Chapter 67
She dragged her eyes away from him and swept them over the room, taking in everyone staring back at her then eyeballed Grace and took herself to the bar, her hips swinging with every step, the curve of them, and the curve between them and her waist, highlighted by the bloody dress. He was going to burn the dress when he got the chance. His own eyes tore across the room, took in the men drooling over her – as if they'd have noticed her if she'd walked in on any other day – glaring at them all. He hadn't worn a coat – it was June after all, there was no need – and he regretted it, it would have given him something to cover her up with, to stop the looks she was getting.
He could smell her as she stood near him at the bar. Warm and powdery and spicy. He wondered if she could smell him too, or if the scent of tobacco was ten-a-penny for every man in Small Heath.
Grace seemed to come to herself and cleared her throat before asking, "What'll it be then?"
"I'm celebrating Grace – what d'you recommend?"
"Champagne's good, but I don't think they serve it here," he interjected, glaring at her.
She raised an eyebrow then looked back to Grace, a questioning look on her face.
"Rosie – this is Mr Thomas Shelby, Mr Shelby this is Rosie Jackson," Grace said.
"I thought-" one of the boys behind her started to say, but the redhead shot him a look and he shut his mouth, though confusion stayed on his face as he looked between them.
"The famous Tommy Shelby, eh? Not sure you're quite as, erm…" she flicked her eyes up and down him as if taking him in whilst searching for the word, "Intimidating in the flesh as your reputation would suggest. You're shorter than I thought you'd be, for a start."
He glared at her. He was the shortest between him, John and Arthur – it had never particularly bothered him but her pointing it out suddenly made him uneasy of it. No that he'd let her know that.
"Oh, I can be intimidating," he said, straightening up and closing the gap between them, "Anyone with any sense knows not to cross me. Pleased to meet you."
He held out his hand and she took it, both of them squeezing hard, her annoyance as his strength overtook hers flashing in her eyes.
"Oh, I believe the pleasure's all mine," she replied sarcastically, then snatched her hand out of his as soon as he released the pressure and turned back to the bar, "Grace – something to celebrate? That's us all leaving our school days behind."
"That why you're so dressed up?" Grace replied with a smile.
"Do you like it? I was saving it for something special – then I figured what in hell special is going to happen to me around here, so why not just wear it, eh?"
"Oh something fucking special'll happen to you turning up here wearing a dress like that," Tommy growled.
Grace looked to him, but Rosie simply looked at the boys she'd come in with as if she hadn't heard him and asked, "Right, lads, what are you all having?"
"Mild."
"Mild."
"M & B."
"Bitter."
"Mild."
Rosie looked forward and rolled her amber eyes, muttering, "Very fucking special," before drawing them over the various bottles behind the bar.
"If they don't serve champagne, what would you recommend in its place Mr Shelby?" she asked, her voice flippant and back to normal volume – actually, back to slightly louder than normal volume.
"I'd recommend you get your arse on home," he told her, speaking low, making sure Grace was occupied with pulling the pints, "That's what I'd fucking recommend."
"No," she said, slowly, shaking her head – making a show as if she was considering it, "No, that doesn't particularly suit my tastes. I don't know if you remember finishing school Mr Shelby – I'm aware you're, you know, old. But it's quite a liberating feeling, being finished - being out from under someone's control. Being allowed to choose what you want to do with no rules or consequences. No. I came out to have fun, so that's what I intend to do."
He clenched his jaw and didn't answer, aware that Grace was at a standstill again as she collected money from the boys.
"You made your mind up Rosie?" one of the boys asked her.
"No – I like gin, but that's for normal nights, isn't it? Tonight, I feel like – having fun. Misbehaving," she answered, her pretty little mouth curling up in a smirk and her eyes flashing back to him, "Your reputation suggests you misbehave quite a bit Mr Shelby. What is it you drink?"
He swept his eyes up and down her, then gave a curt nod and clicked his tongue before answering, "I drink whisky, but it's a man's drink. Not for little girls who've only just left school and who think putting on a ridiculous dress makes them an adult."
Her lips went thin for a moment before she relaxed her face, turned to Grace and said, "Whisky for me please."
He slammed his own empty glass on the counter, "Top mine up Grace – and mix hers with water, so she doesn't make a fucking mess."
"Don't bother mixing mine with water Grace. And I want Scotch, not Irish. I hear Scotch is better."
"She'll have Irish and she'll mix it with water."
Grace looked between them both and Rosie glared at him.
"I'm doing you a fucking favour," he told her, "Your head'll thank me in the morning."
"Presumptuous of you to think I'll remember you in the morning."
"Rosie," Grace hissed.
"What?"
Grace motioned her down the bar with her head – though he could still hear her as they bent their heads together and Grace warned her, her tone worried and her eyes flicking up to him, "You can't – you shouldn't speak to a Peaky Blinder like that. You live around here, you should know that. I don't know why he's taking an interest in you, but you'd best be careful."
She snorted, "Alright Grace, I'll play nicely."
Grace nodded, then poured her a whisky – with water – before coming back up the bar and pouring his – neat, as always – into his glass.
