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Chapter Five
It had been two weeks. Two weeks Saoirse had been living with him, and two weeks he’d been jerking off in the shower to thoughts of her, rubbing one out in bed before he went to sleep at night. Hell, he’d even had to wank off in his office once because he couldn’t concentrate until he’d scrubbed her from his head. It hadn’t gotten rid of her, of course, but it had taken the edge off.
The thing was, it wasn’t just that Saoirse was pretty—although she was gorgeous. And it wasn’t that he hadn’t gotten laid in too long—he’d gone to Hive one night when Saoirse was out with friends and met up with one of his occasional play partners to blow off some steam and spill into something other than his left hand. Didn’t help, but that wasn’t it either.
No, the issue was that after a couple of days during which she’d mostly slept and shuffled around the house in a daze and ate dinner while absent-mindedly answering his questions, she’d started going out at night.
Which would have been fine because she was twenty-five and that’s what young people did. No, the problem was that she had broken curfew and Arthur was fairly certain it was on purpose.
He waited up for her, always had. The first time she was five minutes late and he’d given her a gentle reminder that while she was under his roof she would live by his rules. He’d even let her sleep in the past two Sundays while he went to All Saints since she needed the sleep more than she needed to go to church. But curfew wasn’t negotiable.
She’d apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again. But it had the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that, a little later each time.
He was at a loss. How was he supposed to discipline her? He couldn’t ground her, couldn’t withhold her allowance or her phone, couldn’t do anything.
Though he wanted to take her over his knee so bad he could taste it—which was part of the reason he hadn’t. He would enjoy it far, far too much and a woman like Saoirse would never allow that. Oh, maybe for occasional fun in the bedroom, but not actual discipline. And that’s what he wanted to give her.
Not, of course, that he would turn down a chance to lay hands on that sweet bottom for any kind of spanking—he would jump at it, given the opportunity—but he especially itched to turn her over his knee and lecture her while his palm rained down harsh smacks on her backside until she laid defeated, in tears, and genuinely contrite over his lap.
She needed someone to provide her with control and help her make better choices, and he wanted more than anything to be that man.
Now it was Saturday—well, technically Sunday because it was two o’clock in the morning and he was pacing the front hallway where he’d been calling her every five minutes for the past hour and a half.
Frustration, powerlessness, and worry were making a noxious stew in his stomach. When the door finally opened and Saoirse stood on the threshold he thought his brain would explode. With relief because she was in one piece, but also with vexation because he didn’t know how to get through to her and she clearly needed to be gotten through to.
“Saoirse Imogen Sullivan. Do you have any idea what time it is?”
Blue eyes bright with challenge, red lips spread wide in a humorless grin, she laughed at him.Laughed. He wanted to grab her by the arm, haul her into the library or upstairs and spank her until her bottom was bright red and hot to the touch and mascara ran down her cheeks in rivers of tears.
“Sure don’t. But you look like you do. Arthur.”
She said his name in a way that made him see red. Disrespectful. Taunting. Like she wanted to call him something else and knew he wanted the same thing but she wouldn’t do it, wouldn’t give either of them the satisfaction.
Except that was probably just his pervy-ass mind reading into the situation.
She was acting out, pure and simple. The only reason he’d ever known her to do that was because she was overwhelmed and wanted attention and behaving badly was the only way she’d ever gotten it from Renata. He hadn’t cut back on his hours at all since she’d been here and perhaps that had been a mistake.
“I do know what time it is. It’s two o’clock in the morning, two hours past your curfew. You didn’t text to say you’d be late, you didn’t pick up any of my calls and… Goddammit, Saoirse. I have been worried sick.”
She blinked at him, surprise stealing over her face but quickly replaced by the sneer she’d adopted in the past week or so.
“I’m a grown-up. I don’t need a curfew.”
“You clearly do since you can’t be trusted to be responsible for yourself.”
Saoirse looked like he’d hit her, like he’d landed a punch in her solar plexus and knocked the air out of her lungs. She went ghostly pale before two bright red spots appeared on her cheeks.
“Fuck you, Arthur. You don’t get to tell me what to do. I’m an adult and even if I wasn’t, you’re not my father.”
“You’re goddamn right I’m not,” he muttered, thinking of all the times in the past couple of weeks he’d fucked his fist wishing it were her instead.
He didn’t want to kick her out, not when she needed a safe place to be, but he also couldn’t keep letting her trample over his rules. And by the way she’d been pushing, it seemed like that’s what she wanted: to be reined in, to be assured there were boundaries and someone cared enough to call her on it when she crossed them.
She’d waged a similar war when he and Renata had first gotten married—not that Renata had really noticed or cared much—but he’d had more tools at his disposal to discipline her with nearly ten years ago. Now?
Arthur pushed his glasses up and rubbed the bridge of his nose before settling the frames back into place and taking a deep breath.Here goes nothing.
