Anthony still unknowingly held my heart in his hands, but I would never encroach on my father’s territory, even after death. It would be wrong, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. It wasn’t about the age to me, or that I should be calling Anthony Uncle Anthony rather than picturing myself having sex with him.
It was the fact that my father expected Anthony to watch over me… not fuck me.
But I could no more give up our once a month luncheons post Father’s death than I could give up chocolate chip ice cream. He fascinated me, always had, and I needed my fix. Anthony occasionally called to ask me out to dinner, or to accompany him to a social function, but as hard as it was, I always declined. I didn’t know how far I could be trusted with him, and I refused to do anything that might dishonor my father’s memory. I was quite sure that being seen around town with your father’s dear friend fell well into impropriety, so I always turned him down. Lunch was safe… or at least I kept telling myself that.
Just like every other monthly meal, we sat and talked about the weather, what we had been doing for the past month, and other inconsequential topics. Although not terribly exciting, it was comfortable and always made me feel a sense of calm.
Toward the end of the meal, he threw his napkin on his plate. “Next time, we’re going someplace where the food is decent.”
“This is decent,” I peeped indignantly.
That eyebrow shot up as he pinned me with a glance. “It’s barely edible. Next month we’re going to Luciano’s.”
I pursed my lips. “The pretentious Italian restaurant? I can’t afford it.”
Another near smile. “But I can, and I’m taking you. For dinner. And I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer. I work too damn hard for my money to be eating in dives like this. And there are far too many good restaurants in New Orleans to be wasting our time here.”
I held my breath, my eyes skittering away from his to the neutral territory of the scratched Formica tabletop. I knew—just from being around him—that Anthony was a very dominant man. Certainly not abusively so—well, at least not toward women—in any way, but there was never any question as to who was in charge in his relationship with me. Anthony never hesitated to lay down the law in more ways than one.
Anthony LaSalla had spanked me.
God, even thinking about that statement made me want to blush and giggle like an adolescent schoolgirl.
But it was a day I would never forget.
Never.
I remember that I had come fervently knocking on Anthony’s door, looking for a refuge after having had a bit of a fender bender while trying to parallel park downtown. I’d barely been able to get out much of anything beyond, “Oh, man, am I in trouble! You have to help me keep it from Father. Please.”
That Lincoln Town Car was as close to a baby as Father had now that I was grown, and he had saved nearly a year for it. I had taken it because my own car was in the shop.
Without telling my father.
And now it was in need of repair—preferably before he missed it.
After Anthony gave me a once-over to make sure I wasn’t hurt, his look of concern had turned to one of anger.
Coming to him for refuge was a grave mistake. My father’s wrath would have been nothing in comparison to Anthony’s.
I barely made it through the door before he had my pants and panties down. He put his foot up on the seat of a tapestried chair he had in the foyer and hauled me over his knee. I was hanging there, over his leg. My feet didn’t touch the floor, and neither could my hands. I worried the whole time I was going to overbalance and end up falling on my head, but I should have known better. I wasn’t going anywhere until he let me go, which was when my butt was about the color of the vermillion paint I had used earlier for a sunset picture. He stopped—eventually—and tugged me into the living room, and I could see my butt in the tri-fold mirror over a narrow table before he dropped onto the couch, pulled me over his lap, and started up again. He spanked me so hard and long. I think the only reason he stopped was because his hand started to hurt. I had to then go home and deal with the lecture from my father with a sore behind. I never told him or anyone that I had been disciplined by Anthony LaSalla.
An incident that had only fueled my fantasies and obsession with the man.
I was shifting as if I could feel the spanking even now, though this had happened years ago.