by Maren Smith
“Yes!” My eyes burn hot with tears I fight to hold back. “Come on. This isn’t cool.”
Standing, he takes a couple of steps back, holding out the arm with the tiara, making a sweeping gesture around the venue. “Much like your pretty little shop, then, Carrie Ellerbrock. It would be a shame if something happened to it.”
“What are you talking about?” I inch toward the phone beneath the counter, hoping he won’t take notice.
“There are people who can protect you, Carrie. But at a cost.”
My heart thundering, I move my arm, slowly so as to not raise his suspicions. “What people? What cost? The only one who’s threatening me right now is you. Please give me back my tiara, sir.”
“Everything has a cost, little one. There is a cost of two hundred American dollars to keep you and your precious little shop safe. I’m sure you understand.”
“Two hundred—Two hundred… What? What is this? Protection money? This is bullshit!”
“A week,” he says.
I’ve had it. My body sizzles with worried energy, my mind tilts, and my knees feel like jelly when I reach for the phone and tap 9 and 1, holding my finger ready to press the last digit. “I would like for you to give me back my tiara and leave my property. Now. Or I’m calling the cops.”
He moves like a big cat, wild and lethal. One moment he’s standing a few feet away, with a counter between us, the next he has bridged the gap, jumped the counter, and has me pressed up against the wall. I choke out a surprised gasp, and the shock of him slamming into me makes me lose my breath. One hand is wrapped around my chin, but his hand is so large it covers half my face. His other hand crushes my hand with the phone, squeezing my fingers so tight that tears spring up in my eyes. He slams my arm against the wall. Once. Twice, then he rips the phone out of my hand and spins me around, pressing me cheek first against the ungiving surface of my office door.
“Do. Not. Ever. Threaten me, little printsessa. Do you know who I am?”
I try to shake my head. Tears stream down my cheeks, and my brain feels like it’s been doused with gasoline and set on fire. All I know for sure is that I’ll die. I have a massive wall of muscles squeezing me flat against the door. A Russian-accented, deliciously scented wall of muscles.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I whimper.
“You’ve been a bad girl,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear when he speaks. A flash of heat rushes down the side of my neck from where he touched.
And it’s not the only place that heats up. He’s saying it just right, just the way I’ve always needed to hear it.
“No.”
“Oh, yes. Do you know what I do to bad little girls?”
That heat, that molten lava that has centered in my chest, suddenly floods between my legs. Oh no, no. This is not turning me on. There are so many wrongs in this scenario, I can’t even begin to count them. I fight it, but my heartbeat betrays me, my gasping breaths.
He fiddles with something next to us, and the next moment the door falls open and we stumble into my office. The door kicked shut behind us, he herds me up against the massive mahogany desk, my father’s old desk, step by step. I back, he follows, I back again, he follows.
“No, please.” I shake my head. “Please leave. I’ll pay the money!”
I’m suddenly overwhelmingly aware of the danger I’m in. I’m alone with a man who clearly doesn’t have good intentions, who has threatened me, who looks like he can snap me in two with a flick of his fingers. I glance over at the far corner, at the stairs that lead down to the kitchen and to where Cookie, my neighbor’s huge Rottweiler, rests. Tied up, sadly. I should have brought her up to the store with me, except she goes after the sweets and gets underfoot. And she’s so good-natured, she’d probably be licking the scary, delicious-smelling man even while he’s threatening me. But I’d do anything for the illusion of her protection right now.
He glances to where I’m looking, then scoffs. “I don’t care about the money. I care about you calling the cops on me. That”—he spins me around so that I’m facing the desk—”can not”—I’m pushed face first, flush against the chilly wooden surface—”go unpunished.” He pulls up my skirt to my waist in one quick move and slaps his huge palm against my ass.
The shock of the impact makes me lose my breath. I gasp for air then cry out as the pain hits me like a freight train. “Ow!”
His hand descends again, smacks against my panty-clad bottom. I scream and squirm.
