Welcome To Corbin's Bend

by Thianna D

  "Do you live around here?" she asked, trailing behind him.

  "I have a unit about a mile away. I happened to be passing by, and I saw you wrestling with the boxes."

  Curbside, he swept his gaze over the tiny moving trailer hitched to her subcompact car. "When will the rest of your things arrive?" he asked.

  "This is it," she said. Everything she had left fit into the smallest trailer the rental company had with space to spare.

  "You travel light," he commented.

  Not by choice. She made a noncommittal noise and veered away from a painful topic. "And what brought you to Corbin's Bend?"

  Duh. Why did anyone—other than her, of course—move here? Because they sought an open spanking lifestyle.

  Harris cocked his head and those killer dimples creased his cheeks. "Would you believe a good business opportunity?"

  Her turn to arch her eyebrows with skepticism.

  The vibration of his chuckle did funny things to her tummy. "I had money to invest, and the opportunity to buy the Wash and Go came available. I support the community standards, believe in the principles of domestic discipline."

  There. He'd laid it all out, but Abby couldn't resist yanking his chain. She cocked her head. "So you're a man who likes to be spanked?"

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Oh sweetheart. I like a woman with a sense of humor."

  His amused rumble sent shivers up her spine, and her stomach fluttered at the casual endearment. But she chided herself for her reaction—and for flirting in the first place. She'd come to Corbin's Bend to lick her wounds—not start something with a sexy spanko car wash owner.

  Harris grabbed a box and nodded toward the others. "Pile a couple more on top," he directed, and assumed control of the unloading. Abby hesitated. She wasn't his woman to be taken in hand. Not by any definition.

  "Be a good girl." Brown eyes crinkled with amusement as if he knew her thoughts.

  Abby plunked a box atop the one he held a little harder than necessary, then added a third. She grabbed a box herself and followed him up the stairs. "Stack them against the wall over there." She pointed to an open space next to an antique buffet in the living room. The items he carried belonged in her bedroom, but she and he alone in a room with a bed? Not going to happen. Of course, nothing would happen, but the contemplation of being alone with this stranger in an intimate personal space made her stomach squiggly.

  She hadn't even seen her room yet. Her aunt had said she could have the one at the end of the hall.

  It was a testament to how little she had left—or his strength and ability to carry multiple boxes at once—that they unloaded the trailer in minutes. When only the pile of clothing and shoes in her car's backseat remained, she thanked him for his efforts, but put her foot down and made it plain she would need no further assistance from him.

  "Then I'll be on my way," he said. He tipped an imaginary hat, and she got the impression he was laughing at her. "I'll see you soon, Abby Delaney."

  Without him, it took Abby twice as long to carry in her clothing as it had taken him to unload the trailer. Midway through, her legs ached from climbing the stairs, and she wondered if she'd been hasty in dismissing him.

  Or not.

  She needed to be strong and stand on her own feet.

  Opposite her aunt's, her room, though small, charmed her with its filmy curtains framing the window, and a beautiful full size antique sleigh bed readied with fresh sheets. Lace edged the pillowcases. Rather than a nightstand, a small dresser served as the bedside table.

  Abby located the box with her quilt sewn by her grandmother, unpacked it and draped it over the bed. She hung up her clothing in the tall armoire and put away what she could in the nightstand.

  From outside, a door slammed and her aunt's excited voice called out. "Abby, honey? Are you here?"

  Abby dashed down the hall. "Aunt Quincy!" she exclaimed seconds before she was enveloped into a tight sandalwood and lavender scented embrace. Then her aunt thrust her away. "Let me look at you." Hawk-like eyes scanned Abby's face, swept over her from head to toe. "You're too thin. You haven't been eating."

  Abby lifted one shoulder. "I'm okay." But her appetite had vanished under stress. Some days she forgot to eat at all. But she smiled as she assessed her aunt's appearance. A purple crinkled broomstick skirt swirled over rounded hips to flick at the tops of lace-up Victorian boots. An emerald tunic top overlaid by a black crocheted vest completed the bohemian style so much a part of her aunt's personality. "You haven't changed a bit. You look great," Abby said.

