Spanked by the Bad Boy

by London Saint James

  “Did you stay here all night?” He nodded. One word fell from her lips, “Why?”

  He cupped her cheek. Everything feminine about her wanted to nuzzle into the warmth of his palm, but she restrained herself.

  “I wanted to.”

  “Why?”

  He smiled. “I was worried about you, Tiffany.”

  Something unrecognizable twisted inside her stomach. She ignored the sensation and glanced around the room. “Did my mom go home?”

  “She did, but she came back this morning.”

  When he took his hand from her face, she felt cold.

  “Where is she?”

  “She went for coffee,” he said.

  Tiffany swiped her good hand through her hair. “What was the whole fiancé thing about?”

  He chortled. “I had to come up with something in order to see you. Your mom overheard my conversation with the nurse, and I didn’t set her straight.” She watched his brow crease. “I finally told her the truth when all the hospital staff cleared out, and you dozed off.”

  “What truth?”

  “We’re only dating.”

  “We’re dating?” she asked, stunned. Getting off with him in his field office wasn’t exactly what she’d call dating.

  “We would be if you hadn’t rear-ended an SUV to get out of dinner with me.”

  “Geez. Don’t remind me.”

  “About what? The date or the fender bender?”

  “Both,” she said with a teasing smile.

  He tapped the tip of her nose. “You still owe me dinner, and I will collect.”

  She gawked at him, heard the buzz of people in the hall, and thought about her mother spending too much alone time with Declan. “I’m sorry,” slipped softly past her lips.

  His eyebrows rose. “For what?”

  “For my mother.”

  “How did we get from dinner to your mother?”

  “Sometimes my mind flits from thought to thought,” she explained, “and I sort of go there.”

  “Ah. Those wheels are always cranking, huh?”

  “I’m afraid so. Anyway, we’ll talk about dinner later. Right now, I want to talk about Tanya.”

  The expression on his face went from pleasant to serious. “Okay.”

  Tiffany took a moment. How could she describe her mom? Her mouth started to work. Then she pressed her lips together before she said, “She’s pushy, way too flirty, and far too talkative for her own good.”

  “I know,” he said, his voice even and tranquil.

  She tried to keep the panic off her face. “You do?”

  “Yep.”

  She closed her eyes for her next question. “Did she flirt with you?”

  “I’m not sure I could consider it flirting per se.”

  Tiffany took his answer to mean she’d tried to. Since he was being careful not to upset her, Tiffany settled for his politically correct response.

  She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to ask, but she had to. “Did she blather on about Royce?”

  “She mentioned him.”

  Oh, no.

  “What did she say?”

  “She divorced him.”

  She glanced up at him. He wasn’t looking at her with pity. That was good at least.

  “And?”

  “I believe she called him a ‘shit-stain.’”

  “Is that all?”

  “She mentioned a few other things.”

  Tiffany squeezed his wrist, hoping to absorb some of his strength. “What other things?”

  “She didn’t go into detail.” Good. She could handle the idea of no details. “I gathered he wasn’t the best of husbands.” There was a pause, and something, some emotion she didn’t recognize, snapped in his eyes for a moment. “Or the best of dads,” he said.

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t.”

  Silence sliced through the room. She fingered the scar under her eyebrow. Declan was the first to break the quiet. His voice sent chills down her spine.

  “Someday I want you to tell me about the scar.”

  She dropped her hand and looked up at him, fighting back the tears threatening to escape. Why would he want to know such things? “I don’t talk about it.” She studied the pattern in the weave of the blanket covering her lap.

  “Look at me, Tiffany.” She didn’t want to, for the simple fact she didn’t want Declan to see too much of what she hid beneath the surface. “Please,” he said. The soft request brought her chin up. “Whatever happened, no matter how horrible, it doesn’t deserve the power silence gives to it.”

  He was right, of course, but she didn’t know what to say to him. How to say it. How to even begin to make him understand those things she was too afraid to bring into the light of day. But, most of all, how could she tell him of all people?

