Come Back to Me (Bound to You Book 2) Read online

  “Excellent,” Paolo said smoothly. “I do think this one here is the perfect tool for the job I have at hand.”

  Meredith wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, as the girl prattled on about which spoons she used for sautéing, which for cooking eggs, and which she'd recommend for high heat, and Paolo nodded encouragingly at her, interjecting the occasional interested question.

  “I think this one is exactly what I'm looking for,” he said, as he met Meredith's eyes. Then he lifted the spoon in the air, opened his palm, and brought it down hard with a resounding slap! Even the girl jumped. But Paolo didn't even flinch, though Meredith saw the spot on his palm redden angrily. “Nice and strong,” he murmured. “Won't break. This will definitely stand up to repeated use, don't you think?”

  “Oh, yes!” the girl said, as Meredith felt her breath coming in shallower gasps and her ears burning from embarrassment. “I've had mine for years, and they are well worth the investment.”

  Paolo shot her a grin that made the girl positively melt.

  “I definitely think these will be well worth the investment,” he murmured. “Thank you so much for your help. Could you do us a favor and ring these up for us? My wife has some dish towels she'd like, too.”

  “Of course!” the girl said, scooting up to the counter and ringing in the towels and spoon.

  “Meredith, baby, why don't you go out and wait for me outside the store?” he said quietly. “There's a wrought-iron bench there. I'll meet you there.”

  Without another word, Meredith turned on her heel and fairly fled, grateful for the chance to get out of the store, and grateful for the chance to get the hell away from Paolo.

  Again, she wished she had Little Lady's number.

  Why the hell had he smacked his hand in the middle of the store? Did he think he was being cute? Was he unaware of the fact that other people would know what he was doing? She wanted to slam her fists into something. She wanted to scream.

  And then he had the nerve to go and flirt with the girl? Flirt?

  What the hell?

  She sat on the bench and fumed.

  Could she tell him now that she was done? That she didn't want to continue this, continue to obey him, and be subjected to whatever he decided he'd make her do?

  But why? She asked herself.

  Why was she angry? What had he done that caused her irritation?

  She saw him exit the shop, and the temporary flirtation had fled. He was back to looking stern. No, stern didn't even cut it.

  He was back to looking fucking pissed off.

  “Let's go,” he ordered. “Now.”

  She stood.

  “We need to have a talk,” he said, as the two of them made their way to the exit.

  “No kidding.”

  “Try that again,” he bit out.

  She sighed. “Fine.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “So that's how it's gonna be,” he said. “I let you get away with one nasty fine earlier today, and now you think it's okay to talk to me that way?”

  She didn't respond. She felt a sudden tingle in her nose and burn in her eyes. No. She was not going to cry. Not here. Not now. Why did she feel like crying? Just a moment earlier, she'd been furious.

  “I've done nothing wrong,” she protested, her voice shaking with the effort of keeping her temper in check. “I did everything you said. We got the blue skirt. We got the expensive but beautiful dish towels. And we got the huge wooden spoon with the flat handle. I went and waited for you just like you asked me to.” They neared the exit and she banged the handicapped button as hard as she could. The door swung open. “So I don't know why you're mad.”

  Paolo did not reply.

  They exited the mall, and she beeped the car open. They'd gotten the handicapped plates just the week before, and she'd been grateful they were able to park right near the entrance. The trunk of the car opened and he placed both bags in the trunk.

  He didn't say a word to her as he got in, and she put his wheelchair in the back of the car. He said nothing as they exited the parking lot. She felt irritated again, as she flicked on her directional and pulled onto the highway. Still, he remained silent.

  Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

  “What? Nothing to say?” she said.

  He turned and looked out the window.

  “So that's how you're gonna deal with me, huh? Give me the fucking silent treatment?” She didn't even care that she swore. With every passing second, she felt angrier and even more hurt.

  He turned to her, as she sped down the highway and pulled off at their exit.

  “If I had full use of my legs, I'd have hauled you out of the kitchen store, pulled you in the back seat, and warmed your ass in the middle of the parking lot, front space be fucking damned,” he ground out. “Back when I was still in control of my anger. At the first sign of you losing your shit. But I couldn't. So I decided we'd deal with it when we got home. Now, I'm too far gone. So yeah, I'm not talking much and if you know what's good for you, you won't either.”

  Even fuming, she felt the prickle of fear from the deadly calm in his voice and the threat of a spanking. He was pissed. This was not good.

  “We have an agreement. I won't discuss your part of the agreement with you here. But as for my part, I fucking agreed to keep myself in control. This is me keeping myself in control. So you get us home safe, and we'll do the fucking talking with you over my lap, after I've calmed myself down. And slow the hell down.”

  Her eyes flew to the speedometer. She slowed.

  Ha. They'd fucking see about that conversation over his lap.

  That would require her having to get over his lap to begin with.

  And that was so not happening.

  ***

  Paolo stared out the window.

  He started by reciting the jersey numbers of every single player on the Dallas Cowboys.

  After that, he did a mental inventory of all the tools he had lined up in his workshop in the basement, categorizing what needed to be cleaned and serviced.

