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“I don’t want risotto,” she whines, pushing her curls out of her face. “It’s heavy. And I have to fit into that Herrera dress for the Thompson Foundation Gala that I’ve already told you I don’t want to go to.”

“You’ll go,” I state in an even tone. “You’ll wear the dress I bought for you, and you’ll be on my arm.”

I glance over my shoulder. She is wearing a sweatshirt with the neck cut out, leaving it falling off her shoulder and revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. From here, with her legs curling around the rung of her chair, she appears bare beneath it. Even unpolished, she is breathtaking. Maybe even more so than how the world usually gets to see her.

“You sound like you’re being ungrateful for everything I’m giving you,” I push back. As I learn more intimate details of her each day we are together, I know that her complaints and defiance are nothing more than calculated provocation. She’s testing her boundaries, but she is also fishing for a reaction. If our brief marriage has taught her anything so far, it’s that her rebellion is met with consequence—and that consequence is a form of attention she secretly craves. She is riling me up because she loves the outcome.

I finish the risotto, stirring in the fresh Parmesan before scooping it onto a plate and topping it with seared scallops. After carrying it to the table in the breakfast nook, I set it before her with a quiet click. “Bon appétit.”

She looks at the perfectly plated dish and then up at me, her eyes flashing with a familiar fire. “I told you, I’m not eating that.” She shoves the plate away, skidding it across the well-polished table toward me.

I ease it back in front of her. “Are you sure your ass can handle the consequences of this little tantrum you seem so intent on throwing tonight?”

Her lips purse—a tell-tale sign of her wavering resolve—as her throat bobs with a swallow. For a brief moment, I think she’s going to concede, but her stubborn pride wins. She pushes the plate away again, harder, and the fork clatters onto the table.

Without a word, I lift the plate and carry it into the kitchen, setting it roughly onto the tiled counter. The plate wobbles, and a scallop falls from it, leaving a smear of creamy sauce as it rolls over a few tiles before coming to a stop. I turn to the utensil holder by the stove and wrap my hand around the smooth, worn handle of a wooden spoon. Rolling it between my fingers, I feel its weight and potential.

With a sudden, sharp understanding of how her bratting will be playing out, Cora’s eyes blow wide when she sees the spoon in my hand as I walk toward the breakfast nook. “You aren’t going to hit me with tha⁠—”

“Up,” I bark, cutting her off. “And bend over the table.”

Her body frozen with disbelief, she hesitates to follow my command. It’s all the time I need to close the remaining distance between us. Firmly wrapping my hand around her upper arm, I pull her from the safety of her chair. She stumbles, and I use her momentum to bend her over the polished mahogany. With my other hand, I yank the hem of her short denim skirt up over her hips, exposing the thin scrap of black lace she calls panties.

“Roman!” she gasps, her voice a mixture of outrage and anticipation.

“This insolence needs to stop,” I insist, my hand pressing firmly into the small of her back to keep her flush against the rough edge of the table. “I’ve been patient, but it seems you need a firmer hand.” I hook my fingers into the waistband of her panties and pull. The delicate fabric tears with a satisfying rip, and I toss the now-ruined garment to the floor. “And based on what I see,” I murmur, my gaze falling on the glistening, swollen flesh of her pussy, “you can’t wait to learn your lesson.”

I drag a single finger lightly through the evidence of her desire, and she whimpers as she tries to push herself up from the table. With my palm flat between her shoulder blades, I roughly shove her body against the wood and pin her back in place. “You’re going to count them for me,” I command, my words breathy and laced with lust. “All ten.” After raising the wooden spoon, I bring it down on the pale curve of her right cheek. It lands with a dull, thuddy smack, and she yelps. It’s a beautifully sharp, surprised cry of pain. “Count!”

Her body trembling against the table, she shakily whispers, “One.”

I strike again, the harder hit landing square on her left cheek. A red, oval-shaped print immediately begins to bloom on her skin.

“Two,” she musters, her voice a little stronger.

“Three.”

Her thighs trembling slightly, she whimpers, “Four.”

“Five.”

I continue to mark her methodically. Each one a little harder than the last, the thuddy strikes echoing through the silent room until her entire ass is a beautiful, blushing red.

“Your sweet little pussy is dripping down your thighs,” I growl. “She’s so fucking eager to have what you keep denying yourself.” Cora bucks in protest when I ease a finger into her tight heat, teasing her with a moment of fullness before pulling it out and swinging the spoon again.

“Six.”

The sharpness of its sting is immediately followed by the phantom pleasure of my fingers.

“Seven.”

Her hips flex, seeking more of my touch.

“Eight.”

A beautiful sob, a sound of pure, unadulterated need, escapes from between her lips. My painfully hard cock throbs, straining against the zipper of my pants, a wet spot of precum already darkening the fabric.

“Nine! Please!” she breathlessly screams. Her voice is ragged, and her knuckles are white where she tightly grips the edge of the table.