Westwood didn’t sound like the trendiest club in the city. It sounded like the type of place that made custom golf accessories, or at the very least was the sort of place that played gentle music while retired millionaires sipped their bourbon, called it the club, and all voted conservatively. It didn’t sound like the type of place that would have people lined up around the corner and begged to get in. It hadn’t even existed the last time I’d been in town, but now it was the place to be.
I was sitting on the lap of Pascal Clermont. I’d rolled in alone, answering a call from my friend Marjory that there were some hot soccer players who looked like Green gods partying at Westwood and I should make it a point to make an appearance. By the time I arrived she was already in the midst of the party, snuggled up to one of Pascal’s teammates.
At first glance, I thought their group was a little pretentious with their luxury vodka and the fog of electronic cigarettes hanging in the air, but when Pascal leaned forward and politely introduced himself with that delicious French accent, I knew what I was going to be doing that night. Or rather, who I was going to be doing that night.
So I thought.
I was ready, feeling heavy and slick between my legs. I’d been behaving myself for the last couple of weeks after the summer with a burnout musician in Brussels and it was about time to get back in the saddle, so to speak, and a French footballer could pin me without even trying was a good start.
The waiter brought a drink and placed it in front of me.
“I didn’t order that,” I said with a wave of my hand.
“From an admirer,” he told me.
I turned to Pascal and laughed. “You’ve got some competition.
“No competition,” he joked, then leaned forward. I turned my head and his kiss landed on my cheek, but that didn’t deter him. He pushed my hair aside and nuzzled into the ticklish slope of my neck.
Content to let the PDA commence, I reached for the drink and took a sip, then made a face as it went down.
“What is this?” I asked the lingering waiter.
“It’s water with lemon,” he replied with a smirk. “Courtesy of the management.”
Before I could say anything smart in return, I spotted the bouncer coming through the velvet rope and it dawned on me what was happening.
“Fuck,” I said, then groaned and shrugged Pascal off. I handed the drink back to the waiter.
“I’m going to need to see some ID,” the bouncer said in a deep baritone that matched his ape-like build.
“I showed it to the guy at the door,” I said, and out of the corner of my eye I caught the smirks appear on the rest of the VIP party.
“She’s totally fine. She’s my friend,” Marjory said, slurring. At least she tried, though the laugh she finished with didn’t help. Marjory had nothing to worry about. She was twenty-two and her ID was real.
“I’m going to need to see your ID,” the bouncer repeated. He held out his hand.
Grumbling to myself about the service in this place, I reached into my clutch and pulled out my card.
All he did was shine the flashlight from his phone over it for a couple of seconds before he pocketed the card and made a motion with his hands.
“Excuse me, but can I have that back, please?” I snarled.
“No, you can’t have it back, because it’s not real. What you can do is stand up and come with me to meet Mr. Fitz.”
“Who in the fuck is Mr. Fitz?”
“He’s the owner of this place, and he’d like to have a word with you before you’re escorted out.”
Pascal moved his hand from my thigh and chuckled. “I guess you had better go.”
“Yeah, go finish your homework,” someone quipped -- someone who was nonetheless happy to enjoy the round of drinks I had ordered only minutes ago.
I glared at the bouncer, channeling all of my anger into the hope that his shiny bald head would explode all over the smirking prince and princesses of the VIP section.
How dare he, and how dare this Mr. Fitz, whoever he was.
It’s not like I was sixteen. I was twenty, just a few months shy of twenty-one. I’d closed down bars all across Europe this past year and now I was getting shit on my own turf?
“Christ,” I growled, and got up. The bouncer reached for my arm and I jerked away. “I don’t need my fucking hand held.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, and gestured for me to go ahead.
As I left the VIP, the people who only minutes ago were in awe of listening to me talk about all the clubs I had gotten into overseas were laughing their asses off. I was livid. I let the bouncer overtake me and followed.
I could have gotten away. I could have just swerved and walked right out. It wasn’t like they would come looking for me, and if they did they’d find info on my ID wasn’t real anyway.
But I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to meet this fucking Fitz and give him hell, even if it wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. I wanted to make sure he knew that in a few months he’d be kissing my ass to get back into his club.
Led through a long hallway and down a set of stairs, I caught a shiver. Christ, what kind of owner hung out in a basement that looked like there was a meat locker at the end of it? The music from above was a dull thump in this sterile, gun-metal grey corridor.
I admit it. I got a little freaked out.
“Hey, maybe I should just …” I started, but when the bouncer tossed an amused look back at me I was pissed all over again.
Fuck Fitz, whoever he is.
The bouncer took me down one last corridor that ended at a black, metal door with a chrome handle. I took a deep breath and held it as he opened the door, and then I stepped inside.
Nice. Lush. The office was more of an open suite than a workspace, with three long walls painted red and another papered with grey and black damask. A kitchenette was tucked into the corner, all shiny black accented with metal with a chrome coffee-maker on the counter next to a sink, with two bar fridges underneath. The desk was huge and its surface minimal, with papers neatly filed in two trays at one corner and a MacBook at the center. In a separate area, two loveseats faced one another and an enormous chair sat at an angle in front of a plush grey rug. The music I heard wasn’t coming from the bar upstairs, but from a speaker dock on the credenza just behind the sitting area, something acoustic and boring compared to the sort of energy above.
And the man sitting on one of the loveseats, bent over with his fingers flying across the screen of his phone, didn’t fit upstairs, either. It fit perfectly in this room.
He was gorgeous. Not in the same pre-packaged Ken way that Pascal was. This guy, Fitz, had something else altogether. Salt-and-pepper hair that was styled to look like he’d just gotten out of bed, or maybe he just didn’t care. Rugged was the word I’d ascribe to him. No, rugged chic, with that expensive watch peeking out from beneath his cuff and the whiff of expensive but old-school cologne I caught.
