Begin Again (Bound To You Book 1)

by Jane Henry

  She heard footsteps on the stairs and her breath caught in her throat. He was coming. He'd still be angry, but if he were coming to punish her, he'd have gained control of his anger. This was the worst part, as she awaited her punishment. It was worse even than the punishment itself. Would he put her over his knee? Not likely. He liked the intimacy of an over-the-knee spanking, as did she, but that was for fun. That was for when she'd been good. That was for when they needed to connect, or when he needed to remind her of her place. For punishment, he wouldn't allow it.

  Meredith stopped. Her heart was pounding. Part of her felt silly. What was it about scenes like this that caused the twisting in her stomach, the stuttering breaths, the pulsating heat between her legs? Oh, God, but she was overdue. She closed her eyes, her hand traveling under the blankets. She spread her legs, exploring what she knew what would be hot arousal. She'd give anything for her fantasy to come to fruition, her dark-eyed lover, her master, to come and relieve her. He'd do—something—to her. She hadn't really explored what yet. Maybe he'd spank her, but then he'd go down on her, and she'd feel the warmth of his mouth on her in sharp contrast to the stinging, sensual, hot feel in her ass, and he'd bring her to climax under his command.

  Hell, she'd give anything for damn missionary sex with Paolo.

  It had been weeks, maybe even months. She felt the flare of temper again, her hand between her legs forgotten at the memory of the last time they made love. She'd practically begged him, and he'd finally given in. It had taken her forever to get him hard, and she hated that it did. It made her feel ugly, unwanted, unattractive. When she finally had, he'd come back, just for a moment, that passion in his eyes again as he'd pushed her back onto the bed and entered her. She'd wanted so badly to climax, but she rarely could climax with him in her. He'd done his… duty. The momentary passion fled, and he continued the ritualistic thrusting in and out, but he was gone, somewhere else, and she lay there, taking it, fighting the desire to push him off of her until he groaned into his own climax.

  He'd tried to get her to climax after. He'd pulled her onto his chest and thrust his hand between her legs, but she'd pushed him away. His heart wasn't in it. She felt used. She didn't want him doing his duty. She wanted him to make love to her.

  She wanted her husband back.

  With an angry sigh, she turned back over on the bed and opened her book again.

  The door to the bedroom opened, and she could hear him enter, though she didn't move. He had what could only be called presence. She felt him behind her, as if he radiated heat, as the door clicked shut and she heard the lock. They were alone. But something about the finality of the lock made her heart pound. She kept her head down, not daring to look up, speak, or even breathe. He expected complete submission when he was ready to punish her, and her punishment would only be worse if she so much as looked the wrong way.

  "Stand," he commanded, his deep voice reverberating over her naked body. She stood quickly, head straight up, staring at the wall in front of her. She heard him standing behind her. She waited for the drawer next to the bed to open, but she heard nothing. She knew he was drawing this out. He knew she was shaking, at his mercy, and that her nerves were on fire.

  "Bend over the bed," he instructed. She obeyed. She knew how he expected her to assume the position, ass in the air, the edge of the bed flush against her belly, legs spread wide.

  "Hands flat down," he said. Her palms splayed obediently on the bed, her face cheek down, eyes closed. She swallowed, trying to quell the fear that crept in. She waited. When would he open the drawer? What would he use?

  It was then she heard the clink of his belt buckle.

  Shit.

  She was glad she hadn't said that out loud as he'd paddle her harder for swearing.

  He hadn't strapped her in months. He knew she loved his belt, when she wasn't being punished, and he'd make her wait for it. It was far different when wielded for punishment. She heard the jingle of the buckle and the whoosh of it as he removed his belt from the loops.

  "Why are you getting a spanking, Sylvia?" he asked.

  "I disobeyed you, Sir." She gulped.

  "And what happens to little girls who disobey?" he asked, the hard edge of his voice melting her legs to jelly. She swallowed.

  "They get punished, Sir," she whispered.

  "That's right," he said, his voice just above a whisper now. "How many do you think you deserve, young lady?"