  “I-I don’t,” she stammered and then settled for “I’m sorry.”

  Declan pressed his finger to her lips. She ignited at the touch. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

  “Who’s sorry for what?” her mom asked, breezing into the room. She was a tribute to Joan Jett in leather pants and a vintage Runaways T-shirt, holding a coffee cup in each hand.

  Declan pulled his hand back, and the cold feeling returned. How bizarre. She didn’t feel warmth unless he touched her.

  “Nothing, Mom,” Tiffany said.

  “Here you go,” Tanya said, handing Declan a Styrofoam cup.

  “How much do I owe you for the coffee, Ms. Painter?”

  She sniffed. “Coffee’s on me.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “I hope you like cream and sugar.”

  “I do, actually.”

  She winked at him before she eyed Tiffany. “I met up with your lovely ER doctor in the cafeteria.” She gave a little growl in her throat. “He’s such a handsome man; too bad he’s married.”

  “God, Mother. Did you ask, or did he have to tell you he was married because you were flirting with him unmercifully?”

  She batted her dark mascara-covered lashes and put one hand to her chest. “Me? Flirt?”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes. “Yes. You. Flirt.”

  “I may have, a little. On another note, I think you’ll get to go home after breakfast.”

  “I hope so.” She narrowed her eyes at her mom. “But while I’m here, stop hitting on the doctors.”

  Tanya tossed her head back and gave her throaty smoker’s laugh. “You are such a spoilsport.”

  “Try to behave.”

  The woman who gave birth to her grinned wickedly before taking a dainty sip of her coffee then flicking her attention toward Declan, who sat in the chair by the bed. “I’ve gotta tell you, Tif. You sure did find yourself one of the good ones.”

  Tiffany looked at him, long fingers wrapped around the base of the cup, his body taking up the entire recliner and his dusty work boots covering those huge feet.

  As though this were the first time she’d seen the man himself, she glanced at the familiarity of his worn jeans. The shirt that hugged every part of his muscular chest. His unshaven face. Those wonderful lips he puckered to blow at the steam rising off his coffee.

  Declan Cage was a contradiction. A badass with a heart. A rare breed.

  She smiled when he looked up and locked his gaze with hers. His stunning eyes, the color of a stormy sea, struck her—right or wrong, she never wanted to forget the wonderment of staring into the depths of them.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He is.”

  Chapter Eight

  Glancing around, Declan couldn’t help but think how cold and sterile Tiffany’s apartment appeared. It was a modern place with a partially open floor plan, but the openness wasn’t the issue. While she obviously dwelled there, he didn’t think she lived there. The quartz kitchen countertops were bare. Not a coffee maker nor a spice jar took up space. There were no dishes in the sink. Nothing. She didn’t even have a stray pan on top of the stove. The only thing out of place was a breast-cancer-awarenes
s magnet slightly askew on one of the stainless-steel refrigerator doors.

  He crossed the room and glanced down the hallway, seeing nothing of a personal nature like pictures of friends, family, or some of the goofier moments of her life, such as old school pics with braces and bad hair or crazy vacation photographs.

  Turning, he peeked into the living room area. The place was spotless. The table by the front door held her purse and a lamp. There were no books in the bookcase, which took up a corner. No scrapbooks. No photo albums. Zilch. The shelves were empty and dust free. No CDs or movies set on the unit that held her small flat-screen television. Even the sectional looked brand new and made him think no one ever lounged around. Empty of magazines cluttering the tops, the glass end tables shone. Even her coffee table sparkled, the only item atop being the remote control for the TV.

  He glanced down at his sock-covered feet. No wonder she was so concerned about his boots. The woman was a neat freak. When he’d brought her home from the hospital, she’d insisted he leave his work boots by the entry if he was intent on staying. He’d complied with her request then listened to her tell him he needed to go home and rest or go back to work, trying to convince him she would be fine on her own.

