by Cara Bristol
She moved to the metal-and-glass railing and peered out over the city. Twin trails of lights, red in one direction, yellow-white in the other, snaked along the freeway at the bottom of the canyon. She absorbed the fragrance of the flora—the sagebrush, manzanita, and scrub oak that clung to the hillside—a sweet, spicy scent that was at once exotic yet wholly homegrown.
She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and faced Dan as he approached. “I feel like I'm on stage. It's a little scary, though. Looks like a long way down.” She glanced over her shoulder.
"It's a ways to the floor of the canyon,” he agreed, “but the deck and railing are reinforced.” He handed her one of the two wineglasses he held, then gripped the top of the railing to shake it. It didn't budge a fraction. “You'd be hard pressed to bulldoze your way through it."
He held up his glass. “To the start of something...new."
They clinked, and Emma sipped her wine. What a difference a day made. Yesterday her romantic life was nonexistent. Today? Today she'd started something. She cataloged the features of Dan's face, noting the fullness of his lips, the indentation of his dimples, and the slight darkness of his shaven jaw. Someone sexy.
She reached out and fingered a small scar below his left eye.
"Horrible accident,” he explained.
Emma narrowed her eyes in concern.
Dan's cheeks crinkled with his dimples. “I was jumping on the bed when I was a kid and fell off. Only needed two stitches, but I bled buckets."
"I'm sure you took it like a man."
"Oh, no.” He shook his head. “I bawled like a baby."
Emma rose up on tiptoe and brushed her lips against the scar. “There. All better now."
Heat flared in his eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment. “Dinner will be simple.” He broke the silence, his gaze still locked on hers. “I marinated some shrimp and beef kebabs, tossed a green salad, and got a loaf of bread. And dessert. I baked chocolate brownies."
"It sounds wonderful.” He'd gone to a lot of trouble under the guise of preparing a simple meal. “Homemade brownies?” Emma suffered from chocolate addiction.
He leaned in, his lips only a breath away from her ear. “Sinful, decadent, triple chocolate brownies,” he whispered. She emitted a tiny moan as his heady scent enveloped her, and his warm breath caressed her ear, fanning her hunger for more than chocolate. His lips were so close. If she lifted her chin...
"Are you using food to seduce me?” She remained still, clutching her wineglass for protection.
"Would it work?” He leaned back and grinned. He played it light, flirting with her, but she realized the sexual chemistry that rendered her weak-kneed and woozy affected him as well. His eyes glittered. Mutual desire danced like a live entity, whirling around them, pushing them to get closer. How long would they resist its persuasive force, she wondered? They'd already partaken of a wild and wicked shower.
"It might,” she answered him as if casual flirtation were her forte. She pushed her glasses up and peered at him through lowered lashes.
He threw his head back and laughed. “I'll have to remember that.” He drained his glass and set it on a small table. “I'll get the hors d'oeuvres."
"Can I help you with anything?"
He shook his head. “Everything is under control."
After he disappeared into the house, Emma fanned her heated face.
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Chapter Five
Under control? Everything except for his raging hard-on and the way he kept grinning like an idiot. He'd been a hairbreadth away from kissing her before he slammed on the brakes. If he touched her, he risked not stopping at a kiss, and before he got any more deeply involved, he needed to find out how she felt about spanking. As perfect as Emma seemed, if she wasn't amenable to it—if she didn't enjoy it—a relationship would never work.
Experience had proven that while vanilla romances started out pleasant, the sexual encounters lacked intensity and intimacy. His need to connect with like-minded women had prompted him to join an organization devoted to domestic discipline and spanking. He assumed the married men who comprised the membership of the Rod and Cane Society would have single sisters, cousins, or even ex-girlfriends. But so far he hadn't met anyone there.
He extracted a small tray of cheese from the refrigerator, scooped some seasoned Greek olives onto it, and added some grapes. Emma captivated him: the way her glasses slid down her nose, the tilt of her head as she looked at him, her fuck-me bedroom voice, how her dress clung to her luscious curves. He'd noticed immediately that it molded her gorgeous ass like a second skin.