“Get off me! Ow!”
Smack.
“Let me go!”
Smack.
“Oowww!”
Smack.
“Little girls”—smack—”with tiaras”—smack—”and pretty little skirts”—smack—”do best to obey Daddy.”
My ass is on fire, set ablaze by his relentless hand. Tears and snot dribble from my face, and I’m just waiting for the moment when he pulls down my panties and rapes me. I’m so numb from pain I don’t feel that he’s stopped.
Once he’s pulled down my skirt from where it’s been bunched up around my waist, he then helps me stand with a hand supporting my elbow. He’s too close, and I don’t dare to look up at him. Gently, he cups my cheeks and rubs his thumbs under my eyes, collecting my tears. He rests a finger under my chin, as if wanting to raise my head, but leaving me with the choice.
But I can’t.
My mind is a jumbled mess, and I can’t look him in those beautiful green eyes and risk that he sees my shame.
Daddy.
Obey Daddy.
I can’t believe he said that. My hottest, most forbidden fantasies, all presented to me by a monster in a suit who suddenly invaded my whole existence. It’s all so wrong.
He moves, puts something on my head, strokes my hair and then wraps a loose strand around his finger, tugging slightly. Then he turns and leaves.
The door falls closed. From below comes nonstop barking from poor Cookie, going crazy after hearing me wailing. I put a hand on my head and touch my tiara that he put back, then I fall to my knees and wail.
“Ow! Owowowowowow! Fuck!”
Misha
I try to tell myself it is nothing but a twist of fate that we met, and a temporary lack of judgment that made me punish little Miss Ellerbrock in such a manner. But I know it’s more. My palm burns from the memory of her soft skin, and I’m finding it increasingly difficult to care about the politics of the local gangsters when all I want is to return to the vanilla-scented girl with the innocent eyes.
“Got the cash from the run?”
I pull myself out of my fantasies and look up at the leader. These are new players on the field. They’re young and they’re angry, not to be toyed with. I know this, and yet I can’t seem to take them seriously. After digging out my wallet from my pocket, I count the cash while something inside me dies from embarrassment, then I slap a wad of bills into the palm of the leader, waiting in silence while he counts.
“You’re missing one. Didya run into trouble?”
I don’t know why I do it. Pulling out my personal wallet, I remove two one-hundred-dollar bills and add them to the pile. “No problem,” I say.
He narrows his eyes and tightens his lips. He looks every bit the psychopath he’s rumored to be. “Better be no trouble you ain’t tellin’ me.”
“Not an issue,” I say easily. “You point me where to go, and I’ll collect.”
He holds my gaze a little while longer, then he nods and moves on. My thoughts immediately stray back to the enticing little bookstore owner.
Oh, I’ll collect. Just not the way they meant me to.
Chapter Two
Carrie
I haven’t been to the store for three days. I’m terrified to go back. I’ve hidden in my shame, mortified that I never called the cops, that all I did was lock up, take Cookie with me and limp home, my mascara running down my cheeks, my bottom scorching.
The Russian gangster has been on my mind day and night as the stinging h
as subsided. I’ve put my hands between my legs and made up stories of how he did… more… I shouldn’t fantasize about an encounter that could have been rape – what he did already was definitely assault in the eyes of the law – but I’m burning up with need, wanting those cold-hot eyes on me again, that large palm connecting with the skin on my ass, creating that delicious, perfect sting.
Oh my God, I want to feel that again. Just once more in my life. To fully give up control and… just give in.
I’m not right in the head.
Daddy.
Oh, hell no!
My insides crawl with increasing unease as the bruises fade. I can’t leave the store closed. I have to go in, open up, do my job, and earn a living. If he, or anyone else for that matter, comes back I will contact the cops for sure. I won’t pay protection money to some crook who thinks he can bully me into submission, into giving him my hard-earned income. Two hundred dollars a week? Does he have any idea how many more cupcakes I’d have to sell? Maybe selling books and cupcakes isn’t rocket science, maybe it seems silly and light, but my father built this business with love, and I have given it my everything to keep up his legacy.
