered, so Pam promptly attempted to rise, but Robert's arm across her thighs prevented her from moving. "No. I want you to stay exactly where you are."
"But—"
He put a finger to her lips. "All I want from you is silence. No protests, no complaints, no excuses. Just rest against me and be quiet, and you may consider that an order."
With a sigh, Pam did as he commanded, while he ordered dinner for them. Because she complained of a finicky stomach, she was getting broiled chicken and rice and he requested sole Florentine for himself, along with a crisp Chablis to go with their meal. The only thing he asked her was what type of dressing she preferred on her salad."
"Ranch?" she asked, uncertain if it was on the list, since she'd been too preoccupied with the man who held her so effortlessly she felt more powerless than a little girl, to register the waiter's selections.
"Very good, sir," the waiter, promptly replied. "It should be about twenty minutes, if that meets your needs."
"That will be fine, Walter. Thank you."
Walter bowed and walked out.
"Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the number of times you chose to disobey me today."
"I didn't choose to do it."
"I disagree. Each time you disobeyed me, you made a conscious decision to do so. I consider that willful disobedience, which I view as much more serious."
Pam crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. She would not participate willingly, and she would give him a fight if he attempted to discipline her here. His eyebrow rose in challenge, but he was prevented from saying more when his phone rang.
"No. Stay put. Let me see who it is, first." He glanced at the display, and sighed. "I'll need to take this." He pushed a button. "Peterson…. Calm down, John, and tell me what’s wrong…. I don’t see…. I'm currently in a meeting, so…. All right, we'll discuss it. Give me five minutes and I'll call you back…. Right…. Bye."
He replaced his cell in his pocket and frowned down at her. "This couldn't come at a more inconvenient time, but it appears I have a small crisis on my hands with the Hemley case, so I must leave you for a bit. If dinner arrives before I'm back, don't wait for me. That's an order. You've already broken the rule about obedience on at least seven occasions today, so I'd suggest you not do anything which will require me to add to the count." He eased her to her feet and rose. Then he surprised her by giving her a kiss that caused her knees to go weak.
"Behave," he warned with a light smack once he'd released her. "I'll be back as soon as I can." Then he stepped out of the room to make his call.
Left to her own devices, Pam struggled with her conflicting emotions. She was falling in love with her boss, and that wasn't wise for so many reasons she couldn’t begin to count them. What was worse, he didn’t want a girlfriend; he wanted an admin who answered to him the way women obeyed men back in the 1800s. Not that he was mean or inconsiderate of her feelings. If anything, he was extremely gentle with her when he bossed her about. An odd combination, to be sure. Once he was done with his conversation, he intended to spank her. She had no doubt about that. She'd defied his instructions too many times today for him to ignore her actions. She dreaded it at the same time she wished her punishment was already over.
Pacing the floor, she recalled how her stepfather enjoyed heightening her fear by removing his belt and snapping it in her face. She’d tried to run and fight him, but she was a young girl and he was a fully grown man who wa
sn't above tying her up with rope so she couldn't. She’d lose count of the number of times the leather bit into her flesh. His aim wasn't always accurate, since he was usually drunk when he whipped her, so she often sustained cuts and bruises she had to hide from her teachers and schoolmates.
Pam rubbed her wrists, remembering the raw, ugly burns she'd suffered from the rope. Peterson's punishments were gentle in comparison, but they touched her in a far more vulnerable area. An area she protected with every inch of her being. An area that scared her to the bone and caused her to break out in a cold sweat whenever she considered what it would take from her. The area of free will. He expected her to willingly submit to his physical punishment without resistance or hesitation.
Lost in her thoughts, she stared at the black leather bench in the corner of the room, imagining how it worked and wondering if he would insist she bare her body to him before she laid herself upon it in some way, when a knock sounded at the door.