He didn't know what to do. If he did as he wanted to – tossed her over his shoulder and took her home this minute – it would tell Grace that they were connected. And for all she had said she wasn't doing the undercover work anymore, she seemed to be trying to keep her cover. He considered disappearing into the snug, making a comment about wanting peace from the racket caused by school kids – something to belittle and annoy her. Old and short, she'd just bloody well called him. She'd pay for that, he'd make sure of it. But the truth was, he wanted to keep a fucking eye on her if she was going to be out here dressed like that and drinking fucking whisky. And yet staying where he could keep an eye on her, without being able to grab her – it was fucking torturous, especially when she looked like that.
"Rosie – c'mon, there's a table up there," one of the boys said.
She put the glass she'd been sipping from down on the bar and glanced over her shoulder at the table they were indicating.
"Alright," she nodded her approval, and picked the thing back up. It had a red lipstick mark on the rim. Lipstick. Fucking lipstick.
He stared resolutely at his own glass, clenching his jaw, imagining it smeared with her lipstick. Imagining a scenario where they'd come to The Garrison together, where she'd swiped his drink rather than wait for her own to be topped up, where he could smack her arse for it and make a show of wiping the glass, telling her that lipstick was better on her face than his – only for her to deny her belief of that fact and kiss him to check.
Not this scenario, where she was sitting at a table full of boys and pretending she didn't know him.
She seemed to have decided to act upon Grace's warning and for an hour or so he didn't see or hear her – he noticed the boys appearing up one at a time to refresh their drinks, but whenever he took out his pocket watch and used it to watch her reflection in the glass, he could see he was still nursing the bloody whisky. Probably didn't much like it, he thought with satisfaction. Good. That would teach her about drinks for misbehaving with.
He let Grace continue to talk to him as she washed glasses and served customers, pretended to be interested in what she had to say.
"You seem tense, Mr Shelby," she commented at one point.
He made a non-committal noise in his throat – "Hmm."
Fucking hmm. That was her he'd picked that up from. Fucking hmm-ing at people when she didn't want to give her opinion.
"Do you know Rosie Jackson?" she asked, her voice careful.
He looked at her and made his face look slightly confused – as if he'd forgotten what her name was.
Grace seemed to relax slightly then she said, "The girl, you made me mix water in with her whisky."
"Oh, her," he said, nodding as if the memory had come back to him, "Never met her before but that lot were in my sister's class."
"So you see your sister in her and want to make sure she doesn't get too drunk?" Grace responded with that same smile she'd given him when she'd told him she wanted more money for the races. She definitely thought that smile was cute.
He made another non-committal, "Hmm."
"That's sweet of you," she told him, still smiling.
He picked up his glass, not answering. Truth was, with Ada pregnant and now bloody well married, supposedly, he'd give his right fucking arm for his main issues with Ada being that she was here and getting herself pissed behind his back right now. He thought about the cigarettes she had stashed in her room; the ones she was probably convinced he didn't know about. He wished those cigarettes had been the limit of what she'd been doing to pretend she was a grown up.
A greasy looking, unwashed character appeared at the bar and said something to Grace.
"I, err, I don't think she's finished her drink," Grace told him, her eyes moving to where Rosie sat.
"She's been drinking it all night, I've been waiting to buy her one and I'm not waiting anymore."
Grace mixed up a whisky with water and passed it to the man, a slight concern evident on her face. Tommy's heart was in his mouth as the man turned and walked in the direction of their table. What the fuck was he going to do?
He turned nonchalantly and stood, leaning against the bar and smoking, watching as the man pushed the drink across the table to her, leaning over one of the boys to do so. Tommy couldn't see the arsehole's face, but he could imagine his tongue lolling out of his mouth like an overheated dog at a fire.
She gave the man a tight smile and nodded, her eyes flicking in his direction. Good. She didn't want the attention. She wanted to do this on her terms. She wanted to annoy him, she knew exactly what she was doing. But she didn't want the wider theatre. It was all for him and she only cared about him.
He raised an eyebrow at her and blew smoke. She'd made her bed. And part of that was going to be that if she turned up dressed like that she was going to attract more attention than just his. That was what he was telling her as he turned back to the bar.
Still, his hackles raised when he saw another man appear at the bar and nod in her direction to Grace, also making his way to her table when armed with a whisky and water cocktail.
"Grace," Tommy said, his voice tight, stubbing out his cigarette so he didn't need to look up as he said it, "Don't let anyone else buy her a drink."
"Yes Mr Shelby," she nodded.
It was strange, he reckoned, how much he wanted to hear that phrase from the redhead. How he craved her to nod and demurely do as he bid her. How much he wanted her to make that choice of agreeing to do as he bid her. It made him feel warm inside, and semi-erect, to think of her obeying him. And yet, when he got that from another woman – without the fucking hassle of having to wrestle her into it – it didn't even register. It did nothing for him, other than make him sure of his authority, the way he'd be made sure of it by a man obeying him.
It wasn't the phrase itself. Or the obedience. It was the combination of them with her – with red hair, a suitably fiery temper, a sharp tongue and pretty, warm, glittering amber eyes.