The scent of coffee has spread throughout the house, and I’m almost skipping down the steps as I head for the kitchen after showering. It’s a little past six in the morning, and even though I’m filled with apprehension, it’s also a relief to go back to my old habits. I’ll throw down a cup of java, go fetch Cookie, and then I have some heavy-duty baking to do. Everything came to a halt when I fled. I had to cancel deliveries and managed to get my neighbor to swing by and hang a sign on the door, saying I was ill, all while I was burning up with shame. In all these years, we were never closed. Except when Mom died. We were closed then.
I come to a full stop, my sock-clad heels skidding on the tiled floor. In the middle of my bright, sunny kitchen is a huge shadow, a looming, sinister shape that seems to suck all the light to him. The Russian gangster is standing in my kitchen, holding a cup – one of my cat-shaped coffee cups – calmly sipping from it. I give out a choked cry as my chest tightens in fear. I stumble back, my legs feeling like overcooked pasta. Flailing, I fight to find the doorframe to get support, then I spin around to flee only to lose my breath as he throws his arm around my waist.
“No!”
My chest tightens in fear. I may have had silly daydreams of a certain scary man who wants me to call him Daddy, but this is real, and this particular man is dangerous.
“Shhh, printsessa, no screaming, little one.” His mouth is right by my ear, his voice calm, and he smells so good. There’s the familiar quality of coffee, a pinch of cedar and cinnamon with undertones of something musky – him. His words rumble in his chest, reverberating through me, forcing the last air out of my lungs.
I widen my eyes, inhaling to scream for help, for someone to come to my rescue, but before I can make a noise, he spins me around, pushes me up against the wall, and puts a finger to my lips.
“You are a naughty little girl, are you not?”
He tuts, looking me over. I suddenly realize that all I have on is a pink T-shirt with text across my chest that says Eat Me above the image of a piece of cake, white cotton panties, and pink unicorn slippers.
I’m going to die in shame.
Or from shame.
Whichever happens first.
“What are you doing here?” I sputter, my mind finally able to put together a sentence. I’m acutely aware of his closeness, his warmth, and his overwhelming presence in my little house. I’m all too aware of all the things I’ve imagined this man doing to me, and horrified at the idea that he’ll somehow magically know.
“You are a difficult girl to find, Miss Ellerbrock. Whose house is this?” He cocks his head and glances around us before he looks back at me.
“It was my father’s.”
“And where is Father now?”
“He died.”
“And why is your name not on the house?”
“I had to borrow money to keep Princess running. The house is… in the name of my ex… boyfriend. He… helped me.” Ethan actually came through for me even though we had broken up. It was an emergency, and even if I’m glad he helped me out, it makes me indebted to someone I’d rather not be. He has money, and he offered. It stood between accepting it, or losing both my business and my home.
He growls. Growls! “And where is the boyfriend?”
“Ex!”
“Whatever. Where?”
“He’s out of the picture.”
“But you live in a house with his name on it? Your father’s house, but someone else owns it? I don’t like this picture.”
“Living in this town is expensive, dude!”
The Russian’s eyes flash dangerously, and I swallow hard, immediately filing away ‘dude’ as a word not to use on him. “Running the store even more so. I can’t pay the money you want!”
He scoffs and suddenly lets me go, taking a step back. “I don’t want any money from you.”
My mouth falls open. I’m not hearing this right. “But I thought… You said…”
“I don’t care about money. I want something much sweeter.”
I have a sucking sensation in the pit of my belly, and it grows exponentially as he lets his eyes travel down my body, past my breasts, my bare thighs, and landing on the fluffy unicorn heads on my feet.
“You were hiding from me. I didn’t care for it. You were hard to find. It was infuriating.”
“You threatened me.”
