Page 78 of Bronson
Bronson links his arm through mine, leading me to the head table. He pulls out my seat, and I slide into it, carefully smoothing the delicate fabric of my dress beneath me.
My face feels warm as I look over the room. It’s all so beautiful. Guests are chatting, enjoying the ambiance, the wine, one another’s company.
The servers bring out baskets of just baked bread. Dishes of fresh butter sit on the tables.
“Would you like one?” Bronson asks. He reaches out, taking a roll and opening it, steam rising from within. The scent of the bread reaches me. My stomach gives a growl. I hadn’t eaten all day in order to fit into my gown. I’m suddenly starving. He takes his knife, scooping a bit of the butter, and spreads it onto the hot bread.
He goes to place it on my appetizer plate.
I watched in horror as a drop of melted butter drips over the edge of the bread and lands in the lap of my dress.
“Look what you’ve done! You’ve gotten butter on my dress,” I hiss. I’m fuming. Taking my cloth napkin, I dip the corner of it in the ice water and dab at the fabric. The dress absorbs the water and the dark spot spreads. “I can’t believe you did that! So careless.”
I mistake his silence for an apology. When he doesn’t speak, I turn to look at him.
His face is a mask of stony anger.
I gulp and put my napkin down on the table.
His dark eyes flash. His low tone is icy as he speaks. “I would never, ever speak to you in that manner.”
“It’s my dress. For my rehearsal dinner—”
He puts up a hand to stop me. The sheer size of it has me squirming in my chair. “Our rehearsal dinner. And it’s just a dress.”
“Just a dress! Just a dress!”
“Lower your voice or I will lower your panties,” he growls.
A wave of shock runs through me. As well as a tightening in my core.
But his threat is not enough to erase my temper. I lean toward him and hiss between my teeth, “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.” I give him my best ‘looks could kill’ glare.
His brow narrows. “Wouldn’t I?”
There is a moment of silence as we stare at one another. You could slice through the tension between us with the butter knife.
The battle of wills ends with me crying, “Oomph!” as he tugs me by the upper arm, pulling me from my chair.
Bronson turns to Carter on his left. “Excuse us just one moment. Would you please keep the courses coming until we return? My future bride and I need to have a little chat.”
Carter gives him a nod. “Of course.” He gives me a look, then adds, “Take your time.”
Sasha elbows Carter in the ribs as Bronson drags me off into the shadows.
My tummy turns. My muscles tighten. A light sweat breaks out over my brow.
I’ve forgotten who I’m dealing with.
I’m in big trouble.
“Bronson, I just—”
“Stop speaking. You’ve said your piece. In fact, you’ve been saying your piece for six weeks. It’s time I’ve said mine.” His grip tightens, his voice eerily calm. “With you over my lap.”
Oh, dear.
He’s going to spank me. While all our guests wait for the happy couple to return. Wondering where we’ve gone.