He turned back and saw the two men hanging over the table – and even the boys she was with were starting to look uncomfortable.
One of them, to his credit, seemed to be trying to speak over them, but Tommy watched as the first man shoved a rough hand into the boy's face to silence him, then moved his hand to Rosie's shoulder, tracing down the exposed skin…
He saw red and pulled his gun without a second thought, stopping just in time to point it to the ceiling as he fired.
He stayed silent as the eyes in the place turned to him then, lowering his arm he announced, "The Garrison's closed. Get on home."
There was a scattering as chairs scraped back and people went – some of the boys from her table included. But Rosie didn't move – and though the man had drawn his hand back when the gun had fired, he didn't move either, though the other man, thankfully, did.
Tommy met the stayer's eyes, gave him a minute and then moved forwards – swiftly and silently, like a panther.
"I said get on home."
"What's it to you?" the man questioned.
Tommy raised the gun again, pointing it at the man's head, "Do you really want to know the answer?"
The man's hands went up immediately and he began to back off towards the door.
"Get home. And stay away from my sister's classmates. By order of the Peaky Blinders."
The man shot one last look down at Rosie – or, more accurately, at Rosie's breasts, exposed as they were by the dress – but when Tommy cocked the gun he turned and ran.
Thomas didn't take his eyes off the door as he addressed the table, "I thought I said get on home."
"Rosie?" one of the boy's questioned her, looking for her input.
"You go on," she told him, "I'm not done here."
He turned and leant across the table, nose to nose with her, "You're done here."
She raised an eyebrow and looked ready to launch a verbal attack, but –
"Look, mate, she's had a bit too much to drink, she's just high on being finished with school, she doesn't mean anything – it's just the way she speaks to everyone…" one of the boys who had stayed started trying to placate him, obviously concerned for Rosie's welfare.
Tommy slowly turned his head, "I am not your fucking mate, pal. Now, get on home – and don't make me say it again."
The boys threw her some questioning looks, but her eyes stayed trained on him, her chin jutting up.
Only one didn't move.
"Rosie?" he asked again.
It was the one who had had the man's hand in his face. Tommy wondered if the kid fancied himself in love with her.
"Go home Peter."
"You can't walk yourself, it's not safe. Come with me?"
"She won't be by herself. And I've got a gun," Tommy told him, told Peter, "That'll do to protect her from any more attention."
"R-rosie?" Peter looked to her again – his voice shook and he knew enough about the Peaky Blinders to be suitably scared, but he wasn't going without a fight.
"Tommy will make sure I'm alright," she told Peter, her eyes still meeting his, not looking at her mate as she addressed him.
"You sure?" he pressed.
She nodded but didn't speak.
"I'll give you a minute to say your fucking goodbyes," Tommy growled, straightening up and going back to the bar, sweeping his cigarettes and lighter into his pocket.
He was about to make his way to the door when Grace called to him from where she'd stood and collected glasses.
"Tommy – please don't let her walk home alone, the look in that man's eyes…" Grace said, trailing off.
For all he had no time for the barmaid, and for all he was sure she was exactly who he thought she was – in the employ of Inspector Campbell – he was, he couldn't help but admit, glad that she seemed to genuinely be looking out for Rosie.
"She a friend of yours?" he asked, feigning his lack of knowledge.
Grace shrugged, "I only know her from serving her in here, but she seems nice. And he doesn't. And you said you saw your sister in her."
"I didn't say that," Tommy corrected her.
The truth was he was going to the door to check that the man wasn't hanging around outside, hoping to get to Rosie when he wasn't there to stop him. But Grace didn't know that. And she didn't know, obviously, what he'd just said about how she wouldn't be walking home on her own.
"Please Tommy?" Grace pushed.
He sighed, making it seem like a hardship as he acquiesced with a gruff, "Alright."
"Thank you," she said, sounding relieved.
He supposed it did no harm to let her think he was doing it for her.
"I'm going to make sure those men have gone. Don't let her out of here. And Grace, don't ever serve her anything other than gin in the future. Or fucking cordial. And take the same instructions for my fucking sister if she ever turns up in here."
Grace smiled and nodded.
He pushed out through the door. No sign of anyone hanging about. The gun shot and the outpouring from the pub had probably been enough to clear the area. He glanced at his watch – it wasn't too far off closing time anyway. If they hadn't just gone home, the drinkers had gone to another pub – or found a ditch to lie down in. Friday or Saturday night might have been different – but he was thankful now that she'd pulled her stunt on a Wednesday.
The Garrison door banged behind him.
"Mr Shelby?"
He glanced at the speaker – at the boy, Peter.
"Mr Shelby, you'll make sure she's safe?"
He gave a brief nod, still not speaking.
"I heard she lives with you but she won't say herself."
He didn't respond at all – verbally or non-verbally.
"Rosie's been a good friend to me, Mr Shelby."
Tommy blinked slowly, wondering what the boy's point was. His tone was respectful – and clearly nervous. But he had something he wanted to say.
"Mr Shelby – she deserves someone to be kind to her."
