Page 12 of Bronson

“What’s your name?” I ask.

There’s a welling in my chest, making me feel as if it’s suddenly the most important thing in the world—to know her name.

“Paige. Paige… Silverman.”

Paige.

A little girl’s name. For a grown woman who seems so… lost. A surprising pang tugs at my cold heart, even though my shin throbs.

She will stay. I can see it in her face… Giving me one long, hard look, she sighs. Taking her purse from her shoulder, she makes her way to the desk where I stand. She thumps her bag down on the desktop. Putting one tiny hand on her narrow waist, she demands, “Let’s get this over with.”

I lean on the desk. “Get what over with?” I ask.

“The punishment,” she huffs.

She’s so close, I can smell her perfume. Vanilla and roses.

I lean down, my mouth inches from her face as I whisper, “And how should you be punished, little girl?”

“You’re gonna…” Her voice gets small, quiet. She gives a tiny shrug. “Spank me, I guess.”

My cock twitches.

“That’s right. You do something bad and there are consequences for your actions. Aren’t there?”

I’m not prepared for the look in her big brown eyes when they lock on mine.

She’s so vulnerable. Deep inside, she’s begging for love. For someone to set boundaries. Hold her accountable.

Make her feel safe, cared for.

But why would I care? I’m not that man. I’m a Bachman. Keeping the rules in place. Ensuring there won’t be another theft in my store. She’s not the first shoplifter I’ve had to deal with. I’m just following protocol.

Aren’t I?

My heartbeat quickens as she continued to stare at me from underneath her dark lashes.

Clearing my throat, I say, “Very well. Let’s get this out of the way, young lady.”

“I’m twenty-five, thank you very much,” she murmurs, her eyes shooting darts.

“So old enough to know better?” I snap.

“I like nice things. So, sue me,” she shrugs.

“I won’t sue you. But I will spank you. Seems like someone should have done this a long time ago. Tell me, how often do you steal, princess?”

She perches herself on the edge of my desk. Right next to me. Taking a seat as if we were a couple of old friends having a conversation. I’m shocked by how familiar she’s being with me. Her leg presses up against mine. A heat rises in my chest.

Her fingers move to the small brass clock that sits on my desk; her painted red fingertip strokes its smooth metal. It’s the only thing I keep on my desk, an antique from my family. I don’t tell her to leave it be.

I ask again. “How often?”

She gives a small shrug. “Here and there.”

“Here and there? So what are we talking? Just on the weekends? Saturdays? Sundays?” I demand. Why is she sitting so close to me? I can feel the heat from her body pressing though our clothes where our thighs touch.

Her eyes lock on mine. “Something like that.” The tip of her tongue runs over her bottom lip where she had earlier bitten it.