  Tiffany needed to be shown the futility of that protest. He thought it would do her some good to wrap her mind around the fact there was a man who was concerned for her and wanted to make sure she would be okay. Quite frankly, something told him no man had ever concerned himself with the business of her before.

  He wiggled his toes. The plush carpet had been vacuumed in such a way as to leave perfect diagonal patterns on it, something that took quite a bit of time to accomplish. Not even his fussy mother would have her maids attempt to do such a thing.

  Realizing the place was almost tomb quiet, the silence that had captured his attention made him consider the time. Tiffany had left him to take a shower after their arrival, but she’d been so long the water had to be getting cold.

  With his mind made up to check on her and be a little bit snoopy, he strode down the barren hall, briefly stopping to peek in the spare bedroom. White walls greeted him. Tan curtains covered the window. A single bed with a plain wood headboard butted up underneath it. The bed was neat and tidy, covered in a tan pleated bedspread, a nightstand to the right, a lamp on top, and nothing more was to be seen. There were no tchotchkes. No pictures. Nothing personal.

  Continuing his quest, he went a little farther and stepped inside the guest bathroom. Once again, there were no pictures on the walls. The dark-blue hand towel hanging on the towel bar matched the color of the shower curtain, but other than that and the bottle of hand soap at the sink, the room lacked the warmth of personal things and personal touches.

  Curious about what he would find when he walked into her bedroom, he spun on his heel and made more of an effort to get there, taking bigger strides until he crossed the threshold of her room. White walls. White crown molding. White carpet. Wooden white blinds covered the two windows.

  A large bed took up a fairly good-sized portion of the room. It was decked out in white pillows, a white duvet cover, and a white throw blanket covering the foot. Mirrored tables had been placed on either side of the bed and each held silver stick lamps with white shades. A mirror hung on the wall over the dresser, and a white lounge chair rounded out the entire contents of the room. He supposed this bedroom had more pizzazz than the rest of the place; however, it was still devoid of her.

  Quietly, he went to the closet and opened the door, unable to stop his recon mission. The walk-in was unlike any he’d ever seen and damn sure didn’t resemble the messy one in his bedroom. Everything had been hung on padded hangers and arranged by color first, followed by the length of the garment and possible season. Her shoes, still in the boxes, were stacked in little towers up the back wall. Nothing was out of place.

  He squeezed the back of his neck. The woman had way too much idle time on her hands. He smirked at the thought of those delicate hands and long, elegant fingers. He’d give them something to do, and it wouldn’t be cleaning or organizing.

  Declan backed out of the walk-in and shut the door before his gaze went to the en suite door, slightly ajar. Being sure to continue his stealth mode, he made his way over, stopped, and listened for the sound of the shower running. He didn’t hear a thing. Concerned, he pushed the door open and went inside. There, only a few steps away, she lay in the bathtub, sleeping. He imagined that the combination of pain pills and hot water was too much, so she had given up on the idea of a shower and yielded to the temptation of a bath.

  He observed her—her head lolling to one side; dark, wet hair stuck to her cheek, partially obscuring her full, kissable lips. He smiled as he took her in, unable to stop himself. Soapy water glistened around her, her braced wrist propped up on the side of the tub. Her bountiful breasts seemed to float, and rose-pink nipples broke the surface of the water. A wet washcloth was draped over her right knee. Both knees were bent up and resting on the side of the tub walls, thighs spread, tempting him.

  Three steps. That’s how many it took to get to her before he went to his knees, kneeling by the bathtub, and slid the damp hair from her face. She didn’t stir. The porcelain features he stared down at were beautiful, and the peaceful expression she wore reminded him of a sleeping nymph.

  He studied the lines of her face, and, without her makeup, he could see her youth. She was younger than him. Probably in her mid-twenties. He traced a fingertip over the curved scar tucked beneath the arch of her eyebrow before reaching for the washcloth. When he took it from her knee, he noticed the bruise hiding beneath, compliments of the car accident.