"Peter?"
"Yessir?"
"You're the one she took the caning for? The ball that smashed the window?"
"Yes."
Tommy nodded, rolled a cigarette over his lips and lit it. He wondered if she'd ever called in the favour she'd told Ada that taking that caning meant Peter owed her. Wondered if she'd ever needed to, or if Peter would feel indebted to her for life – enough that she'd get her favour tenfold.
"This isn't a kind world, Peter."
"That's true," the boy agreed, "But she's kind. And good. For all she wouldn't thank anyone for saying it."
Tommy nodded, "Get on home. She's under my protection. I won't say I'm kind or good. But I'll make sure she's safe and that'll have to be good enough," he told the boy, then turned on his heel and went back into the pub – not waiting for any reaction.
She was standing at the bar, still clutching her whisky and water, finally finishing it – had only taken her the best part of about three hours. Maybe she'd deliberately been keeping herself sober.
"Right – Grace says I've to walk you home before you get yourself into any more trouble attracting bloody attention," he barked at her across the empty pub.
"I am perfectly capable of getting home myself Mr Shelby," she told him – lofty and imperious once again, perhaps even more so than before, now that she had only the audience member she wanted, and Grace, and not the supporting cast.
"Mhmm," he said, blowing smoke at her as he looked her up and down.
The only thing he'd say about the bloody dress was that for all it was close cut and showed off her waist and hips, it did sweet fuck all for her arse. Seemed to flatten it, actually. Not to his taste. He preferred those men's pyjamas of hers that clung tightly across it – enough space in them that the roundness was showcased without being contorted by the fabric, not so much space in them that the shape was lost to material.
"Mhmm," she impersonated him, rolling her eyes.
He snorted, "Where is home for you then, Miss Jackson?"
She blinked at him for a minute, caught off guard by the question. He flicked his eyebrows at her.
"Grace – do you know her address?" he asked the barmaid, who shook her head.
"Nowhere you're going Mr Shelby," Rosie told him, an amused look that he did not care for appearing on her face, realising they were both still playing the game.
"Either you tell me your address or I'll take you home myself and put you in my sister's bed for the night."
"That would hardly be appropriate," she sniffed, rolling her eyes.
"Then you'll just need to give me directions," he told her, coming towards her, "Either way, I'm taking you fucking somewhere."
As he pronounced it, he grabbed her and hoisted her over his shoulder, his left hand firmly wrapped around the tops of her thighs.
"Put me down! Right now! This bloody instant!" she shrieked, the bottom of her legs kicking at him, her imperiousness gone.
"No, I don't think I will," he said, mimicking the way she'd told him she didn't think she'd take her arse home earlier when he'd suggested it, taking a leisurely drag on his cigarette then turning her to the bar, "Put that glass down so Grace can finish off for the night. Grace – Harry says anything you say I closed the place early and he can talk to me about it, alright?"
"Yes Mr Shelby," the Irish voice answered.
"I can walk fine, put me down!"
"Has she put that glass down Grace? I didn't hear it go down?"
"I'll put this glass down over your head Thomas Shelby!"
He jerked around suddenly and the glass fell from her hand as he'd expected it to, smashing on the floor.
"Apologise to Grace for making a mess."
"I didn't make the fucking mess – you made me drop the glass."
"If you'd put it down when I told you, it wouldn't have been in your hand to drop."
"If you had put me down when I told you, I wouldn't have been hanging like a sack of fucking potatoes over your shoulder to drop the glass when you moved!"
He eyeballed Grace, "I hope you appreciate this."
"Appreciate this?" Rosie shrieked.
"Not you," he snapped, "Grace – appreciates what I'm going through here because she's making me take you home safely instead of leaving you to get there alone. Grace, I'll be wanting a pound back from our agreed rate, you hear?"
Grace gave a small laugh. As long as she thought he was only doing this for her, that was what mattered.
"Right, I'm off – with this ungrateful sack of potatoes. On her behalf, I apologise for the glass – since she doesn't have any fucking manners of her own," he told Grace, stubbing out his cigarette and leaving it, turning and walking out the door before the blonde had a chance to answer.
Over his shoulder Rosie kicked and squirmed, but he waited until they were out of Garrison Lane altogether before he took advantage of her position and smacked her upturned backside – hard.
"I hope you're pleased with yourself," he snapped.
"Why wouldn't I be? I was having a great night until you got involved," she snarled back.
"Looked that way – greasy men hanging all over you."
"Maybe it was nice to get some kind of attention!"
He smacked her again for the stupidity of her comment.
"And you're not allowed to do that – that was part of your fucking deal!"
"Oh fuck the deal – you and I both know you're headed home to be turned over my knee for a damn good spanking, because you very fucking clearly need one."
"Oh! So the deal gets put on when you fancy and taken off when you fancy and I get no input – is that how this is going to fucking work?"
"No fucking input? You've done nothing since we struck the deal but make me try and go back on it."
She kicked her legs and battered his back with her fists in frustration for a second, which he responded to by stopping walking and landing another round of hard swats on her.
