Spanked by the Bad Boy

by London Saint James

  She glanced down at his crotch—his hard, bulging crotch—and smiled. “I see.”

  “I can’t hide what you do to me, but I can put my baser self aside and take care of you,” he said, swiping the towel over her chest, letting the corner of his pinky skim a perky nipple.

  A strange expression came over her face as though the idea of a man caring for her was a foreign one, reinforcing his belief he might be the first to attempt such a feat. Her resistance made it a difficult task to accomplish.

  Declan inched the towel lower, erasing the water droplets from her stomach, her navel, her…. She made a funny little squeak when he rubbed softly between her legs. He fought a battle with his lustful hunger because he wanted to go to his knees, pull her to him, and slip his tongue into her sweetness, teasing her clit, and bringing her to climax where she stood.

  “Turn around,” he said. Without a peep of protest, she did. Her hair stuck to the curvature of her spine, stopping before the tips hit the dimples above her fabulous ass. “Lift your hair.” With her good hand, she gathered the damp strands and pulled them over her slender shoulder. Reaching out with the towel in his hand, he removed the moisture from her flesh. He took his sweet time with her plump backside, inching down the back of her thighs, her calves—squatting. “Turn back around, sugar, and put your hand on my shoulder for balance.” She turned and gripped the material of his shirt. Although he didn’t give in, he wanted to tear it off to feel the bite of her fingernails against his skin. He lifted her foot, dried it, and then switched, clearing the last of the dampness.

  “Thank you,” she said in a soft soprano voice.

  Hell. He should be thanking her. He stood. “You’re welcome.”

  For a quiet instant, perceptible heat passed between them in an arc of lust, waiting to explode. All it would take would be to curl his hand around the base of her skull and draw her into his body. He knew she’d willingly melt into him. Taking her, claiming her would be easy—right.

  “We should probably get you dressed before you catch a chill, don’t you think?” He broke the moment and the palpable energy snapping back and forth.

  Chapter Nine

  It was far too late. Chills swirled down Tiffany’s spine and across her limbs, but the sensation had nothing to do with the temperature of the bathroom and everything to do with the muscled man who worshiped her with his stormy eyes as he dried her naked body with a towel.

  “My robe is hanging on the hook,” she said.

  “What hook?”

  “The one on the back of the door.” Tiffany looked over his shoulder. When he half-shut the door, she frowned.

  “There’s no robe,” he said.

  “It should be there.”

  “Maybe you put it in the laundry.” No. She didn’t think so, but she was still woozy from the pain medications. Perhaps she had. “I have another in the closet.”

  “Stay put,” Declan said.

  He bounded out of the bathroom. Tiffany racked her fogged brain about the missing bathrobe.

  Declan returned faster than she thought he would, gave one last sweeping glance at her body, and said, “Hold out your arms.” His tone broached no argument.

  She did what he asked of her. He slipped the terry cloth over one arm, stepped around to her back, and brought the robe across her in a whisper-soft tickle. He was careful as he helped her with the wrist sporting the brace.

  “I’ll get your hair.” He gathered the damp strands, lifted, and let go. The heaviness of her long hair hit the outer material. “Maybe you should take a seat and let me brush it.”

  Shocked, she brought her gaze up to his about the time he came around from behind her. She looked at the smooth, bland expression on his face. “You want to brush my hair?”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Why not? I figured since you’re right-handed, and that’s the wrist you hurt, you might need me to get the tangles out.”

  “How do you know I’m right-handed?”

  “I’ve seen you answer the phone and take messages for Matthew, Ms. Brooks.”

  “Oh,” she muttered, wondering what else he’d noticed about her.

  “Go sit down in your bedroom.”

  “But—”

  The sound of a cabinet drawer opening cut her off. He looked through her bathroom drawer then back at her. “Where do you keep your hair stuff?”

  “Um…there,” she said, pointing to the drawer next to the one he had open.

  “Ah,” he muttered, closing one and opening the other. “Comb or brush?”

  “Comb. It works better on wet tangles.”

  Declan grabbed her comb, a smile quirking up one corner of his mouth. Something about the smile said he was pleased with himself. He shut the drawer, came to where she stood, and lightly pressed his lips to her forehead.

  Frozen in place, she wasn’t sure if she should laugh, cry, or crumple beneath the weight of being completely pampered. Never had any man given her so much of his attention. Or gentle care, she thought. And the fact this hulk of a man was being so tender and sweet made her feel a mix of emotions she wasn’t sure about.

  “Go sit down,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  She left the bathroom behind, made her way to the lounge chair in her room, and perched there. Another chill rippled along the length of her spine when Declan slowly ran his fingers through her hair.

  “You have pretty hair, Tiffany.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  She felt the teeth of the comb working through her sable strands from the crown to the ends, but nothing about the experience was rushed. On the contrary, it seemed Declan was intent on taking his time with her. When he was done, she almost felt bereft.

  “Stay there,” he said. “I’m going to put your comb away.”

  She heard him leave. The subsequent opening and closing of the drawer in the bathroom. His return. Then he started massaging the base of her neck.

  She moaned at the sensation. “Oh….”

