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Romero is still home.
Shit.
Vaguely I wondered what the odds were that I’d be able to sneak past him. Tiptoeing through the living room and toward the front door, I did my best to keep quiet. Which is why I winced when Romero spoke my name.
“Julietta. Where are you off to so early?”
I whirled on the spot, not wanting to face him, but equally eager to see him after last night. His handsome face appeared guarded. Closed off to me. I tried to ignore the way my stomach dropped.
His eyes scanned my body too quickly to be suggestive, yet I felt it everywhere. Heat lightened his gaze, but then he looked to the floor and cleared his throat. When his eyes lifted again, they were blank once more.
I licked my lips to wet them, then answered, “The bank.”
And there it was: the storm of anger I only half expected to see. But not about this. “You’ll do no such thing. I’ve already confiscated the cash and the checks. They’re being placed into a trust fund that you will be granted access to once you finish your degree.”
My mouth fell open from the shock. A whirlwind of anger bustled through me. “You can’t do that. You’re not my dad!”
He took a step toward me, then another, managing to eat away the distance with a few strides. He towered over me, looking all intimidating and shit, but I didn’t care. I’d earned that money fair and square. It was my ticket out of here.
“Believe me,” he said in a low, chilling voice that raised the fine hairs on the back of my neck. “I know I’m not your dad. Because if I were, I’d put you over my knee and smack your stubborn ass for disobeying me last night and for your little display in front of men more dangerous than you could ever comprehend.”
His words felt like a sultry caress, even though they pissed me off. “Go ahead, Daddy,” I whispered with saccharine sweetness. “Bend me over and spank me.”
We glared at each other, me challenging him, him looking seconds away from snapping.
Before I could react, he grabbed my arm and hauled me out of the foyer. My backpack slipped from my shoulder and landed on the floor, abandoned, as he dragged me through the hall and into the kitchen. I was propelled forward, my hips hitting the edge of the round, wooden table when I caught myself with my hands. A startled cry escaped me. Romero had never manhandled me in any way before, and it sent a tendril of fear winding through me.
In the back of my mind, I knew what was coming, but still I couldn’t contain my gasp when his hand landed on my jean-clad ass with a resounding smack. My back bowed. I turned as much as I could to look at him over my shoulder.
A burning fury I couldn’t explain burned within the dark, mysterious depths of his eyes. Iwondered how many horrid deeds those eyes had witnessed. How many he’d ordered done himself. He was coming apart at the edges, fraying.
All because I called him out.
“Count, Julietta. I’m going to give you five smacks this time.”
This time.
His hand came down on my stinging ass cheek, and a noise somewhere between a moan and a cry garbled together in my throat.
“I said count.” His voice was rough. Gravelly.
“One,” I said, hating how breathy I sounded.
He didn’t look at anything but my backside as he punished it. My gaze snagged on the growing bulge in his slacks, my lips forming an O.
Smack.
“Two,” I groaned.
This is what makes this man tick, I realized distantly. He gets off on this. I’d read enough smutty romance novels to understand what was happening to the both of us—and why the stinging sensation on my rear turned to heat that pooled between my legs.
But was it the fact that he was punishing me, or the act of punishment itself?
When he spanked me again, this time harder, I jerked and faced forward.
“Stop,” I said shakily. But another blow came, and my knees wobbled.
“Count or we’ll start over. You’re a wicked girl, Julietta. You deserve to be punished for what you did.”
