But unlike last time, his sketchbook sits untouched on the table Yosef brought in for him, the table I left there since that first time, as if some part of me knew that there was no going back, that I’d have Tommy with me all the time. Instead of sketching, Tommy is exploring the space–prowling around the conference room, poking at the audio equipment, trying to open locked file cabinets, and rearranging books on the shelf.
Last night, and all day yesterday, he was in a withdrawal-induced coma. It was nearly impossible to get him up, and when I did, he was in a bad mood. But today? He’s acting like a hummingbird in a cage, buzzing around my head.
He couldn’t be more obvious.
Nothing goes untouched in his quest for distraction and attention, not even the giant rug near my desk. He lifts it up, looking under it, then pauses.
I know what he sees–the drain. He looks up at me, and slowly lowers the rug again before brushing it flat. The expression in his eyes… It’s art. A mix of cautious awareness, resigned acceptance, interest, and suspicion. But no fear.
He’s incendiary.
I have to bite back my smile.
Eventually, he runs out of things to mess with, runs out of subtle ideas to get my attention as I type and read over reports, and he presses his hands against my desk, looming over me. He’s changing tactics, and getting more direct. And I’m so pleased with him, because this is exactly what I wanted. When he’s feeling on edge and in need, I want him to turn tome.
“I’m bored.”
And so it begins.“Do you want a book?”
“I wanna leave, this place sucks.”
“You want to leave?” I keep my tone amicable.
He hesitates, suspicious of me. “Yeah.”
My grin is irrepressible, and a little vindictive. “That’s too bad. I’m not done, and you’re staying with me. You’ll have to be patient. I know you can do it. Settle down.”
Tommy shifts his weight, antsy and pushy. “That’s not fair. I’m bored.”
“That’s not your safe word, Tommy,” I remind him. He immediately gets the most adorable scowl on his face, just like every other time I’ve pointed that out. He glares so fiercely, his eyes promising trouble, and I know he’ll deliver.
Bring it on.
My voice is a little deeper, rougher, when I continue. “If you want something other than your sketchbook, tell me now. My calls are starting soon and you’re going to behave.”
He huffs and rolls his eyes before stalking to the window, leaving me without an answer, as if I don’t warrant one. He’s feeling very bratty today. Bratty enough that I think I know exactly what he’s hoping for.
My vicious, bloodthirsty boy wants a spanking.
He said it loud and clear in the kitchen yesterday. He admitted something he can’t take back. He admitted his need.
And I’ll fucking provide.
Of course, I’m not willing to actually hurt him, so rather than hit him harder, I’ll have to change other variables to make sure he feels the sting more than he did last time. I’m looking forward to it.
I watch him stare angstily out the window, frowning, until he finally acknowledges me with a sullen attitude. “How long do we have to stay here?”
“I have three meetings.”
“Ugh.” He groans like I just told him he has to stay for three days instead of three hours. “No. I’m not staying for that shit, I’m leaving.”
Oh?“Tommy, you’ve earned your spanking. Don’t worry about that. But if you keep pushing me, you’re going to get more than you bargained for.”
He freezes, eyes wide, jaw slack. “Wait, what?”
“Are you going to pretend I’m mistaken?” I ask him. “You use misbehavior as a way to ask for my special, undivided attention. I got the request loud and clear, you haven’t been subtle, and I’ve made time on my calendar. Tell me I’m wrong now, or sit down at your table and work on your sketchbook until my meetings are over. Be patient, and I’ll give you exactly what you’re asking for.”
He swallows hard, and I love to watch the way his mind works, to see the way his expression gets hungry. “Or what? What happens if I don’t behave?”