  She closed her eyes. She hated when he asked her this. It wasn't up for debate. He was making her squirm.

  "I don't know, Sir," she gasped. She heard him growl.

  "Answer me."

  "Fifty, Sir!" she said, eager to prevent his anger. Fifty with the belt would be grueling. "I'll take whatever you give me, Sir!"

  "You're damn right, you will," he growled. "Fifty sounds like a good start." She swallowed, bracing herself for the first swat. Without warning, she heard the zing of his belt through the air. She yelped as she felt the sting of it land on her naked bottom. She lay still, the pain of his belt warm on her, as his belt struck again.

  Over, and over, and over again, as he lectured her.

  "Who do you belong to?" Swat!

  "You, Sir!" she gasped.

  "Whose bidding do you obey?" Swat!

  "Yours, Sir!" Swat! Swat! Swat!

  She lost track of the count, as his belt landed, over and over again, sometimes in the same place. It was painful, but he was going slowly, and she could take it because she knew she deserved it. She'd agreed to obey him, and she'd disobeyed. She deserved to be punished. He was always fair, and she would take every stroke of his belt so she could learn her lesson.

  Meredith's hand went back under the covers. Shit, but this was hot. A little voice whispered in the back of her mind Why are you so turned on by pain? This sounds awful! But she ignored that little voice. She didn't want to think. She wanted to feel. Oh, God, she wanted to feel again, how she longed to feel again. No more hiding. No more loneliness. She longed for the loss of control she'd only read about, she longed for one of those earth-shattering orgasms that made her scream.

  Fuck it, she thought, as she turned back to her book, her hand between her legs, as she forgot to breathe, reading the strapping scene, then going back and reading it again, as she brought herself to climax, felt the shuddering release under the covers as she closed her eyes, pretending with all her might that it wasn't herself, but her master who'd allowed her pleasure.

  Her head fell back on the pillow. She was spent. Her phone fell next to her, her arm draped over her forehead. She felt relaxed. At peace. And lonelier than she'd ever been in her life.

  Chapter Two

  Meredith's eyes flew open. She couldn't remember if she were dreaming or not. She felt unsettled, but she wasn't sure why. Maybe it was from a dream. But there were so many other things leaving her feeling unsettled, she couldn't pinpoint where the feeling came from.

  She felt Paolo's hand nestled against her hip.

  Paolo's hand? She froze.

  She hadn't felt his hand draped over her in so long, it felt foreign to her, but not at all unwelcome. Closing her eyes, she exhaled, her own breathing joining the slow breathing of her husband behind her. He wasn't spooning her, but merely had his hand splayed against her side. A lump rose in her throat. There was something about the way his hand rested on her that stirred emotions deep within her. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes, but she swallowed hard, not wanting to move, not wanting to wake him. She was so afraid that if he woke, he would realize what he was doing and pull away. The moment would be shattered.

  She needed this moment.

  Despite her efforts not to cry, tears slowly rolled down her cheek. She felt her pillow dampen, but still, she did not move. She did nothing to still them. She focused on his hand. His strong, warm hand, the touch of it that used to be familiar. She'd always loved his strong, warm hands. With slow, steady breaths, she allowed herself to indulge in the memories she held clo
se.

  The first time she saw those hands, she was in high school. Her mother had lamented the fact that their front steps were in bad need of repair. They had very little money, and Meredith's father had been deceased for over a decade. Her mother did whatever she could to scrape by, and they'd kept that house her parents had bought when they first married, the house Meredith and Paolo now owned.

  "I'm afraid one of you is going to get hurt on it," her mother had said over breakfast. Meredith knew it would be a big project, fixing that porch, one that her mother could never afford.

  "I know someone who can help," her brother Robbie had said. He went on to tell Mama about a friend of his at the vocational school. "His name is Paolo. He's a good guy, Mama, and Mr. Benton says he's the most gifted student of carpentry he's ever met. He can do the work. I can help and it will save you so much money."