Maybe my night wasn’t a loss after all.
Without glancing up from his phone, he gestured to one of the other chairs. I chose the seat opposite his and sank back, making myself comfortable with one leg crossed over the other to show just enough thigh to entice.
The bouncer exited, leaving me along with this man, this Fitz, who said nothing.
After a minute of silence, I leaned forward. “So, what sort of name is Fitz?”
“Short for Fitzhugh,” he replied immediately and without looking up at me. “And your name is?”
His mouth quirked at the corner. “What’s what I thought.”
“And that’s not what your ID says.”
“How do you know? Hey, the bouncer still has it. I need that to --”
“To what? Get into another place you’re not supposed to be for four more months?”
He turned his phone over and showed me the face. My fake ID filled the screen. Apparently it wasn’t the flashlight on the bouncer’s phone at all, but the camera.
“What are you going to do, call the cops on me?” I asked.
“No, because I don’t want the cops in here putting everyone on edge. I am, however, giving some thought to calling your father, Stella Hale.”
He leaned back and his smile grew. “Vaughan Hale’s daughter, correct? Just back from a year-long, booze-soaked tour of Europe before beginning college?”
I pressed my tongue to the back of my front teeth to keep from saying something sarcastic, but I didn’t want to be goaded into it and come off like the brat I had the impression he thought I was.
So instead I pushed my blonde hair over my shoulder and leaned forward. “I’d like something to drink.”
“Help yourself,” he said in a tone that suggested he knew he had gotten under my skin more than a little. He set his phone on the glass tabletop between us and settled back, sprawling arms and legs into a pose I’d describe as supremely arrogant. “You can get me one, too. Fridge on the right has the drinks. There’s only water in there, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I replied snippily and got to my feet. I could feel his gaze on me as I went across the room. Midway, I glanced back. He watched, all right, insufferable and amused with a crooked half-smile.
“I don’t know you. How do you know me?” I asked from the mini bar. “Did I end up in the papers or something?”
“We met about ten years ago.”
I pulled out two bottles of sparkling water and set them on the counter, returning Fitz’s stare as I unscrewed the cap of the first.
“Ten years ago, I would have been ten. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have a fake ID back then, unless you count my Cosgrove Boys fan club ID”
“No, but you had the best tenth birthday out of all your friends because of me. Fifteen tickets to Level Up, all courtesy of my connections and your father cashing in a very big favor. I was there, with earplugs.”
“And you, what saw me on security footage and recognized me from that one time?”
“I recognized you from the picture in your father’s office. Pour mine in a glass, would you? With ice?”
I pursed my lips to keep my retort in. Call me fucked up, but I kind of liked the patronizing way he spoke to me. I liked his lazy drawl. I dropped two spheres of ice from the perspiring bucket on the countertop and poured his bottle into a high ball, then took it and my bottle back to the seating area.
“Am I about to get a lecture?” I asked as I handed him his drink.
“You’re too old for a lecture, and you could probably drink me under the table -- thank you.” He took the glass from me and lifted a brow when I took the seat next to him, leaving only a little sliver of cushion between us. He took a sip, watching me, and in a move that was so sexual that it had to be deliberate, ran his tongue across his upper lip. “What I am going to give you is a warning.”
I lifted the bottle to my lips, but I didn’t drink yet. “What’s the difference?”
“A lecture is something you get from someone who gives a shit whether you get blackout drunk and puke on the sidewalk. A warning is what you get from a guy who would have his liquor license yanked if the cops find out he’s serving to minors.”
“As if I’m the only one here tonight.”
“Probably not. We’ve caught our share. Not all of them have as good of a fake as you do. That one must have cost you.”
“It did.” I waited for him to raised his glass, then drank when he did before going on. “Do you do this with everyone who comes into your place with a fake?”
“I usually put them out on their asses.”
I smirked. “What makes me so special?”
Fitz raised his glass again. His next words were like the purr from a big cat. “I wanted a closer look.”
Another hot shiver went through me, not up my spine like in the corridor but straight between my breasts and into my belly, shooting hot and electric between my legs.
“Oh?” was all I could think to say as the throb rendered me breathless.
“Before I put you in a car and send you home, that is.” He cocked his head and gave me a little more of that gorgeous smile. “I’m not going to fuck you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Oh, son of a bitch.
Just hearing him say the word, fuck, was enough to have me gushing in my panties more than Pascal’s sexy accent ever could. I didn’t bother hiding what it did to me, shifting in my seat and squeezing my thighs together to chase the thrill with another.
“And why not?” I asked quietly.
“You’re not my type.”
“For Christ’s sake,” I said, then hung my head back and laughed. “No one says that and means it, not when it comes to fucking.”
“I just said it.”
“Only because you want me to ask you why you don’t want to fuck me.” He lifted his brows, and I laughed again. “Come on. You’re the one who brought up the fucking, and the way you’ve been looking at me says you’ve got fucking on your mind.”
“You are very fuckable, but if I wanted you I would have made an appearance up there, introduced myself as the owner, and plucked you right out of that other guy’s lap -- but I don’t fuck twenty-year old girls, especially if I’m prone to seeing their fathers around.”
“That’s such bullshit. Even if you weren’t half-assing it, I’d still call it that.”
Fitz placed his glass next to his phone and stood over me. “Look, honey, you’re out of here, and if you come near my club again any time before you turn twenty-one, not only will I put you out but I’ll have you driven home to your daddy’s front door in a cop car. Are we clear?”
“Now that sounds like a lecture.”
“I don’t give a shit what it sounds like. Get up.”
His expression was dead serious. He wasn’t fucking around, and it was doing all sorts of sinful things to me. I couldn’t wait to watch him unravel in front of me.