"Tommy! Thomas! Stop it! And why am I supposedly in need of a spanking anyway? What am I supposed to have done?"
"You know what you've done!"
"What? Wear a dress and go on a night out with my friends – every woman up and down the fucking country is doing that Thomas."
He smacked her hard again whilst he thought on how to answer it. What exactly had riled him so much? It had been her smirk when she'd met his eyes in the first place. It had been the dress. It had been drawing everyone's attention to her wearing a dress like that on a fucking Wednesday night at The Garrison.
"Not every woman up and down the country is doing it in a dress like that in a place like this," he told her, "You put yourself in danger tonight by going around looking like that."
"What – so I'm responsible for putting myself in danger rather than the men who might pose that danger being responsible for their actions?"
"I told you – I need a sense of self-preservation from you Rosie, I can't offer you a fucking life where things will always be safe. I need you to have the fucking brains to conduct yourself in a way that doesn't invite danger. And that might not be fair, but that's fucking life so grow up and get on with it, sweetheart."
"Admit it! You're jealous Thomas! That's all this is about."
"No, what I've just said stands," he snarled, landing another smack, "And apart from the danger you're referring to – the men who'll want their filthy hands all over you - you forget that you have done undercover work for me in there. That undercover work can only be done successfully if you can blend in and go unnoticed. You blew that right out the fucking water, didn't you? And one of your little pals nearly told Grace that we knew each other when you first came in – don't think I didn't notice it when you shut him up at the bar. How were you going to fucking explain that? Tip her off that your questions might have been on my behalf – tip her off that we know who she is? Did you think about any of it or did you just think that you wanted the deal off and you thought you'd turn up looking like that to bait me into it? Well, either way, you've got what you fucking wanted my girl so you'll take what's coming to you!"
She shrieked as he landed another hard smack and kicked her legs, "Stop it!"
"There's plenty more coming your way."
They were in Watery Lane now, nearly at number six.
"Thomas, put me down!"
"I'll be putting you down very shortly. All the way down across my knee and you'll be staying there for some fucking time," he assured her, landing another smack and pulling his key out of the pocket of his suit jacket.
She continued to batter him with her fists as he took them through the house, walking through the empty kitchen and down into the shop, going into his office and twirling round the chair from in front of his desk so that there was plenty of space around them, depositing her on her feet next to him, sitting down and then tugging her so she tumbled over his lap, having not even quite found her balance from being put on her feet in the first place.
"Right," he told her, adjusting her position so she was further over and her arse was better raised, "You are going to learn to behave."
He ignored the growling response he got and started spanking her methodically – going side to side on her upturned rear, enjoying the way her hips shifted and her legs kicked from the get go – finding it much more preferable to the stoic way she'd lain for her first spanking.
"You are going to learn to speak to me in a respectful way."
"Respect is fucking earned," she snapped, then squealed as he landed some hard smacks to her thighs in response to her statement.
"You are going to learn to conduct yourself in a way that I find appropriate."
"Let me up! Right now! Ooh!" she half growled, half squealed, "Thomas! Stop it! I said stop it!"
"I've no intentions of letting you up or stopping it – you haven't let up on me for a minute since we made that deal. This is one big fucking tantrum you've been throwing and I'm not having it, Rosalie, do you hear me?"
"The whole deal is a big tantrum on your part Thomas! Ouch!"
She squirmed as he picked up his tempo, his hand smacking hard and fast – changing from his side to side approach to a rhythm of finding a spot and smacking it a few times before moving to another.
"The deal was made so I could keep myself in control and do fucking right by you," he growled, "The deal was about me denying myself so I could treat you properly. This is all about you not wanting to deny yourself. You're acting like a child and from here on out Rosie, if you act like a child I'll turn you over my knee like a child, you understand?"
"I hate you!"
"Good for you!"
"Tommy – let me up!"
"No."
"I don't want this spanking!"
"Well, for a fucking start – your actions say different. You've done nothing but ask for a spanking since the minute that deal was struck," he told her, his hand switching back to going side to side, "And for another thing Rosie – it's irrelevant to me whether you want a spanking or not. Sometimes you might admit you need one and I'll be very proud of you in that instance. Sometimes you might want one to get that nice heat we discussed that you can get from a spanking. But most of the time, Rosie, you'll find yourself turned up for a spanking because I fucking say so – because I've decided you've earned yourself one and because you answer to me. Do you hear me?"
She didn't answer in response, just squealed and drummed her feet in the air, her heels flying up as her knees bent. He pushed them down and moved her further over, so her arse was propped up over his left knee and he could clamp his right leg over hers, stop the kicking.
His hand was sore but he was nowhere near done. The frustration of the last few weeks coursed through him – he spanked her hard for every bit of cheek she'd given him, for every look he'd endured from his family when she'd cheeked him in front of them, for the broken teacup, for her temper, for the fact Polly and her had cooked this up between them with their goose and gander nonsense. His hand landed again and again, punishing her for all of it – and she squealed and cried out and wriggled as it did, a satisfying reaction to a satisfying action.