She whirled to face the portal. "Come in." Walter entered with a rolling tray containing their food. This would be number eight. No way would she be able to eat knowing what lay ahead. Her stomach rumbled in complaint at the delicious aromas wafting from the neatly arranged plates. The waiter uncorked the wine, and placed it back in its chilled bucket. Mr. Peterson would decide when or if alcohol would be served. Mr. Peterson would decide where and how she would be punished. Mr. Peterson would decide whether or not she'd learned her lesson. Her job was to do as he asked without delay or complaint. And, right then, she couldn't do her job.
Walter smiled at her. "May I get you anything else, miss?"
She tried to smile back but couldn't manage it. Instead, she answered, "No. Thank you. It looks delicious."
He nodded then paused. "Should I get Mr. Peterson for you?"
Yeah, that would be perfect. Pull the man away from his work again today so he could reassure his useless assistant who didn't eat unless he fed her like a baby.
"Not necessary. I'm fine." Liar.
"If you're certain?"
She smiled and nodded. "He's on a business call. I'm sure he'll be back shortly. There's no need to bother him." He hadn't ordered her to send for him if she started to get panicky this time, so she wasn't breaking a rule. Okay, that was a rationalization on her part.
The waiter paused indecisively, as though he feared leaving her, too. What vibes did she give off that made people think she needed supervision?
"Don't disturb him. I'll just sit here and wait until he's through." Yeah, another lie, but at least telling falsehoods to waiters wasn't against the rules.
Something she said must have reassured the young man, because he nodded and left her alone.
Pam immediately retrieved her phone from her purse and requested the number for a taxi company from information. They connected her. Unfortunately, since she had no idea where she was, she apologized and hung up. Giving directions by saying she was in a classic white stucco building with columns out front was useless. She'd have to take the bus.
Gathering her things together, Pam carefully opened the door. No one stood in the hall. Don't look like you're creeping, Pam. Carry yourself about like you own the place, and no one will be the least bit suspicious. Right, Pam. Keep telling yourself that.
Chin held high, she strolled the corridor back to the curving staircase. Then, Pam heard Mr. Peterson’s voice, and whipped around to find him seated in a room directly behind her, giving him an unobstructed view of her only possible exit. The stairs. Shit.
"Excuse me, John, but something urgent just came up, so I’ll need to call you back tomorrow. Yes, I understand this is a crisis, but the bank isn't open tonight. I'll go through the figures again and talk to United Federal first thing in the morning to see if I can straighten out your issue." His gaze remained fixed on Pam the entire time, and he wasn't smiling.
She should start running, but her feet refused to move.
"Right. I'll be in touch as soon as I have an answer for you. Good night." He disconnected the call, rose, and returned his phone to his pocket. "I'd suggest you run, not walk, back to our room as fast as your feet can carry you if you do not want witnesses to what I am about to do." His voice was soft, but deadly, and it pressed every panic button Pam possessed. Turning, she ran as fast as she could down the long staircase, fully aware her actions constituted her ninth infraction.
CHAPTER NINE
Pam didn't even make it to the door before Peterson grabbed her waist, swung her around, and tossed her over his shoulder. The position was thoroughly undignified, but so was her screaming and kicking.
His palm didn't hesitate to connect with the easy target she presented, and it didn't fall gently. She cried out in protest. Spotting a few men reading in the lounge area, she screamed, "Help me! He's going to beat me."
One of the men raised his glass in a salute and said, "Way to go, Peterson."
Robert gave him a wave back as if carrying a loudly protesting woman like a sack of grain was an everyday occurrence. What sort of places did this man frequent anyway?
When they entered the room, he walked directly over to the couch, set her down, and unbuttoned her skirt.
"What are you doing?" she demanded, slapping his hands away, but her efforts did nothing to dissuade him. Next, he drew her close and held her immobile while his fingers ripped through her pantyhose like they were tissue paper
"Ouch. Those were expensive."