I shifted, enough so that I could slip out of my shoes. They landed on the floor with a clunk and I raised my bottle. “I haven’t finished my drink.”
Fitz pressed his lips together and placed his hands on his hips. I tipped my head back and drank. After a gulp, I settled back.
“What’s with this place, anyway? It’s like a fallout shelter.”
He closed his eyes and his barrel chest puffed out as he took a deep breath. He let it go, then dropped his pose and picked up his glass.
“I do a lot of networking here so I like to make a few appearances throughout the night, but when I’m not I like to be off. I like peace and quiet and I like to think.”
“If I look under the desk, will I find a pair of plaid slippers?”
“You calling me an old man?”
“Ever bring women down here?”
He didn’t sit next to me. He went to the opposite seat on the other side of the table. “A time or two.”
“Did you pick them off the dance floor, like me?”
“One, I picked you up out of the VIP section. Two, like I already told you, I don’t fuck twenty year-olds, and that’s ninety-percent of my clientele. So, no, I don’t pick my playmates off of the dance floor”
“So you fuck their mothers? The old cougars who come out in packs wearing cocktail dresses they bought at Sears?”
“That’s not very nice.”
My toes curled at that scolding tone. There was something devilish in that admonishment that brought back that glorious shiver.
“I like them somewhere in the middle,” he went on. “I like thirty. They’ve got all the drama out of their systems and the ones who have baby fever are off having babies. They’re not looking for someone to take care of them like their ex-husbands did. They know what they like and they know how to ask for it.”
“That sounds a little sexist.”
“I don’t care. It’s true.”
“So you think someone my age doesn’t know how to tell a man what she wants?” I leaned forward and smirked. “You think someone my age doesn’t know how to tell a man how to make her come?”
Fitz chuckled and sprawled once more. It was something to see, that unfolding and taking over every inch of the room with a simple movement.
“Just because I don’t fuck twenty doesn’t mean I haven’t. It’s always the same. You try and play the porn star between the sheets, but you’re all about the idea of being fucked instead of the actual fucking. No one is harder to get off than a twenty year-old who is more concerned with looking right or sounding right when she comes than actually coming.”
I curled my legs beneath me, then laughed as I lifted the bottle and looked at him through it. It was nothing more than sparkling water but I felt buzzed just listening to him talk, even if he was insulting me with some chauvinistic bullshit.
“I can honestly say that’s one category I don’t fit into: wannabe porn star who practices her come face while using her vibrator in front of a mirror,” I told him.
Christ, I couldn’t take it any more and I was tried of being subtle. My panties were soaked. I went up on my knees and tugged my skirt up a little. “For a guy who claims to go soft on twenty, you’re doing a hell of a job trying to get me wet.”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“And you’re not the least bit sorry.”
He gave me another stern look. “I should probably get you in a car so you can go home and take care of that.”
“You mean, you want me to go home and rub my pussy while thinking of you?” I shook my head. “That’s a few more steps than necessary, don’t you think? I’m right here, and so are you.”
“Not for long. Up.” He got to his feet again and gestured at me. “Up.”
I didn’t move, at least not the way he wanted me to. As he came around the table I dragged my skirt all the way up around my waist and slipped my fingers into my panties.
He faltered. I saw him do it, like a shimmer. Something passed over his face and he broke his stride for barely a second, and when he stood alongside of me I could see that he had the beginnings of an erection.
I looked up at him, biting down on my smile. Hidden behind soaked lace, I rubbed two fingers on either side of my swollen clit.
I looked him straight in the eye. “You think I don’t know how to get myself off?”
His expression was still severe, but he didn’t move. He remained at my side as I touched myself, hands on his hips, cock tenting the front of his pants.
If I just reached out, I could unzip him. I could wrap my hand around him and get him nice and worked up, ready for the fuck.
But I wanted him to make a move. I wanted him to take his cock out and give it to me.
I got hotter and juicier, his erection got bigger, and still he didn’t make a move or say a word. I would have loved to have heard that gravel voice tease me a little, but all I got was that stare and that hint of a smirk.
It was enough. I dug my free hand into the arm of the chair and rocked in tune with my slippery fingers. I didn’t moan. I pressed my lips together and held it in, until I couldn’t any longer, until those hot ripples swirling around my clit intensified and it overtook me.
I bowed forward with a cry, then shuddered through the euphoria.
Fitz finally moved to offer me the drink in his hand, which I gladly accepted and guzzled. He pushed my hair away from my hot neck and I thought I had finally prevailed, that his next move would be to sprawl me out on that plush sofa and slide into the wet passage I’d made.
But he grasped my elbow and pulled. “Time to go.”
“Hang on a second--”
“No, no second. Now. You proved your point, now it’s time to go.”
“Would you just give me --”
He yanked me to my feet, hard, and dragged me towards the door with my skirt still bunched up around my waist.
“Excuse me, but my shoes!” I exclaimed, and jerked back.
He let me go and swept his arm towards the seating area. “Make it quick.”
Furious that I was being tossed out after rubbing off in front of him, my temper arced. I took a step back and I threw the drink in his face.
There was only about a half-glass left, but it went everywhere, soaking his face and chest.
Fitz jumped back and swore loudly, then turned such a thunderous look on me I was actually scared. I took a few more steps back and took a deep breath to muster my bravado back into my blood.
“Go fuck yourself, Fitz,” I hissed at him.
We stared at one another, both bristling with fury, until he swiped his hand over his face and took a long, deep breath.
“All right, then. I didn’t see that coming.” His smirk reappeared. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Stella: you’ve got me wanting to give you what you have coming to you.”
The heat of anger was immediately replaced with that thick heat of longing. I took my own deep breath and raised by brows. “Oh?”
Fitz closed the gap between us in a few strides and gave his wet collar a tug. “Oh, yeah. I want it so bad I can taste it.”
