Forbidden

“Raychel? Raychel, are you all right?” Anthony waved his hand in front of my face, trying to get me to come back to him. It wasn’t like me to space out like that, at least not unless I was painting.

“I’m here, I’m here.” I wrestled my mind away from the vivid memories of the man who was currently sitting less than two feet away from me and when he had spanked my bare bottom. I crossed my legs delicately under the table, but it was really just to see if I could alleviate the ache those thoughts created in several places at once—in my heart, in my mind, and in much more earthy areas on my person.

But clenching my legs together only served to help me realize my trip down memory lane had caused my pussy to leak, soaking my panties.

“You were miles away. What were you thinking?” Anthony asked.

I racked my brain to come up with an answer that was not provocative or related in any way to what I’d been rolling around in my mind. “That I can’t afford Luciano’s. I’ll meet you here again next month.”

I started to scoot across the maroon vinyl bench, but his hand over mine stopped me dead. His touch felt as if he were an ER doctor laying a live paddle on my hand. Anthony had never been a touchy person, so I was surprised by the warmth of his fingertips on my skin.

“You’re not listening to me.” That voice was like a swatch of rich velvet being pulled over a chunk of rough granite. It was soft, but it commanded obedience. My nipples loved it, begging with tight, aching peaks for just a little of his attention. “Next month, on the fifth, at Luciano’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

I only got the ‘n’ sound of ‘no’ out before he cut in.

“Not one word.”

I glared at him, but continued to get out of the booth, clutching the check for my lunch like a banner to ward him off. I didn’t want to take his charity in any way. Not companionship-wise, and certainly not money-wise. That’s one of the reasons I always insisted we eat here—I knew I could afford it, once a month.

We both paid, then he walked me out to my junker of a car, shaking his head as he always did at its condition. “This thing should be condemned.”

“Ya know, you need to get a new line to insult my car with.”

“There’s certainly a lot to work with.”

“Well, if you hired me as a cigar girl or something at your swanky club, then maybe I could buy a nicer vehicle. Not my fault you won’t let me work there.”

I knew by bringing up Black Secrets again, he would drop the subject of money since clearly the thought of me walking through his establishment’s doors was a no go.

I slid behind the wheel and rolled down the window when he crouched beside it. “Remember. The fifth of next month. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“Uh huh. You’re too busy for that. You’ll have something else to do that night. Like smoking cigars and drinking expensive bourbon.”

Anthony frowned, and it was a truly terrible thing. “If I have anything important come up, I’ll cancel it,” he growled. “Drive carefully.”

That was it. He’d ordered, and I knew from past experiences with him that I’d better obey.

Or else.

Would he spank me again if I said no to dinner?

I shivered at the thought, then pulled out into traffic and tried—unsuccessfully—to forget about Anthony LaSalla.

Chapter Two

Raychel

I pulled into my parking space late that same night, hearing the crackling crunch of the frozen rain beneath the tires of the car. Damn, I hated winter—hail was uncommon for my city, but this winter had been unusually wetter and colder than normal for NOLA. I gathered up the few small groceries in their useless thin plastic bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, then climbed the three flights of outside stairs to the only apartment in the French Quarter that I not only adored, but one that I—the brilliant starving artist—could afford. At this point, I was much more starving than brilliant. I’d already realized the cold hard truth about being an artist was that you had to die in order to be appreciated, and despite the fact that I was largely alone in this world with only a handful of friends, I wasn’t in any particular hurry to leave it.

I plunked my keys, purse, and the groceries—which consisted more of ramen soup than anything else—on the countertop of my galley kitchen, then flipped on the ceiling light that illuminated my small apartment, and all of my ‘children.’

That was how I thought of my paintings—all of them. They were like the children I’d never had. Probably never would have. I stuck to those things I loved—the city of New Orleans, the buildings, the people—as much as possible, but occasionally indulged in a portrait or two. The canvases were lined up around the perimeter of the cramped apartment, like soldiers leaning against a wall for a moment of R and R in the midst of battle.