“Yes, sir. So far, anyway. Had a few questionable friends, but I made my presence known and I don’t think they’ll be causing problems.”
He chuckles. He approves of my methods, I tell myself.
Well, most of them.
Jesus, probably almost none of them.
“Thank you, son. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you’re doing.”
If he had any idea.
I hear a woman’s voice drifting over from next door. She’s talking to Mia, and she doesn’t know I’m here. I walk toward Mia.
“Of course, boss. And how’s my mother?”
I need to turn the subject away from Mia before he can hear the guilt over the phone four thousand miles away.
He tells me she’s good, but I’m only half-listening. Mia’s cheeks are flushed pink, and she’s frozen in place. I exit the door and look to where she is, to find Michele on the balcony. Glaring.
Great.
I give Michele a wave, take Mia by the hand, and yank her inside.
“Good, good, sir,” I say to Piero. I give Mia a warning look, pointing to the phone, but she’s obviously distracted. I put my finger to her lips. Her eyes go wide.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Anything you need, son, you call me. That daughter of mine knows how to find trouble, but I sent you because I know you’ll take good care of her.”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
I. Am. A. Douche.
I hang up the phone and stick it in my pocket. She shoves my finger away.
What the hell is this?
“Don’t do that to me,” she says. I slam the door behind her and press her back to it. My pulse races from the phone call. I’m so fucking wound up. I lean in on my forearm, caging her in.
I keep my voice low. Any of the other occupants of this building could come in at any time. “Is that how you speak to me?”
She briefly closes her eyes, then sighs and shakes her head. “No, sir.”
I point.
“Upstairs.”
She swallows and nods, watching me. I take her bag and point again. “Go.”
“Who was on the phone?” she asks over her shoulder. Her ass is at eye level. I want to bite it.
I swallow hard.
“Your father.”
“Oh God.”
I snort. “Right.”
We make it to the landing, and I open the door for her, toss her bag on the couch, then sit and pull her onto my lap. She nestles right in like she belongs here, like she was created to fit just right. I don’t miss the way she winces. She’s been soundly spanked, and I don’t regret a damn thing. But now she needs me to take care of her, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Why on earth I put her on my lap, when I’m bound and determined not to fuck this girl, is beyond me. I could have her sit next to me, but no. I could stand and have her sit… also, no. Right here on my lap, the most dangerous seat in the fucking house, is where I chose to have this conversation.
“What did he say?”
“You first. What happened down there?”
She draws in a deep breath, then lets it out. Her eyes grow icy and her body taut. “Oh, just your ex.”
I blink. “My ex? I have no ex. I haven’t dated anyone since I came here.”
“Oh, really?”
She doesn’t believe me. What the hell?
“Really. So tell me who was down there.”
“That little hussy next door.”
I can’t help but laugh out loud at that. “The little hussy?”
“That woman with her tits hanging out. She saw me coming and started saying nasty things to me.”
I sit up straighter. No one messes with my girl.
“What nasty things?”
“Said she saw me with my friends and that if I thought the professor was interested in a little slut like me, she knew better. That he liked real women, and—”
I’ve heard enough. I put my hand up to stop her. “I’ll deal with her. What gave you the impression that she was my ex?”
Now she looks embarrassed. She twists a piece of hair between her fingers and bites her lip. “It was just the way she talked about you, as if she owned you, like she had Professor Caprio rights and I just infringed on them.”
I laugh out loud. “Don’t worry about her. But look at you, all jealous.”
She crosses her arms on her chest. “I’m not jealous.”
She’s totally jealous.
I brush a strand of hair off her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. “Don’t lie, little girl. Little girls who lie get in trouble.”
Her chest heaves as she draws in a breath. “I’m not sure I can take another spanking, sir.”
I brush my fingers through her hair, and she sighs. I tug, making her draw in a quick breath. “Oh, I have many methods of discipline, Mia. Spanking is only one of them.”
“Why does that turn me on?” she breathes.
I kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear. “Because you know it’s exactly what you need.”
The roar of desire for her drowns out my conscience, the phone call from her father but a distant memory.
“Tell me, sir,” she whispers back. “Tell me what I need.”
“Someone to watch over you. To punish you when you’re naughty and spoil you when you behave. To make sure you do what you should, take care of yourself, and stay safe.”
She nods, reaching her hand out to my shoulder and kneading the muscles there.
“My God, you’re so strong.”
I smile. “Someone to make you feel safe,” I tell her. “Who won’t let anyone hurt you.”
The little voice in my head that warns me not to make these promises is long gone, my need to claim her, hold her, make her mine drowning all else out.
I can’t deny how badly we need this, both of us. But I won’t give in so quickly. I don’t want her to think I’m just another douche who wants to get in her pants.
“Dinner,” I tell her, sliding her off my lap and giving her a parting kiss.
“Dinner,” she breathes, as if in a trance. She sighs.
I take her by the hand and lead her to the kitchen.
“Hey, this is a nice place here,” she says.
“Thanks. I like it.”
“I swear you’ve got the most beautiful view of Boston in every room.”
She’s right. The wharf out the balcony, and the cobblestoned streets of the city from the kitchen.
“I like it. It’s the one city that reminds me of home,” I say.
“It does, doesn’t it?” she says softly. “The streets remind me of Italy, too.”
She looks out the window. A few kids play in the streets, tossing a ball to one another. A large delivery truck ambles slowly by, hindered by the narrowed streets and pedestrians, the side bearing the words Francesco’s Pastries.
“It’s where my heart is.”
“I get that.” I take out some butter and onions, and place a frying pan on the stove. “I feel the same.”
“Sometimes, you just know,” she says. She doesn’t look at me, but keeps her eyes trained on the busyness of the street below our window. “Where you belong. Where you’re going. Who you’re,” she pauses. “—well, things like that.”