“Mmm, me, too.” I whispered as he slipped his arm around my waist, and tilted my head back as I ran my hands along the soaking front of his shirt. “Sorry about the mess.”
Reaching his collar, I tugged the first button. I was torn. Part of me wanted to bare that chest, to bare everything and get a good look, but another, more insistent part of me was eager to be fucked by a half-dressed hunk like Fitz.
He took a step, leading me backwards towards the loveseats, until my thighs bumped the arm.
“Do you always throw tantrums like that?” he asked as he pressed against me. His cock poked against my belly through too many layers between us.
“You shouldn’t have been so heavy-handed,” I teased.
With a groan, I stood on my toes as he squeezed my ass, and he chuckled. “If you don’t like heavy-handed, you’re not going to like what’s coming next. Turn around, Stella.”
As soon as I wriggled around in the small space between us, Fitz hooked my panties and dragged them down to my knees. A nudge put me down, bent over the edge of the sofa’s arm with my hands sinking into the cushioned seat.
He rested a large hand at the small of my back, and I could feel his stare on my slippery sex. I suspected he was going to take me in hard strokes, but even after all this simmering I wanted him to play with me, to take it nice and slow and make it last before giving it to me “heavy-handed,” as he put it.
Fitz made a sound like a growl and slid his hand down to cup one cheek, and I curled my toes into the carpet in expectation.
Then came an explosion of heat and pain as he brought his hand down on my ass.
I gasped, and in that second that followed I moaned, thinking this was just a love-tap, a little bit of play before the main event. It wasn’t as though I had never gotten a smack on the ass before. During, before, or after sex as I lounged in bed, I had never given it a second thought.
But when Fitz gave me another one and the sting flared throughout my backside, I got a funny feeling that this wasn’t foreplay. After the third smack, I tried to push up but he held me in place.
“What the fuck?” I hissed, turning my head as far as I could, but it was no good. I couldn’t see shit, except for the slight blur of his outline.
“I’m sorry, did you think I was going to fuck you after repeatedly telling you I wouldn’t?” he asked calmly. “I said I was going to give you what you had coming to you, and after that little spectacle I think a hard spanking is exactly what you have coming to you. Hell, I think you’re long overdue for something like this.”
Once his little spiel ended, he started again, one hard crack on my ass after another. I did the only thing I could think of: I screamed bloody murder.
I couldn’t tell you how many times he brought his hand down on the meat of my ass. I couldn’t get out of it. When I tried, he only pushed me down harder until I was bent completely with the arm digging into my ribs. It finally occurred to me to start kicking, and that’s what ended it.
Fitz released me and I scrambled, only to fall aside. He caught me and righted me, then grasped my wrists when I came at him. “All right, that’s enough.”
I twisted to break free, then -- dragging my panties back up -- I scooted to the other side of the room and glared.
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Oh, you need me to break it down? I’m the guy who owns this club, who caught you partying it up with a fake ID in your bag. I’m the guy you tried to convince not to throw you out on your ass by showing off your wet pussy. I’m the guy who’s soaked because of the drink you threw in his face. Now I’m the guy who gave you the red ass you’ve been asking for all night, and I’m the guy who’s about to put a bitchy little brat in a cab and send her home.”
About midway through his speech, my rage deflated a little. Laid out like that, it made me sound like … well, the brat he said I was.
But the fire in my ass didn’t allow me to be too apologetic. No matter who he was, he didn’t have any right to bend me over and spank me.
I opened my mouth, but he held his hand up and turned with a shake of his head. “I’m sick of this. Pull your dress down and go home, little girl.”
He strode past his desk and into the cubby of a bathroom beyond, slamming the door on me. It was a hell of a give-n-fucks move, or a really stupid one. I could have torn the place apart. I could have called the cops. I could have called my father and cried about what his golfing buddy had done to me.
But I didn’t. The shock of it all had set in, and suddenly there was nowhere I’d rather be than where he wanted me -- home and licking my wounds, so to speak.
I grabbed my shoes and stepped back into the corridor, at the end of which the bouncer waited against the wall with his hands joined in front of him. Had he heard me screeching? I didn’t know what pissed me off more -- that he may have heard me getting spanked or that he may have just stood outside while his boss bent me over and smacked my ass.
I put my shoes back on and he pushed away from the wall, gesturing to an emergency exit nearby.
“I’ve got a cab waiting for you,” he said.
I kept my mouth shut. I got into the cab, wincing as I came down too hard on my ass, and my thoughts were such a mess that the driver had to tell me when we’d arrived at my doorstep.
Over the next few days, the space in my head went through a couple of stages.
First up was disbelief. When I woke up that next afternoon after barely a couple hours of sleep, the whole thing with Fitz seemed like a dream. I had never been in the basement of some club getting spanked by a gorgeous older man. I’d taken a line of shots in the VIP and things were fuzzy. It never happened.
When I sat up and I didn’t feel any sort of ache in my ass, I was convinced.
Then I went into the bathroom and, naked, got a good look at my backside.
Oh yeah. I’d been spanked. The mark on my cheeks had faded, but it was there.
The next stage that came was mortification. I’d been spanked. Not as a pre-cursor to getting off, but because I had been rotten to Fitz. I’d been a brat and I deserved it.
Then came the anger, and I gave serious thought to going back to the club in broad daylight and giving him hell.
Next came something I didn’t expect, hitting me the next night as I was getting dressed for a family dinner: obsession. Out of the shower, I had a look at my ass and even though the mark had gone, I suddenly felt the heat of his hand that had stayed with me for the rest of the night and kept me up.
I splayed my palm across my left cheek as he had done before he delivered the first blow, and then it occurred to me that I was getting aroused thinking about how I had been oblivious to his plans, how I was wet and squirming, while he stood over me knowing precisely the power he was about to unleash.