  Swiping some bubbles from her, another bruise appeared across the left portion of her collarbone. He gritted his teeth and brushed the cloth over the spot as gently as possible, temporarily hiding the mark from his view. His other hand cleared more bubbles away. She was fantastic, a perfect still life lying beneath the magnification of the water.

  Carefully, he dunked the cloth between her spread legs, forgoing the craving to slide his fingers over the manicured strip of her dark pubic hair and claim her little pussy with his hand. Instead, he pulled the washcloth from the depths, raised it above her chest, and let the droplets fall. A rainstorm fell onto the taut peaks of her nipples, and he watched them tighten even more, imagining his mouth and tongue teasing them.

  Declan caved in to the urge to palm the beauties, cupping the side of her right breast, lifting. She mumbled something unintelligible in a sleep-hazed slur, but didn’t wake, and that’s when he saw something that greatly disturbed him.

  Eyes narrowing, he looked at the faded raised mark, centimeters from her areola. A very distinctive, round scar. He knew what he was seeing was an old wound someone had inflicted upon the perfection of her by using the business end of a cigarette. Tearing his gaze from the spot, he looked at the scar Tiffany had absentmindedly rubbed beneath her brow, the one she didn’t want to talk about, then back to the old burn.

  His stomach balled into a tight knot of seething anger. Her mother was a smoker although the sick feeling told him it wasn’t Tanya Painter who had marked her. He recalled what she’d disclosed to him while in the ER waiting room.

  I would never have left her with him if I had known.

  He closed his eyes, let the cloth fall into the cooling water, and gained a very shaky hold on the fury he wanted to unleash on the asshole who had marked her—the asshole who, every instinct told him, was her stepdad.

  “Sugar,” he said in a low voice next to her ear. “We need to get you out of this tub. The water’s turning cold.”

  Her eyelids fluttered when she mumbled, “Need to stay.”

  He rubbed the crease from between her brows. “Come on, sleepyhead.”

  The back of her head rolled along the curve of the tub, blue eyes appearing when she opened heavy lids. The tip of her tongue glided over the swell of her top lip. She blinked and glanced up at him. “Did I fall asleep?”
<
br />   She was so vulnerable, and a fierce emotion to take her into the protection of his arms overtook him. “Yep.” He palmed her cheek. “Let me help you out of the bath.”

  “I can get out on my own.”

  That may very well have been true. However, he wanted to touch her. Pamper her a bit.

  She slicked her wet shoulders up the back of the porcelain, coming to a halt when his arm went into the water and tucked beneath her knees while his other hand rested behind her neck.

  “I don’t want you to hurt your wrist, trying to get out,” he said. “Lean forward.”

  To his surprise, she didn’t argue and did what he asked. He slipped his palm down her back. Compared to him, she really was small, fragile. Curling his arm around her, fingers resting beneath her breast, he lifted. Water swooshed. He took her up with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her good hand digging into his nape. He knew by her reaction she was afraid he’d drop her. He straightened. He’d never drop her. Water dripped from her body in a downpour before he tucked her against his chest, feeling his shirt absorb the moisture.

  “You’re getting soaked,” she said.

  “It’s fine.” Not wanting to let her go, he held her a moment more. “I’m going to set you on your feet.”

  She nodded.

  He gently placed Tiffany on the floor. Her red painted toenails caught and held his attention when she curled her toes into the bathmat. The need to suck on one or all of her little digits took hold of him. He swept the thought aside and made sure she had a handle on her balance. Once satisfied, he snagged the fluffy towel from the countertop, unfurled it from the oblong fold, and carefully rubbed the material over her hair, gripping the ends within the cotton and squeezing the water out before he softly dabbed at her face and neck.

  Every bit of his maleness hardened at the pink and white flesh bared in front of him.

  She glanced up from beneath her lashes, blue eyes sparkling. “Thank you. I can do the rest.”

  “No,” he said in a voice much gruffer than he intended. Her eyebrows pulled together. “I’ve got everything under control here.”