He raises a shoulder in half shrug and then drops it. “It was my job.”
“You hit me!”
“If I had hit you, you would be in the hospital. I spanked you for your insolence. And I will do it again, little girl, for all the time I’ve had to spend looking for you.”
My heart hammers wildly as I look left and right, trying to find an escape. He tsks, immediately catching my attention.
“Do you like to be chased, little girl? I like a good chase.”
That heady, heavy sensation that settles between my legs can’t possibly be excitement, can it?
He takes a step back, still holding me pinned to the wall with his intense green gaze.
Another step.
He’s baiting me. I’m not playing his games.
Another step.
He’s out of arm’s reach. I look at the doorway then back to him. My heart speeds up and my mouth turns dry like sandpaper.
Not gonna run. It’s what he wants.
Another step.
He’s looking for a reason to punish you, silly girl, don’t fall for it.
Every instinct screams at me to run. My brain disconnects from my legs, and I throw myself toward the doorway. If I can only get out the front door, the neighbors will see me, and I’ll be safe.
Misha
The American girl dashes to the left, like a frightened bunny, a little whimper climbing out of her throat. She’s playing my kind of game. I wonder if she knows it? I wonder if she’s playing, too?
For the thrill of it, because I have a twisted mind that gets off on the hunt, I let her reach the front door. Before she has a chance to put her hand on the doorknob, I cover the distance and have her in my arms, lifting her away from her one shot at freedom. She inhales to scream. I slam a hand over her generous lips, pulling her tight to my chest, and tut.
“Such a naughty girl.”
She squirms, then slams her head back, almost hitting my chin. She’s too short, and too soft, to be a match for me, and even though I like how her squirming rubs her round ass against my cock, I also want to see that same ass blush in fierce competition with her cheeks as I slap her bottom.
“Get off me, you filthy fucking bastard! You can’t just barge into my home!” She twists and turns, stomps her heel on my foot hard enough for it to actually hurt. “I’m calling the cops!”
Throwing herself forward, she shifts us, and I almost topple over, but regain my footing. As I’m bent over,
she slams her head back again, this time hitting my nose so hard my face explodes in pain.
I groan and put a hand to my nose. It comes away bloody. I lose my hold on the little hellion, and she takes the chance to jerk free and manages to get a hand on the doorknob, twisting it. The door opens a sliver, and she almost, almost escapes. She’s a clever little girl, no doubt, but I’m stronger, and have learned to ignore my discomfort when other matters are more urgent.
Stopping her is a lot more important than a bloody nose.
I shoot forward, wrap my arms around her waist and yank her to me, falling on my back with the girl on top of me. The air is slammed out of my lungs, and I gasp as I twist us around until I have her pinned beneath me. There is no stopping her struggles. I need to change tactics or I’ll have to use a lot more force than I want to. I have no intention of hurting Miss Ellerbrock. I don’t know why I’ve been so obsessed with her, but spanking her in that office, smelling the excitement all over her, has rendered me sleepless since.
Squeezing her throat, more as a warning than to cut off her breathing, I put my mouth to her ear. “Calm down, little one. I don’t want to hurt you, girl.”
She freezes, her breaths come as short gasps. “What?”
Realizing I spoke to her in my mother tongue, I dare to free one arm and push some of the blonde locks off her cheek so I can catch her gaze. Huge blue eyes stare at me, frightened. Understandably. Sadly. That’s who I am, all I have ever been, the cruel enforcer.
“Come on, get up. Stop fighting me.” I push up and jump to my feet, offering her my hand.
She’s still flat on her belly, eyeing my hand, the door behind me. She moves faster than I expect, kicking out her foot, hitting my legs.
Russian has many more colorful curses than English, and a long string of them passes my lips as I pounce on her. “You are begging for trouble!” I straddle her and push up her arms against her back, circling her wrists with one hand while I bear down the other on her delicious full ass.
Smack. “Stop.” Smack. “Fighting.” Smack. “Me.”