I grabbed a paperback from my nightstand and held it a moment, unsure of myself and the heaviness between my legs. I conjured Fitz to the forefront of my mind, standing before me, hands on hips, looking down on me with that smirk. I felt his fingers brush my shoulders as he pushed my hair from my neck after I’d made myself come for him.
I gave myself a smack with the book.
And another. And another. Again and again until the sting turned into an ache. I tossed the book aside and wriggled my fingers into my panties.
I circled my fat clit, then paused.
I didn’t want to get off now while thinking about Fitz’s rough treatment. It was too decadent to enjoy alone. I wanted Fitz there to see what he had done to me. I wanted to know if he’d just been making a dickish point, or if spanking me had done to him what it did to me.
My phone peeped to remind me that I only had a twenty minutes before I had to head to my folks place. I changed my panties, quickly did my make-up and got dressed, then called a cab.
In the backseat, I drew out my phone and brought up the web browser, but paused once I brought up the search engine. I didn’t even know Fitz’s first name, and I could barely remember his last name. I searched for Westwood and ended up on his LinkedIn profile.
I scrunched my nose. He didn’t look like a Scott, which to me always sounded like such a wholesome name. Fitzhugh sounded pretty stuffy. Fitz suited him. It was simple and straightforward, like an old-fashioned rascal whose name was whispered in dark corners.
Scott Fitzhugh, aka Fitz, aged -- holy shit -- fifty. One and a half times my age. He looked spectacular for a man of middle age. He owned not only Westwoods, but also Dark Star, Stripes, and The Ivy Tree. He was a member of the Henley Golf Club and played on the Western Regional Soccer Team.
A search of his name led me to his Facebook page. It was locked up and I wasn’t on Facebook. Too bad. It would probably reveal his relationship status, which I was most curious about. I went back to the search results and came across a few other items. Something about him suing the city ten years ago over a parking lot issue, and another about him getting a permit to gut the current location of Westwood.
Then there was a small profile in a local paper. I read through it, picking through the business talk and absorbing what was written about his personal life. Never married, though he had two sons from previous relationships, and was secretive about his personal life.
Nothing about spanking, obviously.
I dropped my phone into my purse and looked out the window. I was about three blocks from my old neighbourhood. I wondered how I might be able to broach the subject of Fitz with my Dad.
Hey, Dad, you know your golfing buddy, Scott Fitzhugh? Well he gave me a hard spanking last night and now I can’t stop thinking about it -- you know if he does this often?
I didn’t grow up on some sprawling country estate or a gated utopia, but the house and property was something to see. It had been built in the twenties and my mom had made it her life’s work to make sure it maintained that Jay Gatsby feel to it. When I moved out, she didn’t waste any time undoing a decade of teenage kitsch I had left behind, turning my bedroom into a lavishly decorated guest room and the rec-room where so many illicit moments of my youth had taken place became a game room for Dad.
It was Dad who greeted me with a befuddled look and clutching his iPad. For a guy who had invested so heavily in computers to make his fortune, he was hopeless when it came to something as simple as touching a screen.
“Pam’s kid’s put this game on here and now I can’t get rid of the bubbles that keep popping up on me.”
“Can I take my coat off first?” I said with a laugh, and took inventory of the other jackets hanging by the door.
My sister, Pam, was here, along with her husband and two kids. I hung my coat alongside my brother’s black leather trench and smiled. If anyone had the dish on the owner of the hottest club in the city, it would be my rock-star wannabe brother, James.
I managed to put it out of my mind through watching the kids tear apart the backyard before dinner, then the two-hour ordeal that was dinner with three generations. After the kids were dropped in front of the television to watch cartoons, I followed James outside and around the garage where he could smoke a cigarette without Mom glaring at him through the window.
“I got into some trouble last night,” I told him.
He raised his brows. James was only a year older than me and we could have been mistaken for twins, if he hadn’t died his hair blue and tattooed half his body. “That didn’t take long. You’ve been back how long?”
“I got caught with my fake ID at Westwood last night and got dragged down to face the owner.”
He whistled through his teeth, then took a drag. “That’s not good. Fitz is a hard-ass about that sort of thing. He going to tell Dad?”
“No, he just put me out,” I lied, and leaned back against the garage wall. “He’s hot.”
James groaned and blew a plume of smoke towards the sky. “For fuck’s sake, Stella. Tell me you didn’t screw him. We’re playing there next week and I don’t want to have to deal with your shit.”
“No, but I’m thinking about it.”
“What do you need some sugar daddy for?”
“I’m not looking for a sugar daddy,” I quipped. “It’s just … like I said, he’s hot.”
“I guess so. Not my type, but I can see how he might get a girl wet.”
“What do you know about him that I might not find out anywhere else?”
“He’s Dad’s age, for one,” he said, and when that got him a bored look he shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s Mr. Serious. I played at one of his other clubs once and he was all over us about not getting smashed before we went on stage.”
“I’m not asking about his business acumen. Give me something I might not find anywhere else.”
“I know; you want dirty details that I don’t have.”
“Liar. You know all the dirty details. Come on, tell me what you know.”
He finished off one cigarette, immediately lit another, then mirrored my pose against the garage door.
“He’s not your type.”
“Meaning, I hear he likes things intense. You remember Annette? The vocalist we had with us a few times? She had a thing with Fitz a couple of years back. Always had marks on her, so we got a little worried and asked if he was beating the shit out of her. She just laughed, then finally told us he liked to play around with ropes and cuffs and stuff.”
I turned my gaze overhead, but instead of seeing a sky full stars I saw Fitz’s smirk and felt his strong hands holding me in place.
“Maybe I’m into that sort of thing.”
“Stella, I don’t need to hear that shit.”
“Like you’re a perfect little darling.”
“So, what do you need from me? I know you’re telling me for a reason.”