  When he'd finished, he mentally recited the recipe for his mom's Portuguese beef stew, the one with sweet potatoes he often made when the weather grew cold.

  By the time he'd mentally balanced his bank account, he was breathing more calmly and he'd settled the pounding in his ears. Meredith had just pulled into the driveway.

  He didn't want to hurt her. Fuck, he really didn't want to hurt her. And he knew he could. He could feel the raw power in him, fury at the way she'd spoken to him in the store, and his own anger at not being able to haul her out of the store and stop her with a good spanking before she spiraled out of control. Fucking wheelchair.

  What had caused her to spiral out like that? She'd seemed fine in the car. She'd seemed fine on the way to the store, and even flirted with him while she tried the different skirts on. He'd tried to spoil her a bit even. After all, they'd had an intense night and morning, and he wanted her to have a little fun. He'd bought her a new bag—one that was expensive, and she'd have a hard time justifying the cost if she were out on her own—a new pair of sandals so she could look forward to warmer weather coming. He'd even gotten her ice cream!

  Why had she turned on him like that? He'd thought they were playing. He'd thought she was teasing. Then the next thing he knew, she was giving him shit about the cost of the dish towels? They could well afford nice fucking dishtowels. He'd worked his own business successfully for decades. Their house was paid for, and the work they'd needed done on it he'd done himself. And yeah, he'd collected unemployment for a while since the accident, but they were doing fine, and he'd recently gotten a request for some custom cabinetry work he'd agreed to do. Meredith's brother Robbie had been coming by to help set up his workshop so he could get down there and do what he needed to do.

  So what was her issue?

  He knew it wasn't about the fucking cost of the towels.

  They'd pulled into their driveway and parked.r />
  She brought him his wheelchair. Calmer now, he thanked her. Now it was time to set things to rights.

  “Go to the bedroom,” he ordered, as they entered the house and he carried the bags on his lap into the house.

  She marched past him and went to the den.

  What the fuck!

  He felt his anger surge again.

  “Meredith!” he called out. “I said go to the bedroom!” She spun around on her heel, her own anger apparent in the flush of her cheeks and narrowed eyes. Her hands were fisted by her side.

  “What if I don't want to go?” she said in a low voice. “What if I'm done with this?”

  He drew in breath. “Then we talk about that after you uphold your end of the bargain,” he replied.

  “Oh yeah?” she asked. “What's that? What's my end of the bargain?”

  “You know exactly what it is,” he said, voice dropping to just above a whisper. “My job is to lead you. Your job is to obey me. If you disobey me, my job is to punish you.”

  She stared, as if battling something within herself.

  “You go,” he whispered. “You go do whatever it is you need to do to get your head where it needs to be. I'll be in the bedroom. And when you're ready, you come to me.”

  He thought he was being reasonable. He thought he was giving her what she needed. He expected that he'd wait for her and that her conscience would prick her. She'd come to him, repentant, and he'd put her over his lap, and he'd do what he had to, put her over his lap and give her a good spanking. He'd find out why she was so pissed off. He'd be calmer, she'd be calmer, and they'd stop the fighting. She'd learn her lesson, and they'd put this shit behind them.

  He had no idea how wrong he was.

  Chapter Eight

  Meredith stormed around the kitchen, trying to calm herself. She didn't even know where to begin. She marched to the den, even though she hadn't been given permission to go on the forum, and fired it up. She logged on, hoping against all hope that Little Lady would be there. She needed someone to talk to. She wanted someone to help her process through her confusing emotions.

  No Little Lady.

  She knew she shouldn't have logged on. She knew she should shut it, get her shit together, and go humbly to Paolo and take her punishment. But she didn't want to. She was too pissed off at him and too mad at herself. And her confusion and state of emotions intensified her anger.

  A name blinked in the upper left hand corner, in the live chat box. She looked.

  Master Winston.

  He was the only one there, as it was the middle of the day, and chat times didn't usually pick up until the evening. Meredith logged her name in the chat box before she could change her mind, then typed a message.

  Hello, Master Winston.

  Bonita! How nice to see you here. Will Mr. Brookstone be joining us?

  She bit her lip. Not right now, no.

  Ah. That's unfortunate. And how are you today?

  She stared at the screen. Lying would be a mistake. She'd come here to talk to someone, and he was a friend.

  It's been a challenging day here. She thought of Paolo waiting for her in the other room, and as she confided in her friend, she wished their argument hadn't happened. Winston replied, and Meredith's anger began to lessen.

  I'm sorry to hear that. I wish my Little Lady was available to chat with you, but she has some tasks she must complete before she'll be allowed to join us. Is there anything we can discuss here in the chat room with you that may help?

  She felt tears prick her eyes at his kindness.

  It's okay. I just. Well… I don't even know what happened. I got myself in trouble and we haven't sorted it out yet.

  There was a pause before Winston continued.

  I see. And he allowed you to come here before you'd resolved anything?

  She bit her lip. Well. No, not exactly. He didn't say I could come here. I just… he told me to get myself together and I thought maybe if I came here, I could do that.

  Will he be upset with you for being here without permission?

  She chafed at the question. What the hell business was it of his?

  I don't know, she lied.