  After much persuasion, her mother had finally consented to meet Paolo. Robbie was dependable, and they could trust his word, but her mother was reticent about agreeing to hire someone with so little experience. Robbie assured her that Paolo had been well educated in the field, as he came from a long line of reputable carpenters.

  That first day Paolo came, Meredith was sitting on the three-season porch, knees tucked up under her, reading a book. And there he was. Tall and dark, his thick black hair cropped short, kind, dark brown eyes and already a scruff of a five-o'clock shadow on his chin despite his tender age of seventeen. And those hands. He reached out to shake Mama's hand when Robbie introduced them, then reached to shake Meredith's hand. Large, rough, powerful hands. His hand completely engulfed hers as he shook her hand in greeting.

  "Nice to meet you, Meredith," he said.

  She was a goner.

  He was so kind to Mama when he worked on those stairs with Robbie. He brought delicious food his own mama made: Portuguese sweet bread, arroz doce, a creamy rice pudding, and cozido à Portuguesa, a delicious, savory combination of meats, potatoes, vegetables and rice. "Mama made too much," Paolo would say as explanation, "and she says Robbie has a hole in his leg." But Meredith knew better. Paolo's mother knew her own mother worked long hours. It was in her nature to feed people, even people she barely knew.

  Those hands. Meredith would sit on the porch, pretending to read, and stare at his hands as he sanded the wood, hammered, sawed. His hands were skilled. They were the hands of a man.

  He would talk to her as he worked. He asked her about school. They'd talk about her novels. He would talk about home, how his mother missed Portugal, how his little sister climbed a tree and got stuck and he had to climb it to get her down. Whenever Mama came out to talk to him, he would stop his work and give her his undivided attention. "Yes, ma'am," he'd say, and "No, ma'am." Always a gentleman. By the time those stairs were finished, Meredith was in love.

  He was her one and only. She longed to feel those hands on her, and when she finally did, she was completely helpless to stop whatever they did. Tucking a lock of hair over her ear as he kissed her. Pulling her hand down a hallway at school. Unbuttoning her blouse. He mastered whatever it was his hands touched, be it the saw, the hammer, or the lathe. Her body was no exception.

  They married when they were still in college. Meredith never forgot the moment she delivered their baby boy, just a year after they married, and the doctor handed him to Paolo. His large hands engulfed their little one, as he held him close to his chest and crooned. He could hold all of him in his hands, and he did, and Meredith marveled at the wonder of holding a whole human being in the palm of your hand.

  He would touch her frequently. Hold her hand at the store. Rest his hand on her waist when she stood next to him. When they watched TV, she often curled up next to him on the couch, and his hand would play with her hair. Every night, he'd tuck her in by his side, and it was her favorite part of the day, when his hand rested on her belly. She fantasized about his hands. It all started the day he spanked her.

  She'd been trying to get his attention all day. He was working on refinishing the basement, and she'd been alone with the baby, pining for him. She tried to get him to stop for lunch. No luck. She tried to get him to stop for dinner. No luck. When Paolo got lost in a job, he would spend hours upon hours devoted to his work, and it frustrated her. Finally, she got the baby down for the night, and marched toward the basement, snagging a bag of marshmallows from the counter, her temper flaring, as she went downstairs.

  "You've been working all day," she said, knowing that he was never one to take orders from her. Whack. She sent a marshmallow flying, and it missed its mark by several feet. Paolo didn't even look up, oblivious to the projectile that had barely missed his head. "Paolo! I'm standing naked on the stairs waiting for you to take me!" she lied, desperate to get his attention.

  That got his attention all right, and when his head snapped up, she lobbed another marshmallow at him. This time, it hit his mark. "Crazy girl!" he said, his brow furrowed as he glared at her. "Stop that!”

  She planted her hands on her hips, completely aware of the fact that she was flirting with danger. "No," she said, stomping her foot for emphasis.

  "No?" he asked, the corner of his lips curling as he narrowed his eyes on her and put down his tools. "You really don't want to keep doing that."