I hadn’t started off with the plan to turn my brother into a co-conspirator, but the second he told me he’d played at Westwood I knew he’d figure into putting myself back in Fitz’s path.
I grinned at him in the semi-darkness. “Can you get me into Westwood?”
“Hell, no. I’m not screwing up my good thing working Westwood and Stripes because you’re looking to play with Fitz.”
“You won’t screw anything up. You know your way around. You go in and you let me through some service entrance. I’ll find Fitz on my own.”
“Or he’ll find you and ban my ass from the bar for life.”
“I’ll owe you.”
“You’re so into my debt already, you’ll have to leave me your false teeth in your will.”
“Come on, Jamie.” I was starting to feel a little desperate. It would be no effort for James to get into Westwood. If Fitz saw me like he did the last time, I’d be back in his office in no time. My scheme beat the hell out of joining Facebook and sending him a fucking friend request.
“I’ll give you my Rum Runner tickets in Detroit.”
“You don’t have Rum Runner tickets.”
“Yup. Bobby got them for me. I’ll give you the tickets, and the hotel is prepaid. All you gotta do is book your airfare.”
He hissed through his teeth. “Man, you really want that dick, don’t you?”
“So, when? I’m playing there Thursday night. When you get caught, I can act like you just dropped by to give me something and never noticed you stuck around.”
I wanted to go tonight, but I could wait a couple more days if I had to. It would give me a chance to talk myself out of it, which is what I’m sure Jamie was thinking.
Not a chance, I thought later when I was back in my apartment, sitting on the balcony with a beer leftover from my homecoming party. The longer I sat with it, the more I wanted another spanking from Fitz.
Jamie almost backed out. I was expecting him to turn pussy, so when he called me and said he’d changed his mind I threatened to tear up the Rum Runner tickets. That got him. He could handle not making a hot concert, but it would have killed him to know that there would be two empty seats and he had something to do with it.
In the end I hopped into the front seat of his car and waved the tickets in front of me. He pocketed them and spent the entire drive grumbling about how Fitz was going to beat his face in.
I slipped in with the equipment. I took a seat at the bar. I ordered a drink and sat sipping it as the place started to fill up. Jamie had just taken the stage when a hand plucked my second drink from my hands, and Fitz stood in front of me.
He gestured over my head. “Come over here. Now. Both of you.”
Westwood had two bartenders manning the fort, and both of them appeared before us.
“You card her?” he asked.
They both looked at me and then to one another, then looked back at Fitz, speechless.
“Did either one of you card her?” he grilled them. “No, you didn’t, because if you did she wouldn’t have had a drink in her hand when I walked up here. Go get Jeff to cover the bar, then get your asses to my office. And you --” he addressed me, “--you can go and tell your brother that this is the last time he gets on that stage.”
I really wasn’t expecting this. I was expecting him to be pissy with me, but I wasn’t expecting him to go completely thunderous like this on his own staff. This cat-and-mouse game had backfired in a big way.
I grabbed his arm as he turned around. “Would you calm down?”
“No, I will not fucking well calm down.” He turned to the bouncer. “I want her out. Put her in a cab and take the cost of the fare out of the band’s cut.”
I turned to the stage and caught James’s scowl. Yeah, he knew I’d fucked up, too.
“Look, this isn’t Jamie’s fault.” Still holding onto Fitz’s arm, I hopped down off the stool. “He thought I was taking off after I helped. I swear.”
Fitz shrugged out of my grip and thrust his face in mine. “You’re a shit liar, Stella, now get out.”
I didn’t have anything else. I had to do it. I leaned closer and said in his ear, “You want me to make a thing about what went down the other night? Because if you punish my brother for this, I’ll do it. Everyone will know.”
Fitz didn’t even flinch. He boxed me against the bar with both arms on either side of me. I flinched. Hell, I shrank about six inches as he glared at me. “You really want to push me?”
“I didn’t come here to drink,” I peeped. “That’s just Coke. Here, drink it if you don’t believe me.” I slid the drink towards him, then leaned close again. “I came here to talk to you.”
“We’ve got nothing to talk about.”
“You pulled down my panties and spanked me. I’m thinking we do have something to talk about.”
Though it was hard to hear, I felt the vibration as he growled. He straighted up and after staring at me with a furious but puzzled expression, he took my glass and raised it to his lips.
I shrugged. “See?”
He looked to the bartenders, then to the stage, and put the glass down hard. “You can wait for your brother in my office. You can say what you came to say, and then I don’t want to see you ever again. As for you two …” Facing the bartenders, he rolled his eyes in a sort of impatient but apologetic way. “Get back to work. I’ve still got a few things to say about this, but it can wait until I’ve got the whole staff in front of me tomorrow night.”
I went on Fitz’s heels into the belly of the beast once more, but like everything else that had happened in the last few minutes it wasn’t the sultry brimming over with sexual tension that I had anticipated. It was a march, and I had a time keeping up with Fitz’s brisk pace.
He held the door open for me until I passed into his office, then slammed it behind me.
“Sit wherever,” he barked, then strode past me. There was an open bottle of wine and a half-full glass next to it on the table. He sat in front of it, topped up his glass, and drank.
I took the chair this time and decided the best thing to do at the moment was to keep my mouth shut and just sit there in the charred remains of my misfire.
To my surprise, after a moment’s silence, Fitz stood up and collected another glass from the countertop. He placed it in front of me, poured, and said, “Yes, I am very aware that this makes me a hypocrite.”
I didn’t like wine, but with his offering I felt some of the angry tension deflate so I took it, sipped, and hid my distaste.
“Tell me about Europe,” he said as he resumed his seat.
“Tell me about Europe.”
“Because I’m too pissed to be reasonable at the moment. I need to settle down. Tell me about Europe.”
