Page 19 of Bronson

It’s freezing out there. And I have a decision to make. I’ll have to be sure to double check that Mr. Dobbins has his flannel robe and slippers on before I leave.

If I leave.

I still haven’t decided if I will be complying with Mr. Bachman’s demand I work Saturdays.

The little brass clock on my nightstand ticks accusingly.

I glare at it. “Don’t start.”

Taking it had been reflex. Bronson had been lecturing me, ordering me around, looking at me as if he could see every secret I’d ever hidden. My fingers had closed around the clock before my brain caught up. By the time I reached the sidewalk, it had been buried in my purse.

I should have marched straight back inside.

Instead, I brought it home.

Not because I wanted it. The thing is old, heavy, and not remotely fashionable. I took it because Bronson Bachman had made me feel powerless, and walking away with something of his made me feel as though I’d won one tiny piece of myself back.

It was childish.

Worse, it was personal. One of my rules. I never take personal things.

I reach over and turn the clock facedown.

“I’m bringing you back,” I tell it. “So stop judging me.”

Should I work Saturdays for the dangerous mafia boss?

I could use the money.

But the man caught me stealing from him. And spanked me. I mean, actually took me over his knee, pulled down my panties—I can’t even think about it, it has my face burning so badly.

It’s getting too stuffy underneath these covers.

More worrisome than the deep blush I am feeling in my face is the hot pulsing desire that clenches in my pussy every time I think of his huge hand coming down on my bare ass.

I don’t have to reach down to know my panties are soaked. I think of the way he pressed his fingers against me. Sliding one within me.

Naughty, naughty girl. Am I not spanking you hard enough?

“Ugh,” I groan. I roll over, bringing the covers around my shoulders. My face is so hot. Shame washes over me—there it is again, the strongest urge to rub my pussy to orgasm. Just thinking about the way his dark brow rose at me, the sound of his stern voice. The feel of his hard thighs underneath my belly.

It’s driving me to distraction.

The air stings my cheeks, my face finally cooling. I stare up at the peeling ceiling above my head.

We really need a new heating element in the HVAC. But we don’t have the money.

My family is going to freeze.

Unless…

How much did he say he paid, exactly? Enough to strike a bargain with cranky old Hank? If I could get Hank to agree to replace the element, I could give him a portion of the cost every Saturday till we’re paid up.

Hank will go for it, if he knows I have a steady income coming in on the weekends. I’m certain of that. He may be grumpy on the outside, but I know he secretly cares just as much as I do.

I give a nod to no one in particular. I’ve made my decision.

I’ll be the best damn salesgirl Mr. Bachman has ever seen. Hell, maybe he’ll even throw in a bonus for good behavior.