Page 35 of Rockland

Flutter, flutter, flutter. Damnit.

I finish the wine. Pout when he replaces it with a glass of iced water. He chuckles. Serves the pasta into two low-sided bowls I don’t recognize. I suddenly feel guilty for all the work he’s doing for me. I say, “You know… you don’t have to go out of your way for me. I can cook⁠—”

“I enjoy it. Let me take care of you.” He smiles at me. Serves me a dish. Comes around the counter and sits beside me. His shoulder brushing against mine as he does. “Eat up.”

I gaze at the dish, taking in the colorful food. “It’s beautiful. Almost too pretty to eat.”

“Eat up.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command. I eagerly stab the pasta with my fork, twirling the strands around the tines. Pop the bite into my mouth and chew.

It’s the most delicious pasta I’ve tasted. I take another bite, and another. Moments later, my plate is empty and I’m asking for seconds.

He laughs. Fills my bowl. Says to me, “I guess this dish finally has a name.”

“What is it?” I ask between greedy mouthfuls.

His soulful eyes turn to mine and he smiles. “The Good Girl.”

My heart pounds in my chest as I finish my food.

When we go to bed, it’s the same routine as the other nights—other than last night when we fell asleep on the couch together. He gets ready in the closet. I get dressed in the bathroom. We crawl into bed, the pillow wall separating us. We bid one another goodnight.

He falls asleep.

I lay in the dark, the memory of the food, the new name of the pasta whirling in my mind.

The Good Girl.

In the morning, I wake. Eat the breakfast he’s prepared. Say goodbye and head off to work. The entire day feels… off. I get home in a weird mood. Decide to take some time to myself. Say a quick hello to Rockland then jog up the stairs to take a long shower. Try to wash away the unnamed angst I’m feeling. Throw on sweatpants and a t-shirt. Mosey into the kitchen to find him cooking steak. Baking potatoes. Another glass of wine waiting for me.

Joy warms my heart at his nearness, his tender loving care.

And it’s annoying the hell out of me. I don’t know why, but I’m overtaken by the desire to anger him. Push him. Make him respond to me.

I now know what’s been bothering me all day. I’ve become accustomed to that damn fluttering, silly, weak in the knees feeling I get whenever I think of him. And it’s making me long for him. Want him to touch me. Which he hasn’t been doing. We’ve been living as roommates. Ones who carefully dance around each other.

Long story short, I’m horny as hell. It’s making me irritable.

I’m not a big fan of meat. Growing up poor, I guess I never got used to the taste. Even though his steak is perfectly seasoned and melt in your mouth tender. I don’t finish my plate. I demand a second glass of wine, testing his patience.

I admit—I’m pushing him to see what he’ll do.

Fed up with my nonsense, his dark brow shoots sky high. He says, “Being a naughty, naughty girl. Aren’t you?”

Second guessing what I’ve gotten myself into, I say, “Well… I’d say I’m… strong willed, n-not necessarily naughty, per se⁠—”

“Per se, my ass. You’re as naughty as they come. And you need your ass lit up by a strong man who’s willing to tell you so.”

“I—ah…”

“You want me to take your naughty little ass right over my knee and spank it until you’re crying for me to stop. Don’t you? You’re testing me. Trying to brat your way into a good hard spanking.”

It was precisely what I had been doing. Not that I would ever fess up to it. “I—er…”

“Well, you won’t be getting what you want. Instead, there are other ways to punish a bad girl.”

I swallow, hard. Squirm in my seat. Say, “Like what?”