  Her aunt laughed and patted her hips. "I'm not wanting for something to eat, anyway."

  She squeezed Abby in another hug. "I'm so glad you're here. It's been ages since I've seen you."

  Abby twisted her mouth with regret. Aunt Quincy and Uncle Joe had been fixtures during her childhood, much like Grammy, and she'd shuttled between their homes to spend large chunks of summer vacation. "I should have come sooner."

  "You've had a lot on your plate, I understand," Aunt Quincy said. "I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you. I'd planned to be, but the estate auction lasted longer than expected."

  "Did you get something good?"

  Her aunt's face lit up. "Oh boy, did I!" She chortled. "It isn't often I encounter a stash of vintage spanking implements. People were yucking it up and making lots of jokes, but nobody bid. I got them for the minimum. A steal. I paid for them, but have to go back tomorrow with the van to pick them up. The shop will be closed on Sunday. Maybe you'll come for a ride? It's about a half hour drive. Afterwards, I can give you a quick tour and show you what's changed around Corbin's Bend since the last time you were here."

  "I'd love to," Abby said. Growing up, she had had no idea her paternal great aunt and uncle practiced domestic discipline until five years ago when they shocked the family by moving to Corbin's Bend, a housing co-op located northwest of Denver, Colorado. A group of spankos from New York had founded and built the community from the ground up. Aunt Quincy and Uncle Joe had lived in a large unit off Spanking Loop, the main thoroughfare. Abby had been the only one to visit them there, but she hadn't been back since before her divorce from Dale.

  Two years ago, Uncle Joe had died of a cerebral hemorrhage. Aunt Quincy had taken some time to mourn, and then six months ago, had pursued her lifelong dream and opened up Auntie Q's Antiques, and moved from the large house to the unit above the shop.

  At sixty-three years young, Aunt Quincy had become a businesswoman. "I'm so proud of you," Abby said, and hugged her aunt.

  "I'm proud of you too, honey. You've grown into a lovely, young woman."

  "Thank you," Abby said, although she didn't feel young or lovely. She felt ancient, jaded.

  Her aunt planted her hands on her hips and assessed the stack of boxes. "I should have been here to help you unload."

  Abby tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. "Uh, I had help. Harris Montgomery happened by and carried in most of the boxes."

  "You met Harris?" Her aunt clapped her hands. "Wonderful. He'll be joining us for dinner Tuesday."

  Abby stifled a groan. "No." She shook her finger at her aunt. "Stop right there."

  Her aunt spread her hands. "Stop what?" Her feigned confusion didn't fool Abby one bit. Quincy Lauder lived to fix people up, her zeal fed by an uncommon success at matchmaking and a refusal to take no for answer. When it came to meddling, she rolled over opposition like a benevolent tank. But Abby had spotted the matchmaking machinery approaching from a long way off and had plenty of time to leap out of the way.

  "You have good intentions, but it's too soon for me to date."

  "Your divorce has been final for a year. It's time you started living again."

  "I am living. Dating, however, is another matter."

  "You have to admit Harris is cute."

  Cute? Puppies and kittens were cute. Harris was a rakish hunk of masculinity. But if she admitted that to her aunt, she would pounce like a predatory cat on a lame g
azelle. Abby wouldn't have a chance. "He was all right." Suspicious now, she narrowed her eyes. "You didn't ask Harris to drop by here, did you?"

  "No, but it would have been a good idea."

  Abby scrutinized her aunt for signs of subterfuge. Quincy Lauder didn't hesitate to bend the truth a little if she could arrange a love connection. But her denial appeared to be sincere. Abby sighed. If only she'd been capable of reading Dale as easily as she could read her aunt. But by the time she'd figured out his lies, it had been too late.

  "Come." Her aunt beckoned. "Let me show you the shop, and then I'll help you unpack."

  Chapter 2

  Oblivious to his presence, Abby focused on hanging spanking implements in an old armoire, giving Harris an opportunity to savor a momentary fantasy of applying a paddle or hairbrush to her rounded ass. A fantasy that wouldn't be indulged.

  Still, he could tease her. Anticipating her reaction, his mouth twitched with humor as he said, "Can I give you a hand?"

