Page 20 of Bronson

Heat flushes through my core, causing my pussy to gush. Just from imagining how Bronson Bachman would handle bad behavior.

You did a bad thing. You will be punished.

I shake my head. Time to get up. Throwing the covers back, I jump from the bed. “Brr!”

I sprint across the freezing concrete floor, my bare feet dancing on ice. I’ve never gotten used to owning socks. I always forget to put them on. Flinging open my wardrobe, I assess my ammunition.

The red dress. It is the logical choice.

I pull the dress down, forgetting the cold. Holding the beautiful crimson fabric against my skin, I smile.

He’ll give me anything I want in this dress. Including the advance on my pay that I’ll politely request to bribe Hank with. My family will have heat by the end of the week.

Shrugging out of my flannel nightgown—pajamas are the one thing I prefer to skip the labels on—I slip the dress over the bra and panty set I put on the evening before, after my shower. It is way too cold to be changing those.

My face stares back at me. I’m determined to make this work. I grab a brush, smoothing down my hair to hang straight, frame my face, and rest on my shoulders. I take my time applying my makeup.

Red lips, red nails, red dress.

I am more than satisfied with the result. Slipping on my heels, I grab my bag and fly out the door. It’s almost eight.

“Young lady, where’s your coat?” a voice croaks from behind me.

Turning around, I smile, waving down to Ms. Beeman in her wheelchair. “And cover up this beautiful dress? Never,” I laugh.

Shaking her head, she says, “You look lovely, dear, but you’ll catch your death of cold. Mark my words. In my day⁠—”

“I’m so sorry, I can’t chat too long this morning, Ms. Beeman. I’m late, you see and the man I’m keeping waiting… well, let’s just say I don’t think he’d take kindly to my tardiness.” I picture him, looming over his desk, me in the chair across from him, him lecturing me on the importance of being on time as he rolls up one crisp white sleeve⁠—

Ms. Beeman squeals. “Oh, you didn’t say you had a beau! Come now, spill the beans. Who is it? Emmaline, get on out here. Paigey has herself a beau!”

“What’s that?” Emmaline comes round the corner.

“I said—Paigey has herself a beau!” Ms. Beeman said.

“Why didn’t you say so? Why were you telling me that the cage has a toe?” Emmaline shouts. She was hard for hearing, as she puts it.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Emmaline, I didn’t say that. That doesn’t even make sense! What I said was⁠—”

I take the opportunity to slip down the stairs. Opening the door, I shriek as the freezing air slams into me. “Mother of mercy!” The chill bites right through the thin fabric of my dress. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to capture the heat of my body.

Holding my head high, I desperately try to look like the type of woman I wish I was—one who sacrifices herself for fashion. Truly not wanting to cover up the gorgeous dress.

Not the woman I am.

One who doesn’t own a coat.

It was pretty much impossible to slip a winter coat into a purse and get away with it. I’d given up after my first attempt. After that, I’d tried several thrift stores, trying to find something that would both keep me warm and not look ridiculous with my couture.

I’d had no luck. I’d only found pieces that I wouldn’t have ever had the audacity to hand down to someone. Just because I’m broke doesn’t mean I want to wear clothing that should have been thrown away.

The cold has me walking so fast, I’m shocked to look up and see the Bachman’s storefront looming before me.

Nerves immediately invade. My tummy flips. My already peaked nipples further harden.

Memories of my chest pressed against his desk. The unbuckling of his belt. The sting of the leather.

Very good girl.