After he lowered her panties, and she barely got out a "No," before he had her over his knees, tucked her in against his waist, and was bringing his hand down repeatedly. Despite her vocal protests, squirming and kicking, it took a while for the discomfort to register, but when it did, she started to wail like a baby.
"I'm sorry."
He still didn't say anything, but continued spanking her with a steady, unhurried rhythm so that each swat landed in a precision strike, while her cries and pleas for him to stop fell on deaf or unhearing ears. She didn't even attempt to count, but figured he'd delivered over thirty hard-handed swats before something in her mind flipped on like a switch, turning her wails of protest into gut-wrenching sobs as her body went limp. She no longer had the energy to fight or resist him. Her backside was on fire, but the pain seemed insignificant compared to the emotion ripping her apart inside.
She couldn't say when he stopped or when he turned her right-side up, but once she realized it was over, she flung her arms around his neck and sobbed against him, needing the reassurance only he could give. Words failed her, but he didn't seem to need them as he rocked and spoke softly to her.
"It's over, kitten. You don't have to worry about anything anymore."
She thought for a moment that he was telling her it was over between them, when he said, "You're mine, and I protect what is mine. You're safe—"
"How can you say, that?" she asked between gasps for air. "You just pummeled me black and blue."
"Not quite. Though your butt has a nice pink blush to it."
"I'm going to be bruised. I won't be able to sit for a week." Okay, she was exaggerating, but she wanted him to understand her misery.
"You're sitting now," he pointed out unsympathetically.
"Not comfortably."
He ran his fingers through her hair and smiled down at her then, reaching for a small square container on one of the side tables, he plunked a box of tissues on her lap.
"Hold these."
She didn't hesitate to obey him this time, and he pulled out a few to wipe her face and her nose. She had to be a sight, but he didn't appear to care. His expression was amazingly unruffled, and what surprised her more was the serenity it suffused within her in return. There was no sense of anger or disappointment in him, even though she'd interrupted his call. He held her with a gentle firmness as he removed all traces of tears from her face.
She'd even forgotten she had nothing on her lower half until he raised her to stand and handed her panties to her.
"Put these on, but don't
bother with your skirt, and sit down at the table."
She glanced first at the minimal padding on the wooden cafe seats, then gazed at him.
"Perhaps I should remain standing instead," she suggested, wondering why she wasn't more embarrassed. She should be looking for a hole to crawl into, but she felt surprisingly calm and at peace.
He smiled. "No. You'll sit. It'll be a little uncomfortable at first, but the sting will fade before you're done eating. I kept my strikes fairly light."
She covered her face with her hands. "Oh God, if that was light, I'm in serious trouble."
"Not anymore, you're not," he advised, his hands firm on her shoulders as he guided her over to the table. "However, you are going to tell me what sent you galloping out of here like a frightened doe."
Her wince turned into a gasp when her bottom met the unyielding surface of her chair. "Ow."
Retaining his secure hold, he gave her arms a slight squeeze. "Breathe. Good. Try to relax and not squirm. Squirming will only increase your discomfort."
Eyes closed, Pam leaned back and breathed through the soreness. It wasn't pain, exactly. More like a hot sunburn. Uncomfortable, but bearable.
"Good," he said, giving her shoulders an encouraging pat before he took his place across from her. "Since one of your rules is not to skip meals, I expect you to eat most, if not all, of that," he reminded her, pointing to her plate with his fork. "Beginning now."
With a silent groan, she leaned forward and stabbed a piece of chicken. It was roasted with a savory herb marinade that melted on her tongue. After a few bites, she discovered she really was quite ravenous.
He poured her half a glass of wine and resumed eating, not pressing her to talk as long as she continued to put food in her mouth, but the moment she laid down her fork, he regarded her with a questioning look. "What happened?"
She shrugged as she picked up the utensil again and toyed with her salad. The lettuce was a little wilted from sitting in the dressing for so long, but it wasn't inedible.
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