  She spun around, her horrified gaze shooting from the tawse in her fist to his face, and a tide of pink washed over her from the neck up. As a professional poker player, he'd developed a knack for reading people. Though she'd been married, she'd radioed innocence and domesticity loud and clear. Which made his future course of action crystal.

  Stay away.

  Under duress and before he'd met Abby and discovered she was as vanilla as store bought ice cream, he'd accepted Mrs. Lauder's invitation for a home-cooked meal. Quincy Lauder had righteously earned her title as the Matchmaker of Corbin's Bend, but she'd been off her game by trying to fix him up with her great niece.

  Passing through town, he'd seen Abby wrestling with unwieldy boxes. The gentleman in him stopped to help, and the letch to check out the goods.

  After meeting her, he should have devised an excuse and dodged tomorrow's dinner. Abby was too innocent. Too dangerous to his self-control. The tawse in her dainty hands put ideas in his head he had no business having about her.

  Lower your panties, Abigail.

  He blocked the fantasy and focused on the here and now. On her voice.

  "I think I can handle it on my own," she said tartly. The skittish way she couldn't maintain his gaze gave him reason enough to walk. Abby was a white picket fence kind of girl, and he was a spank 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. When he gazed at the horizon, he did not see marriage in his future. Ever.

  For some reason, Quincy Lauder thought he would be good for her niece. He doubted their suitability for each other, but he could not deny the attraction—it had struck him the first moment he'd caught sight of her wiggling denim-clad behind, the riot of dark brown hair tumbling in ringlets below her shoulders, her full bow-like mouth, and her wide hazel eyes. Unlike most brunettes, her skin glowed as pale as a natural redhead's.

  He'd bet his bottom dollar her bottom would blush with just a few spanks.

  But he'd never find out. He had no intention of spanking or even dating Abby Delaney. He would follow through with the dinner meet-and-greet, then he'd prudently go his way and leave Abby to hers.

  "I understood you were going to live with your aunt, I didn't realize you would be working with her too," he said to make conversation.

  Abby hung the tawse on a hook. Her fingers lingered on the leather, trailed off it with the merest caress most people wouldn't have noticed. But in poker, one played one's opponents as much as the cards. He narrowed his eyes at the small tell.

  He surveyed the blush on her cheeks. Not all embarrassment.

  Interesting.

  He redacted his initial opinion of her as vanilla as she continued to arrange implements. He could tell right away which ones she liked by the tiny caress she gave them. She was partial to leather, he noted. Paddles, crops, floggers, even a man's belt.

  An image of her cinched into a corset and platform pumps tipped over his lap flooded his mind. She'd be wearing a tiny lacy thong, which he'd tug down…

  He motioned with a sweep of his hand at the implements. "I had no idea Auntie Q's carried these types of items." He'd always pictured the shop cluttered with ornate fussy furniture a man his size wouldn't dare put his weight on, lacy doilies no one used anymore, and lots of tchotchke dust collectors. Had he known of the other items, he might have visited much sooner.

  "Aunt Quincy just acquired them. They're new. Well, not new, but vintage. Some are even antique."

  He ran his hand over a wooden paddle, wondering how much of the smoothness came from sanding, and how much from years of application to someone's bottom. If paddles could talk… He looked at Abby. "What's the difference between vintage and antique?"

  "To a purist and the U.S. Customs office that set the definition, an antique is at least 100 years old," she explained. "Vintage refers to items of a certain era." She extracted a hair brush from a cardboard box. She turned it over in her hands, and he could see an indentation worn in the sides of the handle, where it had been held, rubbed over the years by someone's thumb. "This brush appears to be 150 years old. It's antique." She set it down and moved to a nearby alcove and picked up a silvery mirror with a radiating pattern on the back. "This is art deco, 1920s. Not a hundred years old yet, so many people would consider it vintage rather than antique.

  "And it can depend on the item in question. For instance, a Ford Model T from the 1925 assembly line would be considered antique by most people as would a radio from the 1930s." Her eyes glowed.

  "You love these things." He glanced around the shop. Previously, he had considered antiques to be old stuff. Junk.