Thoughts like those weren't going to help his erection.
Neither were the glimpses of cleavage revealed by her dress. Emma was covered until she moved, and then the neckline would dip, and those brief, intermittent flashes stirred him as if she displayed half her breasts.
Dan adjusted his cock in his pants in a vain attempt to make himself more comfortable. He stowed a loaf of crusty bread in the warming oven, grabbed the tray of beef and shrimp kebabs from the fridge, picked up the cheese platter, and hurried out to Emma.
She leaned against the rail, staring at the city lights appearing as white, yellow, blue, and red stars—glowing jewels of civilization. Dan stood enjoying the view of silky hair, lush curves, and an ass that could bring civilization to its knees. He pictured her bent over his knee, her firm, round, pale tush bare and waiting for his hand. He'd loved the gasps and whimpers she'd emitted when he'd fucked her in the shower; he wanted to hear the noises she would make if he spanked her.
When he spanked her. Not if. He had to remain positive.
Dan plunked the kebabs next to the barbecue and cleared his throat.
Emma turned. Her shy smile punched him like a boxer's jab.
"Have some cheese.” He placed the platter on the small table, retreated to the grill, and transformed the act of scraping the already clean grate to a performance art while he gathered his composure.
"Do you barbecue a lot?” she asked, nibbling on a piece of cheese.
"Not as often as I'd like. Please, have a seat.” He covered the length of the terrace in a couple of strides and pulled out a padded wrought-iron chair. “It doesn't seem worth the effort for one person."
"I know what you mean.” Emma nodded and sat.
Dan topped off her wineglass and straddled the other chair. “Tell me about your job. You're in insurance, right?"
"I work for Pacific Health & Life. I manage the claims call center."
"Sounds like it could be stressful."
She nodded. “It is. I'm in middle management, sandwiched between executives with golden parachutes and line employees protected by labor laws. Rumor has it there's going to be another round of layoffs. I've been lucky so far, but truthfully, I'd like to get off the roller coaster."
"How long have you worked there?"
"Ten years. But I'm hoping to change soon,” she said.
"To do what?"
"Write as a full-time columnist for the Sentinel Review."
"That is a change.” Dan arched his eyebrows. “How did you decide on that?"
"I've always wanted to write.” She shrugged. “So I enrolled in some journalism classes at the community college."
"It's a good paper,” Dan said. He pushed back from the table. “Let me check the barbecue.” He could feel Emma's gaze on his back as he put the kebabs on the grill.
"You have a nice ass,” she said matter-of-factly.
He glanced over his shoulder. “So do you, lady.” So do you. He needed to talk to her about her ass—and his plans for it. “There's this columnist at the Sentinel I like to read, but she doesn't write all the time. I'm trying to think of her byline,” he said, momentarily drawing a blank. He finished his task, then took his seat again. He snapped his fingers as part of a name came to him. “Cassidy something."
"Not Cassidy Myles?” Emma widened her eyes.
&nb
sp; "That's her!” Dan nodded. “A while back she did a piece on garbage. Through her eyes, it was fascinating. She made me more aware of what and how much stuff I throw away."
Emma blushed. “I'm Cassidy Myles. That's my pseudonym."
"You're Cassidy?” Dan stared at her. “I thought you were trying to get with the paper."
"I'm aiming for a full-time position. I freelance part-time now."
"I love the articles you write. You're good!"
"Thank you.” From the way her face colored, Dan suspected she didn't receive compliments on her work often.
"Why the pen name?” he asked.
"Sometimes I work undercover to get information for my articles. Plus, I'd rather the insurance company didn't know I'm moonlighting. There's no specific prohibition against it, but during downsizing, it's safer for me if they don't know that I have another job."