I didn’t know what to tell him. I suspected he wasn’t much interested in hearing about about the parties or the men, so as I took another awful sip of the wine I conjured the only other thing I could think of.
“I went to the Rijksmuseum every Saturday when I was Amsterdam.”
Fitz’s brows went up in clear surprise, and he chuckled. “All right. Tell me about the Rij -- the museum in Amsterdam.”
So I told him about the hours I spent going from one exhibit to the next, losing myself in images of classic mythology and developing a fascination with van Scorel’s Maria Magdalena. I told him about how I’d gotten a bad case of insomnia in London, so still dressed in my party dress I took a tour bus to Stonehenge. I told him about the Louvre, the Vatican, the Sigmund Freud museum, the archeological museum in Spain, and all the little small town heritage spots I’d driven out of my way to see. I told him about the lochs and the alps and village greens and everything in between.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for something who had a deep appreciation for culture,” he said. “I don’t mean to be insulting.”
“I doubt that,” I replied with a smirk, and settled back in the chair. “I do like history. I don’t know why. I think I get it from my mother. She’s mad about everything between the two wars -- you know, the flappers and the art and the music.”
“You’re headed to university at the end of summer, correct? Humanities, I assume.”
I shook my head. “No, business. I started off wanting to get an Arts degree, but Dad said he wouldn’t pay for me to spend four years on a degree I can’t use. He sent me to Europe instead. He said I could get all the culture I wanted by looking at it with my own two eyeballs.”
“Did it work?”
“I suppose it did.”
Something must have revealed itself in my voice. Fitz leaned forward and gave me a long stare. “You don’t want to go back to school.”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I wasn’t a great student to begin with, and I’m not keen on joining the family business. If I don’t, it will kill Dad. My sister decided her calling was to get married and have kids. My brother … has blue hair and plays in a band. So, I’m up.”
“What would you rather do?”
I laughed. “I hate that question. I don’t know. I just figured everything would fall into place. It’s boring, but it is what it is.”
“And that’s why your favorite pastime is getting into trouble where you shouldn’t?”
Spoke with that crooked smile and a hint of amusement in his eyes. The fury had passed, and I chanced a smile of my own. “Now that I’m good at.”
He said nothing for a moment. He just stared at me and I stared back, and after a moment he took a long drink and then topped off again.
“That you are,” he murmured as he poured.
He kept his eyes on the stream coming from the mouth of the bottle, save for the end when he shot me an unmistakably hot look.
“Are you going to get drunk?” I asked.
“I am not. I’m going to drink this one glass and while I do it, I’m going to give serious thought about what I’m going to do with you.”
It was hard not to get too excited about the weight of those words. I danced my fingers around the stem of the glass and, for the first time in my life, I found myself feeling shy in the presence of a man. I looked away.
“Was that a threat, upstairs?” he asked after a moment in that heavy silence. “About telling people what went on the last time you were in here?”
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I replied quickly. “It’s not like I come off like some innocent virgin in that story. I just wanted you to back off of Jamie. This really wasn’t his fault.”
Fitz leaned back and stared into his glass. I heard him draw a breath and he opened his mouth to speak, then close it up again.
“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” he said quietly after another attempt. “In hindsight, that wasn’t appropriate.”
I couldn’t help my laugh, which I tried to stifle with his severe look. “In hindsight, it wasn’t appropriate for me to start rubbing off in front of you.”
Fitz regarded me for a moment, and his smile twisted a little more. “You’re not really sorry.”
“Neither are you,” I countered, returning his grin.
“No, I’m not, but I still shouldn’t have done it -- especially since it’s what brought you back here. Isn’t it?”
The man was the master of loaded pauses. He was remarkably unreadable, alluring nonetheless, and I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to gauge me or just intimidate me, or something else altogether.
“You enjoyed it,” he said.
“Not at the time, but after …” Christ, I actually blushed. “After, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“You’ve never been spanked before.”
“Not like that.”
Fitz leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Not like what?”
I clammed up. Like what? I knew exactly like what, but I didn’t want to admit it to him. As it was, second thoughts had started to seed within me. As I was plotting my return to this room and Fitz’s orbit, it had always been with the expectation that it would be on equal footing.
Now, as his questioning seemed more akin to grilling, I felt a little small. Excited, but still small -- and compelled to answer truthfully rather than spin some half-truth.
“Not like I was being punished,” I admitted, and I found it hard to hold his gaze. I wanted to look away and be bashful.
“You were being punished. Nothing more, nothing less. I didn’t do it to get you off, and I didn’t do it to get off.”
But I could if I wanted to, seemed to be the unspoken end to that sentence.
“Still …” I murmured.
“And now you’ve come back thinking you’re going to get a glorious fuck out of me, that you’re entitled to it because you got wet over a red ass.”
“I didn’t say I was entitled to anything.”
“You being here, knowing that I’d be furious seeing you in my club again, tells me exactly how entitled you think you are.”
Sultry drawl or not, Fitz’s remark burrowed under my skin. I put the wine glass on the table and got up. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Now that I’m here, it’s obvious I’ve made a terrible mistake. I think I will take that taxi. Get fucked, Fitz”
He laughed. “That’s more like it. I wasn’t buying those coy eyes you were giving me earlier. You can’t pull off sweet and innocent like you think you can. That saucy mouth suits you better. Now, sit down.”
I kept walking for a few more steps, until the flint in his voice made it through the skin and to the bone, and then I turned around, arms crossed over my chest.
Fitz left his glass next to mine, then leaned back. “If you’re not going to sit, then you can bring your ass over here, to me.”
I sneered, but I couldn’t come up with a retort. My anger radiated out of me and heat pricked me everywhere.
I turned my head slightly towards the door, giving myself one last chance to just get out of here and chalk this up to a forgettable fuck-up, but I didn’t take it.
