Rossi looked at him critically. “Fine, but don’t muss her up too much and she needs to be out on the floor by the time the doors open at 7pm.”
“Of course,” he said somberly, but I could sense his amusement as he gently led me into the small kitchenette off the gallery rooms.
He placed me in a chair and set about making me a cup of tea. I didn’t particularly like tea but ever since we’d found out about the pregnancy, Sinclair was a stickler for sticking to health guidelines, which, unfortunately, included banning me from coffee.
Only when the kettle was set on the stove to boil did he come and kneel between my legs, both his strong hands braced on my thighs so that his face hovered just in front of my own. I stared into his cobalt blue eyes, searching for a safe place to anchor myself amid the turmoil in my own mind. He let me stare at him for a long, silent minute while his thumbs rubbed gently across my thighs.
“You are scared,” he began, his voice as cool and refreshing as spring water. “I understand that this is a nerve wracking endeavor, your first show in New York City. I do not take that lightly, as a man who has patroned the arts in this ruthless city for years. But you must also understand that as a man who is your partner, who has grown as you’ve grown and witnessed you blossom with confidence, that I am nothing but excited for you tonight. This evening the world will be introduced to my siren, a woman of skill, sensuality and a keen observation of the dark side of the human psyche. They will find your artwork stirring and visually appealing, as those are facts, my love, and not a matter of opinion. So, whatever nerves you are feeling, feel them, but know that when this is all over and you are lying in our bed tonight, you will do so with pride and satisfaction at a job well done, d’accord?”
His powerful words lingered on the air and I greedily sucked them in through my mouth to better absorb their potency. The trust and respect of a man as powerful as Sinclair was not something that could ever be taken for granted. If he believed in me, it was impossible not to believe in myself.
“I love you so much,” I breathed, weak with relief.
He smiled as I pressed my forehead to his shoulder. “And I you, toujours.”
“Do you think she’ll come tonight?” I asked after a moment.
He didn’t ask who I spoke of. “I can’t say. She was always prideful and given that she is in the collection, I’d imagine she would at least come to see that you didn’t do her a disservice.”
“Do you think I did?” Worry had been eating away at the lining of my stomach since I had completed the last piece of the collection, the one of my sister wrapped in melting ice sculptures.
“Enough worry,” he said, shifting away from me to look into my face. His eyes were cold and shuttered and I knew even before he spoke that his next words would be an order. “Get over my knee.”
Instantly my core clenched. I hesitated briefly before settling over his lap, not because I didn’t want the spanking but because I had been secretly craving such a release all day. There was nothing that could eradicate my demons like the glowing space I occupied when I submitted to my Frenchman.
“I can feel your eagerness,” Sinclair murmured darkly as he caressed my bottom through the silky material of my skirt. “This is not a punishment, siren, so I do want you to enjoy it. This is about release.”
I let out a shaky sigh when he pulled up my dress and hoisted the edges of my half-bottom panties so that they slid deeply between the crease of my ass. I squirmed against the pressure it put on my already sensitive clit but he stilled me with a firm hand to my lower back.
“Still, I expect you to thank me for each one,” he said, in that unflappable voice.
I shivered in anticipation, moaning when his hand smacked against my skin.
“Thank you, sir.”
He rubbed the sting hard with his fingers. “Mmm, you are welcome, siren.”
The next hits came one after the other, alternating between one cheek and the other. Each stinging pain lulled me further into subspace. I could hear my breath panting loudly in the space, punctuated only by the harsh slap of his palm against my flesh.
Somehow, I remembered to thank him each time.
Eventually, his hand moved from my lower back to the sopping wet place between my legs. His fingers slid through my folds, barely dipping inside me. I wriggled and moaned, wordlessly begging him to finish me off.