Page 17 of Bronson

I’ve done my job.

She’s been properly punished.

She won’t think of stealing from me again.

Sniffling, she looks up at me shyly. Wiping at her tears with her sleeve, she asks me, “What’s your name?”

“Bronson Bachman.” I reach my hand out. It’s tender from spanking her. She puts her small hand in mine. I lift it to my lips, bend forward and kiss it softly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Meet me? You’ve… spanked me.” Her nose crinkles up in the most adorable way.

“I have. And I’m happy to do it again,” I say, releasing her hand.

Her blush deepens. She doesn’t say a word. Not one.

I want to take her to my bed. Taste her. Make love to her. Feed her sweets and wrap her in blankets. Take the day off and lie with her. Stroke her hair, her skin. Fall asleep next to her.

Or just fuck her mercilessly.

I can do neither one.

I have to see her again.

The thought comes from nowhere. My heart thuds in my chest. I command, “Come work here. Saturday.”

Her brow crumples. “That’s my only day off.”

Now that the idea has entered my mind, it will become reality. “You will be here on Saturday morning at eight o’clock sharp.” I raise my brow.

“But I already work six days a week.”

I won’t have her wandering the streets of the city, stealing, risking her life on that seventh day. “Only one day off and that’s enough to get yourself into loads of trouble. Have you thought about what would happen to you if you were to get caught by someone else?”

She shrugs.

“We’re talking jail time.”

“I never get caught,” she sniffs.

“I caught you.”

“That’s different,” she shrugs again.

“How?”

“You’re… good. I’ve never met anyone quite as serious as you. The others, they are so caught up in their sales, or their hair, their commission, what they are going to have for lunch—they never even see me.”

My brow narrows. “Let’s say there are other Bachmans out there.” Which there are. Many of them right here within these stone walls. Others who would not take kindly to being robbed blind by this woman. I can’t bear the thought of someone other than me punishing her. “What if you were to get caught? Who would care for your patients?”

“My family,” she whispers.

“Sorry? You mean to say your family would care for them?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing, no… you’re right. That would be bad.”

“You will work here on Saturdays. I’ll pay you well and you can buy yourself the nice things you crave.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Thinking. Despite my usual collected nature, I find myself holding my breath as I wait for her response. She gives a nod. “Fine.”