He had never spanked with so much raw anger in him – sure Ada and Finn had angered him plenty in their time – but not like this. He supposed it was the heady mix of anger at her actions and jealousy of the way everyone else had looked at her tonight that was coming out in him. She was his, as he was hers. She answered to him. She'd do well to remember it, and if she didn't – he'd remind her.
"Are you learning your lesson yet?" he demanded, shifting his legs a little so he could move to her thighs again.
She didn't answer promptly enough and he let his hand fly, landing a pattern of smacks in a ring.
"Ouch! Tommy! Yes! I'm learning my lesson! I've learned my lesson!"
"I hope you have," he snapped, "But this one is going to fucking stick, Rosie, you hear me? You will never carry on like this again – d'you understand?"
"Yes Tommy! I understand! Let me up!"
He snorted, "I don't think so my love, you're going to learn this particular lesson on your bare arse before I'll even think about letting you up."
He tightened his left hand's grip on her waist as his right moved to grab the hem of the dress, beginning to tug it up.
"Tommy! Tommy no!" she shrieked, kicking her feet and rolling her hips with a renewed vigour, "Tommy – please! I've learned my lesson, I'll be good! I won't provoke you again! I promise!"
"Too late for that sweetheart," he said, his eyes on the back of her head, which she'd thrown back to squeal up at him, her back arched, her forearms on the floor to support her. It really was a beautiful position to see the ornery little wench in, and that arched back was going to lead nicely to the presentation of…
His eyes moved back to the area he expected to enjoy seeing presented to him now that he'd pulled the dress to her waist.
"What in holy fuck is this?" he demanded, his eyebrows meeting in confusion at what he was looking at.
He'd never expected her to be the type of woman who wore over the top underwear with frills and lace and god only knew what else. He'd expected pretty standard plain knickers – and he figured he probably preferred them anyway, there wasn't much need for anything else when you had an arse like hers. But it seemed suddenly obvious that it wasn't that the dress had been simply unflattering to her backside.
"It's a girdle Tommy," she snapped, dropping her head with a groan, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
She very obviously hadn't bargained on him seeing her bloody girdle.
"What in holy fuck are you wearing a girdle for?" he demanded, "Since when do you wear a fucking girdle?"
Her voice went very small, "I just – Grace is very slim Tommy," she said, her voice slow and quiet, shame seeming to drip off every word as she admitted it - her words falling more rapidly as she went on, "And she's beautiful and you're taking her to the races and I know you say it's just business but it's hard when I look at her and look at myself and she's so slim and elegant and tall and I'm so short and fat and my hair's wild and I can't be bothered doing make up every day and I have no fucking clue why you bother with me. But you did. And then you decided you don't want to even touch me and I don't – it was like I had you and then you left and then you were giving her more money for her dress and I know who you are and I know what your business is, but when I think about you and her together, I don't know Tom, I just…"
She trailed off and he put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back and off his lap. She ended up kneeling in front of him, her eyes big and watery – though no tears had fallen yet – her hands going to her backside.
He stood up and took a few paces away from her, rubbing his hand agitatedly over the bridge of his nose, over his eyes, through his hair.
"Rosie – I can't keep doing this. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do to make you believe how fucking beautiful you are," he told her – turning to look at her as he spoke, his voice slightly desperate, "I walk into my fucking kitchen and see you covered in fucking flour and – I don't know – cooking dust and it takes my fucking breath away. And you're not fucking fat, you're padded where a woman should be padded in my fucking opinion and I don't fucking care for that fucking thing," he gestured at the girdle, "I even thought in The Garrison tonight, despite how fucking angry you'd made me turning up there like that – in that dress – even with my mind going fucking mad at you, I thought that your arse looked weirdly flat and not right because I am used to that beautiful arse you've got on you being all round and inviting when I look at it. And all that shit - it doesn't even fucking matter Rosie – you're beautiful and I'm not not wanting to touch you - that's just a fucking ridiculous thing to say – I'm fucking aching to touch you every minute of every bloody day, actually. I am not fucking touching you to protect you. I am not fucking touching you for the same fucking reason that it wouldn't actually matter if you weighed five hundred tonnes or if you were caught up in an explosion and half your fucking face melted off or if you woke up tomorrow and that good, padded arse you've got on you had shrunk away to nothing. I am not fucking touching you because I love you – because I want you to achieve what you want to achieve in life and not be fucking hindered by me putting babies into you too early and fucking up your chances at that, like Freddie's done to Ada. I honest to god don't have a fucking clue what I can say to you to make you hear me Rosie – but I need you to fucking hear me because I can't do this where I'm trying to push on with the business – for you, Rosie. For the life I want us to have, together. For the life I want our babies to have once you've done what you want to, and I can get on with putting them into you like I want to do. Like I'm fucking desperate to do because I see you with Lily and I think about what a good mother you'll be to my kids all the fuckin time! I can't be trying to achieve what I want to achieve, for us, if I'm having to worry that you're going to turn up and cause a scene because you don't feel assured that I am yours – which I am. Which I have been, for a long fucking time. Since before you came to live here if the fucking truth be told. I only want you, Rosie. I've told you that and I will keep telling you that – but I don't know what the point is if you won't listen to me. I need you to hear me, Rosie – I need you to understand what I'm telling you."