  "I always have. There's such history in these items. They came from an era when possessions were valued instead of disposed of. When quality and not quantity mattered."

  She pointed to a black rotary dial telephone. "How many decades did people use that same style telephone? Now we upgrade our cells every couple of years. When Aunt Quincy invited me to work here, I jumped at the chance." Her eyes sparkled with the gleam of a true aficionado. "What brings you into the store today?"

  Impulse. He'd driven by, thought of her and decided to check out the shop. "I've never been in Auntie's Qs before. On the chance you might be here, I decided to check how you were settling in."

  "Oh." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm all unpacked. I didn't have much to put away."

  "I would have thought someone who loves antiques as much as you would have a houseful of treasures."

  Her expression clouded over, and Harris realized he'd blundered.

  "I inherited quite a few from my grandmother. Circumstances forced me to sell them," she said quietly.

  He wanted to kick himself. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged. "Antiques or not, they were just wood and fabric and metal."

  "But I'm sure they had great sentimental value too."

  Wetness filmed over her eyes, and she blinked.

  Fuck. He was an ass. "I'm sorry," he apologized again and raked a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean to upset you." He wondered what had caused her to lose the possessions she loved, but he'd hurt her enough without asking more prying questions.

  "It's okay." She shrugged and plunked a half dozen caning rods into a tall rattan basket. To a coat rack attached to the wall, she hung wooden paddles.

  Harris picked up a smooth leather one, and tapped it against his palm. He scanned the mess of open boxes, bubble wrap, and packing paper, and alighted on a half-buried padded two-tiered apparatus. "A spanking bench!" He cleared away the debris so he could inspect it. Solidly built, the legs and frame appeared to be oak, the lower and upper seats leather. Immediately he imagined a bare-bottomed Abby kneeling on the apparatus.

  Count the spanks, Abigail.

  The object of his fantasy pointed to the corner. "Uh huh. There's another one over there." That one resembled a sawhorse, but with a rounded top, a lower shelf upon which to kneel and a bar across the legs on the other side for the spankee to hang onto. Or to which the top could secure her hands.

  "How muc
h is this one?" He pointed to the first bench: the oak and leather apparatus.

  Abby glanced at the bench then at him. Her eyes grew wide. "You want to buy it?"

  He could feel himself harden just looking at her. With only a hunch she might share the same kink, his good intentions to walk had crumpled. It had been a bad idea to stop in. Yes, she liked leather. But also white lace, flowers, and promises. Not his lifestyle. Not his future.

  Nor had he ever had the inclination to use a spanking bench. He'd preferred to secure his partners over his knee, or lean them over the sofa arm or bed. Occasionally in the diaper position. He pictured holding Abby by the ankles and paddling her ass. He stifled a groan.

  What happened to your plans to have dinner and then leave? Her interest in kink didn't make her any less innocent. He'd bet his bottom dollar she'd never been spanked.

  "I do," he said.

  "Aunt Quincy intended to price the larger items this afternoon." She paused. "I, uh, could call her and check?"

  He didn't covet the spanking bench. He desired to have Abby on the spanking bench. He assessed her wide-eyed expression, the color suffusing her face, the flare of her nostrils. Harris guessed if he were crass enough to check he would see bumps in her blouse from her beaded nipples. Talking about spanking had embarrassed her—but aroused her more.

  "Please do," he said.

  She pulled her cell from a pocket and connected. "Hello, Aunt Quincy…Fine…Going great. I should be done arranging the stuff from the estate sale by this afternoon." Her chest rose and fell. "Which is why I'm calling. I, um, might have an, uh, customer for the spanking bench. The padded one. Do you know the price on that?" She glanced at Harris. "Okay. Uh, yes, the customer is a Corbin's Bend resident… I'll tell him, thanks."

  She pressed end on her phone and shoved it in her pocket. "It's a hundred and fifty years old, so it is antique. Aunt Quincy wants $550 for it, but as a Corbin's Bend resident, you'll get ten percent off so…" Her gaze shifted upwards as she did the math in her head. "That's $55 dollars off….which brings the total to…uh…$495 plus tax."