  Bonita, it is not my place to tell you what to do. But I urge you to go and talk to him. Tell him how you feel. There's no need for perfection here, but the only way for you two to grow together is by bringing honesty to the table.

  She wanted to tell Winston to shut the hell up.

  It wasn't up to him to tell her what to do. What did he know about her and Paolo, anyway?

  But what she also knew was that he was right. She just wasn't ready yet.

  Did Winston push Little Lady's limits? Did he give her instructions and then fail to follow through when she'd disobeyed him? He met her needs fully. Why couldn't Paolo know what her needs were, like Master Winston knew Little Lady's?

  I know you're right, I just need time to think things through.

  That's understandable. Still, it's not right that you're here talking about how you feel with other people, when your own husband is available to talk to.

  Barely containing a snappy response, she chose instead not to respond at all.

  As others entered the chat room, she was grateful for the distraction, and avoided chatting with Winston. She remembered Paolo's admonition to her. No forum when I'm not here.

  She frowned. What was the big deal, anyway? She was already in trouble anyway, and she knew logging off now would mean facing Paolo. She continued chatting with the others not because she really had any interest. The conversation itself seemed harmless, though it bored her. She continued chatting with because she didn't want anyone—not Paolo, or Winston, not anyone—to tell her what to do. But as time went on, she felt guilt gnawing at her. Paolo had been waiting in the room now, alone. The recent message from one of the men popped up.

  Your Mr. Brookstone sounds like a lucky man, Bonita.

  She flushed.

  Lucky? He was married to a full-grown woman who could be a total brat, and didn't know what the hell she even wanted from him. She sighed.

  Meredith didn't want to fight with Paolo anymore.

  She wanted to have peace again.

  And as she dwelt on this, she began to feel dread creeping in.

  Oh, God.

  She was in so much trouble.

  And it was time for her to go see her husband.

  She typed a farewell to Winston, and shut her computer off before he could even reply, feeling worse than she had before she logged in.

  But Winston was right. She needed to go and talk to Paolo.

  Her stomach squeezed as she stood. She wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans.

  For crying out loud. Not only had she mouthed off to Paolo in the mall—acting disrespectfully, repeatedly, and sworn—and she'd disobeyed Paolo, going onto the forum.

  She needed to get herself together and go to him.

  Heading to the bedroom, she paused in the kitchen, pacing, as the multitude of infractions grew in her mind. Shit. She didn't want to go in the bedroom. She knew she'd behaved like a child, and would get a fitting punishment for her childish behavior. She wanted to run away. She wished she could somehow talk him out of it, somehow skip past the actual punishment part and get back to being on solid ground with him again. But as she paced, biting her fingernails, she heard Paolo shift in the other room.

  They needed reconciliation, and he could not force this on her. The choice had to be hers.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and went in the room.

  “I'm here.”

  He was sitting up in bed, tablet in hand, flipping through a book. He raised his eyebrows as if to say, no kidding? His lips thinned, as he put his tablet down and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes focused on hers, but he said nothing at first, as she stood a good distance away, her knees trembling.

  What should she say?

  But before she could make up her mind, he spoke.

  “Come h
ere,” he ordered. His voice was hard as ice, and the vibration sent a chilling sensation down her spine. She stepped closer, and his voice dropped even lower.

  “Strip,” he said. She obeyed with shaking hands. Now was not the time to disobey him. She hooked her fingers on her pants and began to pull them down, as he watched closely, arms still across his chest. She stepped out of her clothes until she was bared to him, cold and trembling in front of him. Still, he watched her silently.

  “Go to the dresser and take the spoon I bought today out of the bag,” he ordered. She swallowed hard, as she felt the rising swell of fear. That would not feel like his hand did. Oh, God. What had she done? Did he remember her rating? Did he know her tolerance? Her fingers shook as she opened the small paper bag and retrieved the spoon. It looked heavier and even more menacing than she'd remembered. She felt sick to her stomach.

  As if on autopilot, she took the heavy wooden spoon back to him and placed it in his hand. He took it from her wordlessly, and put it on the bed next to him. He moved to the edge of the bed.

  “Over my knee,” he instructed.

  Oh, God.

  Her stomach sank even lower.

  She fell over his lap, torso hitting the bed, the roughness of his pants against her naked skin. She trembled, as her breathing came in shallow gasps, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Did he know how scared she was? Had he tried that thing out? She was so wound up, she jumped when she felt his hand rest on her bare skin.

  “I told you we'd talk with you over my knee,” he began. “You know I need to punish you. You know I need to punish you hard. Tell me why.”

  A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed against it.

  “Tell you why what?” she whispered.

  “Why I need to punish you,” he said, as his warm hand circled her bare skin.

  “I disobeyed you,” she said. “I was rude to you in the store. I didn't submit to you. I rose my voice, and swore, and disrespected you.”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “I…” would he know? Did she have to tell him? But she knew she did. She had to. They were here now, the two of them, ready to mend what had been broken. Ready to wipe the slate and start again. She couldn't hold back, even now, even if it meant she was facing the worst spanking she'd ever gotten. With all the courage she could muster, she told him everything. She had to.