He held his arms out wide, his palms out. He didn't know what else to say, what else he could do.
They stared at each other for a moment or two in silence – the tears had started to leak over her full eyes at some point during his speech - and, to his surprise, he found it was him who couldn't bear the quiet.
"Rosie – do you hear me? Do you understand me? Am I getting through your thick fucking skull because if I'm not I need you to tell me what I can do that will get in there?"
"You love me," she said, her eyes wide, her voice breathy.
"What?"
"You said you love me."
He frowned, "Of course I fucking love you."
"Don't just say of course I fucking love you!" she shouted, her voice breaking into a half cry as she did, "You can't just tell me you love me then act like it's nothing!"
"Oh Jesus fucking Christ!" he shouted, realising what she was saying, "But – but of course I fucking love you. I call you my love!"
"You call everyone love!"
"I don't think I do – but regardless, I call you my love and Lily is my little love."
"Oh! So, I'm supposed to know, from that, that you love me?" she demanded.
"Yes."
"Well that's just," she spluttered in annoyance before settling for saying, "That's just fucking stupid Thomas!"
"Are you calling me fucking stupid?"
"Yes!"
"Rosie – everyone knows I fucking love you. Even Lily knows, she asked me in London. She thought it was good, in that simple little way of hers. Fuck, even Finn probably fucking knows. Katie's probably fucking figured it out."
"Yeah, well, I think it might be quite good too. But I still think it's fucking stupid that you expected me to figure it out when you never fucking told me."
"I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap."
"Tommy?"
"What?"
"I love you too."
He looked at her, kneeling on the floor, her face a mixture of softness and annoyance and tears and a slight smile on her pretty little mouth, her dress and hair dishevelled from her recent upending across his lap, her hands clutching her sore backside.
She loved him.
She fucking loved him.
Not so long ago, he wouldn't have believed anyone could love him. The war had taken whatever good had been in him for a while. Then Lily had come along and she had loved him in her simple little way – and something inside of him had thawed a bit at that. He knew, since they had come to stay, that parts of him he thought the guns had shot forever had come back to life. He knew he was difficult, sure. And moody. And demanding. But, he realised, whilst he hadn't presumed to think she'd love him – he saw the truth of what she said in her eyes and he could accept it. He could believe that she loved him. That she. Loved. Him.
He went to her and pulled her up to her feet and to him, kissing her hard, kicking the chair aside so he could walk her to the desk.
She moaned a little as he sat her on the edge of it and he smiled at the sound.
"Sore arse my love?" he asked in amongst kisses.
"Yes, you did a fucking number on me," she responded, tilting her neck for him to trail his mouth down it.
"You deserved it."
"You did it because you were jealous."
"You did it to make me jealous."
She groaned in agreement as his lips went over the top of the swell of her breast – of what was available to him from the cut of the dress.
He kissed back up the other side and tried to push her back and position himself between her legs as was their custom – only to find the fucking girdle wouldn't let her spread herself for him. He groaned against her mouth.
"I love you, I hate that fucking girdle."
"I love you too. And I'm not a fan of it either," she answered, kissing his jawline, which he clenched in pleasure against her touch, practically purring as her hands found those spots behind his ears.
"Good, that'll teach you to wear ridiculous fucking shit like that."
"Always teaching me something aren't you."
"You've got a lot to learn," he told her, tugging at her hair, his mouth on hers, breaking apart to tell her, "But the most important fucking lesson, my love, is that you are my love. That I love you."
"Hmm, yes sir, I'll do my best to remember that one," she replied, smiling as she pressed her lips back to his.
He let his hand dip below the cut of the dress as they kissed, squeezing at her breast, eliciting a moan into his mouth from her. Encouraged, he flicked her nipple – which was already erect – and lifted it out of the casing, doing the same on the other breast and then breaking back from her mouth to take in the sight of both her beautiful breasts, spilling out of her dress, filling his hands as he squeezed them, rolling his thumbs over her nipples – the dusky brownish pink of them standing out against her pale skin.
She was looking down at them too and looked up to meet his eyes with a slight nervousness, that need to approval that she sometimes seemed to seek from him.
"I know I go on about your arse darling, and it is a wonder of the world, but these breasts are pretty fucking spectacular too," he told her, grinning and cupping one hand around the back of her neck as he kissed her again, the other still squeezing her chest.
She moaned and squirmed and he chuckled.
"You want to spread those pretty legs for me?"
She nodded.
"Good girl."
She let out a moan.
"You like being my good girl?"
"Yes sir."
It was his turn to give a throaty grunt in response to the words.
"Alright, let's get this fucking thing off," he murmured, kneeling down in front of her, looking up at her as he ran his hands under her dress, stroking what was exposed of her legs, watching her chest hitch as her breathing went deeper the higher his hands travelled.
He ran his hand over her mound and she let out a little moan and jerked, seemingly involuntarily, even as he stroked it through the material.
"Such a responsive little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, stopping and tracing his knuckles up and down the area.