  "Oh yeah?" With her chin lifted high, she snagged another marshmallow and pelted it at him. Bonk. She hit her target again, as he continued to prowl closer and closer. She grabbed a fistful and whirled them at him, marshmallows bouncing over the stairs and floor as he continued to come closer and finally, as he came close enough to grab her, she tossed the whole bag at his head.

  Whack! He shook his head, and picked her up, his strong hands easily mastering her as he flipped her over his lap. "I told you not to do that," he said, and as she squealed, convulsed in laughter, but thrilled she'd finally gotten his attention, he landed half a dozen stinging swats to the seat of her jeans.

  She was more turned on than she'd ever been, and when he turned her back over, she'd grabbed his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. He cradled her in his arms, carrying her up the stairs to the small sitting room, where he nestled her on the couch, and made sweet love to her.

  It was the only time he'd ever spanked her.

  Whether it was his own deference to treating women with respect, or something else, she never knew. She never had the guts to bring it up again. But she played it in her fantasies over and over again, wishing she had the courage to whisper her fantasies to him...

  Paolo, taking her over his lap, spanking her with those strong, capable hands of his, but this time she'd be bare. Meredith swallowed. She felt her damp pillow under her cheek, as she kept her eyes closed and felt the warmth of his hand through her thin clothes. Her back ached from staying in one position too long, and she longed to turn over, but she didn't dare. She lay there, awake, until he turned in his sleep, back over to his side of the bed, his back to her, once again shutting her out. She sighed.

  This was never how she imagined it, her love life being relegated to fantasy, fiction, and distant memories.

  ***

  Meredith woke the next day with the familiar feeling of sadness, turning to find the bed empty. She sighed, pulled the covers back up over her shoulder, and thought about the day ahead.

  Robbie was supposed to come by and take Paolo out for a bit. She'd been trying to get Robbie to come visit for a while.

  He hadn't visited since he built the ramp for Paolo at the back of the house.

  She'd be all alone for a few hours, which was really nothing new anyway. With only the two of them home, she found it easy to catch up on housework. It was too early to do much for yard work. Maybe she'd get some baking done, and bring some cookies to work on Monday. Paolo rarely ate anything she baked anymore, but Tom would devour anything she brought to work, and she missed the warmth in the kitchen, and the fragrant scent of freshly-baked cookies.

  Stretching, she closed her eyes, remembering the night before, when she heard the door push
open. Her eyes flew open. Paolo entered, pushing his chair through the door with considerable difficulty, as he had a tray on his lap. She sat up and watched him enter, his dark hair now graying at the temples, his beard thicker in recent months, touched also with the silvery whiskers, his dark eyes on her as he entered. She could see the bulge of his muscles as he pushed his chair, the thin t-shirt stretched taut against his chest. How she wanted to touch him.

  "What's this?" Meredith asked, as Paolo nestled the tray on the bedside table. She felt as if she moved too quickly, or spoke too loudly, everything would evaporate into thin air.

  "I was up early," Paolo said. "And I got hungry."

  She smiled as she took in the contents of the tray—a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a steaming mug of coffee."Mmm, smells good."

  Paolo had limited use of his legs. He could transfer to a chair, or bed, but his legs were too weak to sustain anything more than that. He couldn't even walk up a flight of stairs. He was told with therapy and time, he may eventually regain the use of his legs, but there were still too many variables to know for sure. In any event, it would be a long, long time before he could lose the wheelchair altogether, and they weren't entirely sure that day would ever come. In the kitchen, he could reach the toaster, but even the microwave was out of his reach, and most meals were left to Meredith.

  "For me?" she asked, as she gestured to the coffee.

  "For you, bonita," he said. Meredith froze. He hadn't called her bonita—beautiful—in so long. Had something happened?

  "Are you okay?"

  He shrugged. "Fine. Drink," he ordered.

  "Thank you," she murmured, taking the coffee. She moaned as she took the first scalding sip, feeling the hot coffee warm her to her core. She wrapped her hands around the cup and sipped again, with her eyes closed. He always did make much better coffee than she did. When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. She couldn't quite place the look in his eyes. Pleased. Guarded.