He could understand the latter reasoning, but the former intrigued him. He raised an eyebrow. “Undercover, huh?” He enjoyed Cassidy's—Emma's—writing style and found her features interesting. She pointed out little things that he'd failed to notice, and opened up his perspective on the community. But until now he'd figured that the only reporters who worked undercover were investigative journalists who wanted to expose government or corporate corruption.
"Journalists strive to be impartial—even if they sometimes fall short of that goal,” Emma said, adding, “but I want to get personal with my stories and let people know what it's like from the inside.” She leaned forward, her face aglow, her eyes bright. The way she lit up when she talked about her newspaper job contrasted starkly to her deadpan delivery when she spoke about her insurance position.
"How come you haven't gone full-time?” he asked.
"The economy.” She scrunched up her face. “Advertising revenue is down, and the paper froze hiring. My editor thinks she'll be able to hire a staffer soon to write the column, but the person will have to bring a following. My readership has been steadily increasing, but I need a sexy story to cinch it."
"Sexy?” His cock jerked at the sound the word tripping off her lips in her bedroom voice. “You got anything in mind?” He picked up an olive and a piece of cheese and popped them together in his mouth.
"As a matter of fact, I do,” Emma said. “I've almost finished a piece I think will be a blockbuster."
"Oh yeah?” Dan leaned on his elbows.
"You won't believe this.” Emma's voice dropped to a whisper, and she hunched forward. “When I was working on the garbage story, I found a book from a men's organization that—” She broke off abruptly and twisted her mouth ruefully. “I'm sorry. I'd better not mention anything yet. I confess I'm superstitious—I'm afraid if I talk about a story before it's printed, it will jeopardize it in some way. I promise I'll give you a heads-up when it's going to run."
"No problem. I understand completely,” he said. “I feel the same way about my real estate deals. No matter how rock solid a sale appears, I don't tell anyone I've sold a house until after the closing docs are signed.” He scooted back his chair. “I'd better check on the shish kebab."
AFTER ALL THE care Emma had employed to keep the Rod and Cane story under wraps, she'd almost spilled the beans. The temptation to confide in Dan, share the juiciness of her story, and maybe even unburden her guilt, welled up inside. But loose lips sank ships, and although she trusted Dan to keep her confidence, caution had stilled her tongue. She was so close to publishing, this wasn't the time to take even the tiniest chance. She'd tell him everything the moment she was able to. In the meantime, she'd focus on getting to know him better.
She eyed the flex of his biceps under his sweater sleeves. He'd demonstrated his strength when he'd held her against the shower wall. She clenched her ass cheeks, reliving the feel of his fingers digging into her flesh. Funny how life could veer off in an unexpected direction—she'd met the man of her dreams simply by walking down the street. This time a Jinx had resulted in something positive.
While Dan manned the barbecue, he entertained her with funny stories of growing up as the oldest of three brothers, their escapades frequently stymied by their parents’ vigilance. It sounded so fabulously ordinary, so opposite of her own childhood.
At last, Dan carried a tray of delicious-smelling shrimp and beef skewers to the small table, then brought out some crusty bread and a salad. For Emma, used to frozen dinners, yogurt, and peanut butter, his meal offered a veritable feast. And that he'd gone to the trouble of preparing it meant more than food itself.
"This is wonderful. Thank you so much.” The shrimp were plump and firm, the beef morsels tender and delicious. “Mm,” she said after tasting both. “You know the way to a girl's heart."
"Shish kebab?” Dimples dented his cheeks. “It's that easy? And here I planned an elaborate seduction."
"Don't let me derail a good a plan.” She grinned.
"Did I mention the decadent chocolate brownies?” His voice dropped to a rumble, the way it had in the shower when he'd encouraged her to touch herself.
A lightning bolt of desire zinged through her that had nothing to do with chocolate and everything to do with the man offering it. “I believe you did, yes.” She locked her gaze with his. A flame sparked and flared in his eyes. He looked at her as if she were the succulent feast, and her body responded, her pussy moistening.