She whined and he laughed, "Soon, darling," he promised, "Soon I'll spread your legs and touch you there."
"Now, Tommy," she gasped.
"So eager. So impatient. We might need to work on that."
She shook her head and bucked her hips at him and he moved his hands upwards, finding the top of the girdle and tugging – hard.
To no fucking avail.
He yanked at it again, frowned up at her and demanded, "Is there a fucking knack to this?"
"No it pulls on and off. But it's fucking tight," she replied, unnecessarily adding the last detail, "Polly had to help me get it on, it wasn't a fucking dignified process let me tell you."
He thought about Polly sitting so smugly in the kitchen. He would have made a plan to get Pol for her part in this, but he couldn't in all honesty regret where it had brought them.
He let go and lifted the dress up, sticking his head under to get a look at the damn thing.
It was fucking useless. No amount of tugging was budging. Women were clearly supposed to put the thing on then fucking die in it.
"Just cut it off Tommy," she whined when he eventually sat back on his knees, enraged at being defeated by women's underwear.
He looked up at her flushed face, her pretty little lips swollen from the kissing, his rage disappearing as he found himself calmed simply by the sight of her.
"You're so beautiful my love, especially when you're needy like this," he told her, standing up to catch those swollen lips in his, nibbling on them.
"I'm always fucking needy like this – it's why your shitty deal has been such a fucking problem for the last fortnight."
He smiled and ground his crotch into her – basking in the high pitched little squeaks it wrought from her.
"Should I cut off your girdle sweetheart?"
"Yes Tommy, get it off me."
"Why?"
"Because it's in the way."
"In the way of what darling?"
"In the way of you touching me."
"And you want to be touched, don't you?"
"Yes Tommy – please," she moaned.
"Such a sweet little thing when you're needy, maybe I'll keep you like this all the time."
"Tommy!"
He spun her around and pushed her down so she was bent over the desk, then began to spank her – more lightly than he had been doing before.
"Spoiled little thing, to be protesting, aren't you? Do you need to be spanked again so soon to make you behave?"
She moaned and arched her back, sticking her arse out for him - or as out as it could be when encased in the offensive girdle.
"Naughty girl," he scolded, smirking, "Do you enjoy having a smacked backside sweetheart?"
"Yes," she groaned, "As long as it's you whose made it that way."
"It'll only ever be me," he growled, smacking her slightly harder.
"Yes sir," she agreed, gasping a little at the harder swats.
"Good girl."
He smacked her a few more times, then pulled her up, still facing away from him, still against the desk so he could press his erect dick right up against her arse. She wriggled back against him.
"You're going to wear that girdle all night," he told her, kissing her neck.
"Tommy!" she moaned, "No! Take it off me!"
"Oh yes, you're going to wear it and you're going to be left feeling needy and wanting and you're going to learn that when you're a good girl and you behave you'll get rewarded and when you're a naughty girl, you'll be punished. You understand?"
"I understand – but please? I've already been spanked Tommy?"
"You were supposed to get spanked on your bare arse for your little stunt," he told her, "So since I couldn't get to it to punish it, I won't be getting to it to pleasure it tonight either."
She let out a frustrated little mewing noise.
"Listen to me my love," he told her, softening his voice a little, "I'm going to need to work this out – how we do this, alright? The deal obviously didn't work. But I meant what I said – I love you and I do want you to get to do everything you want before we settle down and make babies, alright? But if I get you naked right now I can't promise I'd control myself. And I am going to control myself, I am going to do right by you – whilst trying to figure out how to pay homage to your body along the way, alright?"
"Yes Tommy," she whispered, nodding.
"I know it's not what you want to hear. But let me think on it and I promise I'll touch you – soon. Alright? You have my word."
"Thank you."
He kissed her neck.
"Alright, it's getting late – let's get to bed."
He turned her around and kissed her, lifting her dress to tuck her chest safely back away inside it before he took her hand in his and led her up the stairs.
She seemed slightly surprised when he opened his bedroom door and tugged her through it behind him.
"In here?"
"Lily and Finn are staying with Polly, why not?"
She smiled and kissed him.
"Besides," he replied, grasping at the dress and pulling it up and over her head, finding she was wearing nothing other than the girdle underneath it, "If you don't sleep in with me, how can I make sure you don't touch yourself? You're still being punished, you know."
"And is part of that that I'm to be cold?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.
He laughed and kissed her forehead, kicking off his own shoes and beginning to take off his own clothes until he was down to his shorts.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand again and pulling her over to the bed, pushing her in ahead of him, lying down beside her and slinging an arm over her tiny waist, "I'll keep you warm."
I'm SO pleased we're finally here! I know I keep saying it but I never envisioned when I planned this story out that it would take this many words and chapters to get us here. The ending of the last chapter and this chapter have been in my head for what feels like forever and I'm so glad they're out in the world - though weirdly very nervous to hit publish on this one as it's been living in my head for so long that it feels a little strange to think of anyone else knowing about it. Anyway, you do know about it now and I very much hope you enjoyed reading it. Thank you, as always, for doing so xx