Page 51 of Bronson

I lean down, whispering against her ear, “I’ll bet your pussy’s soaked right now.”

She freezes.

I run my fingertip down her cheek, over her bottom lip. “Isn’t it? Does all this talk of a big strong man taking you over his knees, controlling you, punishing you, does it make your little kitty all wet?”

She gives a shiver. She whispers, “That’s beside the point.”

My fingers slide down, brushing against her breast. I can feel her hardened nipple beneath her coat. “Is it? The way I see it—it’s the point exactly.”

Stepping back from me, she makes a harrumphing noise. Her face is red.

I don’t want to push her temper too far. Might get her into trouble before I can even show her the house. “Let me tell you a little secret. The women have all the real power.”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“They make the decision, have the final say. Of course, once you’re committed, you may not like what you’ve signed up for at times, but still, you sign up for it willingly. You choose to let the man dominate you.”

She is quiet for a moment. “The women have the power. Because they are the ones who say they want this… lifestyle?”

“Bachman women crave this lifestyle. They aren’t happy without it.”

Her voice is small. She looks up at me, unsure of herself. “Do you think… I crave it?”

“Yes.” I lean down. My mouth hovers by her ear. I slip my hand over her ass, squeezing her curve. She gasps as I dig my fingers into her flesh. “Do you?”

Her breath catches in her throat just as my lips press against it. I kiss and suck at her neck, all the while grabbing her ass harder. She’s on tiptoe, breathless.

The word I long to hear escapes her lips. “Yes.”

My cock hardens. I press it against her. My mouth moves to hers. My tongue slips between her lips, caressing her mouth.

Her body melts against mine. Kissing her makes the world disappear. My mind is lost in touch, taste, feel.

Paige.

I want her. But I’ll wait.

She’s worth the wait.

I pull away. Her mouth remains open, wanting. Her brown eyes shine with desire. Her hands clutch at me.

“Patience,” I say, giving her a wink.

She pouts. My heart beats a little faster.

I take her hand in mine. I point to my door. “This is me.”

Her eyes take in the exterior of my home. Dark gray paint with white trim and wrought-iron accents. Not a feminine touch in sight. She asks, “One Eighteen?”

“Yes. One Eighteen, Fifth Street.”

“How many streets are there?” Her voice is filled with nerves. Her hand tightens around mine.

“Seven.”

“All Bachmans? Are you all related?” she asks.

“Yes. But by choice. By pledge. We are family, closer than family. But only a handful of us share DNA. And only a few are decedents of the original Bachmans.”