"Sundays were barbecue day at the Tanner house,” Dan commented matter-of-factly, although his gaze continued to smolder. “My dad is the barbecue king. But he's a purist. Only charcoal for him. He insists a gas grill isn't barbecuing; it's broiling."
"This is such a treat.” Emma waved her hand, her gesture encompassing the entire patio area. “I don't own a barbecue. Of course, I wouldn't know what I'd do with it if I had one. I can't cook.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never had an incentive to learn when I lived with Summer and John. There didn't seem to be much point in learning how to cook tofu since I hated the stuff."
"Summer and John?"
"My parents."
"You call your parents by their first names?” Dan raised an eyebrow.
She grimaced. “At my mother's insistence. I wanted to call them Mom and Dad, but Summer wouldn't allow it. The other kids thought it was weird that I called my parents by their first names."
Emma bit into a succulent shrimp and stifled a moan at how good it was. It was almost better than sex. She glanced at Dan. No. Maybe better than sex with somebody else, but not Dan.
"That must have been tough,” Dan said sympathetically. “Kids want to fit in with their peer group, and anything that makes them different isolates them."
Warmth like a cotton batting wrapped around her heart. Few people had ever understood how she had felt. She knew her parents had loved her, but their unconventional ways hadn't met her needs.
"My mother has a lot invested in her name. She chose it herself.” Emma curved her mouth into a wry smile. “Her birth name was Josephine. Summer rarely gets angry, but if you want to see her blow, call her by her birth name."
"Yet she named you Emma. Very traditional."
"Actually, she didn't.” Emma glanced at her plate. “I don't tell too many people this, but my mother named me Starlight.” Emma hesitated. “I always suspected my name may have been related to how I was conceived—under the light of the stars."
Dan's cough didn't completely cover his choke of laughter.
"Emma was my grandma, Summer's mother. She was so nice. So normal. Once I got older, I starting using her name, and when I became an adult, I legally changed it."
"Your mother was a free agent."
"She still is. Expressing her ‘creative spirit,’ as she calls it, is very important to her. She gets involved in a lot of different things. She made soy candles for a while, sold hemp clothing, taught yoga.” She paused, then added, “Just as a venture would start to take root and show success, Summer would move on to something else and start all over again."
"Is that why you stuck with a job you did
n't like for so long?” he asked gently.
"You're perceptive. I thought being dependable and persistent was the way adults should behave."
"What about your father?"
"John teaches English Lit at the community college. He's a little more practical and down-to-earth than my mother, but they're still kindred mates.” She grimaced. “When I was a teenager, my friends thought Summer and John were perfect parents—they let me do anything I wanted."
Emma sighed and glanced at the city lights. “Other kids complained about rules, curfews, being grounded for bad grades. I got none of that. Not that I got bad grades. I was a good student. It sounds crazy, but I wanted some rules. I guess I needed to know she cared enough to discipline me,” Emma said wistfully and looked at Dan.
Dan nodded. “Structure helps kids feel secure."
"Once I deliberately stayed out all night to find the boundaries, how much was too much, you know? I didn't come home until four a.m., and Summer was waiting for me. She asked if I had had a good time!” Emma shook her head, still in disbelief. “Years later, John let it slip that she'd been worried and had called around to find me, but she never said a word.” Emma pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I know my mother loves me, but without the discipline, it didn't always feel like it.” She sipped her wine.
Dan toyed with his fork and fell silent for a long moment before he raised his gaze to her face. “I guess that means you were never spanked."
"As a child or an adult?” Emma joked, surprised to find herself clenching her butt cheeks.
She expected him to laugh or at least smile, but his eyes remained serious. “I meant as a child, but my question could apply to both."
"My mother never punished me at all. The closest I ever got to a reprimand was when Summer would suggest I ‘reconsider my choices.’ John followed Summer's lead."
"How do you feel about spanking now?” He stroked the stem of his wineglass. The goblet appeared delicate and fragile next to his large hand.
