Page 32 of Rockland

Word got out around the other islands and the Parish grew, the income grew, and with it, the homes. Marble, stone, glass facing the blues and greens of the sea, the breeze blowing in at night. A beautiful sun-kissed people, wearing linen and dining alfresco each evening on the verandas of their mansions. Tanned children chasing one another on the shore beneath the setting sun.

But I don’t tell her that. I’m getting too much of a kick out of watching the look of horror on her face whenever she speaks of my backwards little island.

So I tell her a version of the truth, and let her interpret it as she will. “I don’t live in a hut, but we do build our own homes. We live a simple life. Our food, our fun, all comes from the sea. We fish for our meat. We swim and boat and play games on the shore. We all work together, play together. Help raise the children together. It’s a very cohesive environment.”

Her nose wrinkles. “Sounds miserable. Give me Fifth Avenue and a good Bloody Mary brunch any day. Also, I love electricity and indoor climate control—tell me you have those things.” She looks at me, wide-eyed.

It’s too fun watching the look of horror spread across her face. I continue teasing, bending the facts for my enjoyment. “We have some electricity. A tap of running water here and there. One or two of the huts have plumbing. But no, no air conditioning. We leave our windows open at night, enjoying the breeze from the Aegean. I could take you there someday. If you’d like. I think you’d love it.”

“We both know I wouldn’t last one day in the Parish. I’ve very comfortable here, with my rowhome, leather couch, and online shopping.”

The shopping. Another reason Bronson has brought me here. I change my tone to the one I think of as father figure, narrow my brow, and say, “Which is a subject we need to discuss.”

She stops chewing, mid-bite, fear washing over her face.

“That’s right. I’m putting you on a budget.”

She plops her sandwich down, swallows, and declares, “I’m in no need of a budget. I’m an accountant with plenty of money in the bank and nothing but time on my hands to spend it.”

“I think that’s precisely the problem. With Brett gone, you need a void to fill with your energy. Something that will bring you joy. Something other than clicking an item into a cart.”

Her nose crinkles adorably. “You mean, like a hobby?”

“Yes. Maybe something even, I don’t know… active?”

A fiery blush rises in her cheeks. “You mean… like what we just did?”

My cock twitches at the memory of our fucking. The truth is I don’t yet know where things are going between Tess and me and I don’t want to cross that bridge, knowing I’m fully invested and she’s still a recovering widow. So I suggest, “You could join me on my morning runs.”

“I don’t sweat. And I’ve never understood people jogging about, running down roads as if they’re being chased by someone. It’s pointless. Ford invented the car for a reason.”

“Running is excellent for your cardiovascular health and your mental well-being. Come with me tomorrow. We’ll start slow.”

Her brow creases. “Absolutely not. And I’m stuffed. I can’t finish another bite. But thank you. It was delicious.” She pushes her plate toward me.

I pick up the other half of her sandwich, putting it onto my plate. I’m still hungry. I’m going to make her run with me in the morning, but there’s no sense in telling her that now. I finish the sandwich and stand to begin cleaning the kitchen. To my surprise, Tess joins me, putting away the food, wiping crumbs from the counter.

That spanking has done her some good. That and the good hard fucking she so desperately needed. And it was my pleasure to deliver it.

The image of her over my lap flashes in my mind, the blood flows to my crotch. I want to take her again and again. Rock her body all night long. But I don’t know if that’s a wise decision. Though I’ve crossed the boundaries I’ve set for myself, I’ll not do it again. Ignoring my cock, I say, “Let’s get you to bed.”

She shoots me a glance. “I really think you should sleep on the couch. You know—be a gentleman.”

The jetlag begins to set in again. Every muscle in my body feels heavy, leaden. I need to go to sleep. Now. “Not a chance. Don’t worry. I won’t touch you.” I take her hand in mine, lead her up the stairs.

When we get to the bedroom, she hovers by the doorway. I say, “It’s okay. I’ll get dressed in the closet. You can have the bathroom to get ready.”

“Thank you. I know it’s silly… after everything we’ve just done. But I need the privacy.”

“I understand.” I grab my bag and head to the master closet, shutting the door behind me. I toss my bag on the floor. Take off my shirt and fold it over the chair she’s got by her dressing table. Press my hands into the massive jewelry counter, resting my weight. My gaze rises to my reflection in the mirror before me.

The swirling black tattoo stares back at me. Reminding me of home. My other Brotherhood. The one I’ve built from the ground up with my bare hands. The place where I make the rules. Where I lead my people the way I see fit.

I miss them.

But not as much as I should.

But why don’t I miss them more? Why am I not craving the sound of the sea, the salt air? The heady conversation? Bantering over decadent food and copious amounts of wine?