I took the command and walked back to stand in front of Fitz.
“Pull them down.”
“Just like that?” I croaked, suddenly without any spit.
“Just like that. Pull them down, and get over my lap.” When I didn’t move, he lifted a brow. “You went to a lot of effort to get here. You want to give it to me. You might as well let me have it.”
Excitement was sickly-sweet in my stomach and my arms and legs suddenly felt weak. My fingers trembled as I pulled up my skirt and pushed down my panties. I took a discreet breath through my nose as I draped myself across his lap.
Fitz rested his hand on my thigh, then reached over me for his glass. Neither of us said anything as he ran his warm, dry hand back and forth along my thigh, leisurely enjoying his drink and my bare flesh.
After a moment his hand stilled. “You know, there were other ways you could have gotten in touch with me without sneaking in here. Email works, you know. Telephones. Texts. Facebook. The list goes on.”
“You wouldn’t have answered any of those,” I said.
“You’re right. I wouldn’t have.”
He set his drink back down, then shifted beneath me. This wasn’t the most comfortable pose, on my hands and knees, and when he placed his other hand on my back I gratefully went down while my ass went up.
Fitz slid the hand on my thigh up and closed his fingers into the meat. “Open your legs. Show me your pussy again.”
He squeezed harder, and I shuffled my legs until I was open and exposed, then exposed even more as his fingers spread me open.
I scoffed. “I thought you didn’t fuck twenty.”
Finger went to the knuckle, merely probing, then withdrew. I said nothing as he pressed his fingertip against the tighter opening he found, and he chuckled once he penetrated me.
“I’m rethinking that stance. So, let’s tally things up, shall we? You recruited your brother to get you into a place you legally have no right being in. You disregarded the impact your presence would have on my business if you were found out. You disregarded my own personal welfare by putting my business in jeopardy. You just don’t fucking listen, Stella. You’re a brat. Not only are you a brat, but you like being a brat and you like the consequences they bring you.”
He stopped talking, and I got the sense that he was waiting for me to smart-ass him.
I didn’t disappoint. I squirmed a little on top of him and turned my head slightly. “You know, you sound like you’re mad, but that poke underneath me says otherwise.”
Then came the thunderous impact of his palm on my ass. I yelped and arched up, but like the last time he didn’t give me any sort of reprieve. He spanked me hard, again and again, I swear harder than before. I dug my nails into the sofa cushion and panted to draw a breath as the sting turned into a dull ache that grew.
Fitz stopped, hand back on my thigh, and leaned close to my head. “Are you ready to give me a genuine apology yet?”
I gritted my teeth and nodded. It hurt. Goddamn, it hurt. There were pins and needles around the point of impact, and where he had given it to me there was just pain.
“I don’t hear anything.”
I didn’t mean to giggle. It just came out. I was ready to give my best, contrite “I’m sorry” but the laugh just bubbled out.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, and started on the other cheek.
For some reason, I started counting in my head. Fifteen. I got fifteen smacks to the ass before he stopped.
“Want to try it again?”
Once more, only a bubble of laughter came out. It was ridiculous. There was nothing funny about this. Another five whacks and I’d be in agony, but at the same time I was hornier than I had been in a long time.
He started again on the right cheek, a little lower than previously, then paused and asked his question again.
Once more, I failed, and got the same on the left cheek.
“This is going to leave a hell of a mark if I keep it up,” he warned. He sounded so calm, but his cock jutted into my stomach and I couldn’t imagine he could get bigger or harder.
I bit my lip, and when he leaned down to get a look at my face I couldn’t keep in my smile.
This time when he spanked me, I cried out. I wanted him to stop and at the same time I didn’t want him to ever stop. I lost count of how many times he’d slapped his palm against my ass. Christ almighty, we must have been almost a hundred before tears stung my eyes and I tried to shake free.
“Stop! Stop -- I can’t take any more!” I shrieked and tried to get up, but he clamped his hand on my neck and held me down.
He returned his hand to the back of my thigh. “You know what I want to hear, Stella.”
Gritting my teeth, I deflated and pressed my cheek to the sofa cushion to gather my wits. “I’m sorry.”
Was that my voice? It sounded so tiny and insignificant -- and still not at all sorry.
And it began again. Five on one cheek, five on the other, and then he gave up.
“There. I’ve had enough, even if you haven’t.” He righted me so I sat up on my knees, hand on my burning rump.
“Now, what?” I asked, breathless.
He stood over me, his stare never leaving me as he drank down the last of his wine. His erection pointed towards me through his pants, and I didn’t know why he didn’t just turn me over and fuck me.
This whole thing seemed futile. At this rate, all I’d get was a red ass for my troubles.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. “I’m hungry, and there’s a pizza joint down the street that’s still open.”
“You … want to go for pizza?”
Fitz flashed that devastating smile at me. “I’m not one for no-strings-attached, and if I’m going to have a twenty-year old on my arm I at least want to know if I can stand her company for more than fifteen minutes, even if she does offer up her arse for a good spank.”
Truthfully, this wasn’t what I had in mind at all. I wanted to fuck Fitz, not date him.
“Nothing serious, so don’t look so stunned,” he assured me, laughing. “I like to keep things casual and let the cards fall where they might.”
Funny enough, my first thought was my father. It wasn’t that he’d murder me or come after Fitz with a shotgun or anything if he’d found out I’d fooled around with a man twice my age, but he’d never let me hear the end of it. Mom would be outraged and chalk it up to another of my shenanigans.
Everyone else … well, fuck ‘em.
“Sure, assuming I can walk.” I said, and got up on my wobbly legs. “This is all very odd. You spank me, but you won’t fuck me.”
“You might as well get used to it. While I haven’t decided on whether I’m going to fuck you, I think you could benefit from a few more evenings over my knee.”
Kinky, I supposed.