  “Feels good?”

  “For sure.”

  All too soon, his magic fingers stopped.

  “Come on,” he said and scooped her up from the chair before she protested.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Into the kitchen.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t eat any breakfast this morning, and it’s lunchtime, so I know you’ve got to be hungry.”

  “I guess I’m a little bit hungry.”

  “Well, you’re in luck, sugar.”

  Tiffany giggled. “I am?”

  “Yep. I make a mean PB&J sandwich.”

  ***

  Tiffany spent most of her night having a mini-breakdown, watching the old 1939 film, Love Affair on TV. She blubbered like a baby while stuffing her face with the cold noodle leftovers from her favorite Chinese takeout place, and when the movie was over, she watched infomercials about beauty creams, weight loss products, and breakthroughs in hair restoration into the wee hours of the morning. She hadn’t been this much of a mess in a while. Heck, she hadn’t even taken a personal day when Simon broke her heart.

  After everything that had happened between her and Declan with the quickie in his office, his concern, and his staying with her at the hospital, and then the way he’d brought her home and taken care of her, his actions forced her to admit she liked him on a deeper level. She wasn’t just sexually attracted to him. The thought caused her head to hurt, but, headache or not, she needed to get out of bed.

  Tiffany made her way from the bedroom into her kitchen, yawning. She thought about cooking some French toast, but decided the endeavor would take too much effort and settled for cereal instead. She grabbed the Cheerios from the pantry and placed the box on the counter. Stretching, she reached up and opened the overhead cabinet, snatched a small bowl, and placed it next to her cereal container. She spun around, opened her refrigerator, and took the milk out, nudging the door with her elbow to shut it.

  Tiffany was in the middle of pouring her
milk over the little toasted Os when she heard a knock at the front door. Irritated, she set the carton down then glanced at the clock on the microwave—nine thirty-six in the morning. She couldn’t imagine who would be at her door so early and on a Friday. Tightening the belt on her robe, she headed for the living room.

  She tiptoed to the door and peeked out the peephole. Oh, God. She combed her fingers through her hair in a quick motion, unlocked the door, and opened it a crack.

  “Declan, what are you doing here?”

  He smiled, sending her wildly beating heart into overdrive.

  “I called over to the engineering office this morning to talk with you—”

  “You called to speak with me? Why?”

  “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  She opened the door wider. “You did?”

  He nodded. “Matthew said you still weren’t feeling well and took a personal day, so I thought I’d swing by and check on you.”

  “Check on me?”

  “Do you think you might let me in?”

  Tiffany’s cheeks flushed hot. She grinned. “Oh,” she said. “Come on in.”

  Declan walked in, and she closed the door behind him.

  “I never told you the other day, but you have a nice place,” he said. “How long have you lived here?”

  “Um, thanks.” She took a few steps toward the couch. “I’ve been here a couple of years.” Declan’s eyebrows lifted. “What?”

  “You don’t have anything personal around, and I thought perhaps you’d only just moved in.”

  She rubbed at the soft sleeve of her robe. “Personal things clutter up your life,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced down. “Nothing.”

  He tucked his finger under her chin and lifted. “Tell me.”

  She thought about defying him and not answering then pondered a lie before she settled for the truth.

  “When I was a kid….”

  “When you were a kid,” he prompted.

  “Everything I valued was taken from me, and I guess I figured I didn’t need the complication of things any longer.”

  “So if you don’t have much, it won’t hurt as much when it’s taken again?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he pulled her into his arms. “Jesus, sugar. That’s no way to live, waiting for the next disaster to strip you of what you hold dear.”

  “It’s survival,” she said then clamped her mouth shut.

  “I want you to tell me what put you into a permanent state of survival mode instead of relaxing and living your life.”

  She stiffened and extracted herself from his hold. “Why?”

  He put his hands in his front jean pockets and raised his shoulders. “Because friends let other friends in on all those hurtful things.”

  “Are we friends?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  He shifted his weight. “Then let’s start with the basics of you. Do you have any siblings?”

  She shook her head and looked down at her silly slippers. The poodle adornments on top of each foot smiled up at her in a mocking way. They were too silly. She wished she hadn’t chosen them to wear because she didn’t want Declan to think she was puerile.

  “No. Do you?” she asked.

  “I have a brother. Ryker’s his name.”

  She smiled. “I always wanted a brother, but I never got my wish.”

  And it was a good thing, too. What would she have done with the extra burden of a baby brother in the crazy household she’d been left in?

  He grinned. “See, now we’re talking. It’s not hard, is it?”

  She went to her couch and took a seat, patting a spot beside her. “I guess it depends on the subject.”

  Declan came and sat next to her, lounging in the easy way he had about him.

  “Okay,” he said. “You pick the subject, but you need to include something about yourself as we discuss your chosen topic. Do we have a deal?”

  She looked at him, the way his face took on an expectant expression, and found she didn’t want to disappoint him.

  “Deal.” She tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear.

  “Damn,” he said. “You don’t have any clue how beautiful you are.”

  She stared, unmoving for a second. When the steel wall of her will cracked, she asked, “Want to hear a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  “For the first time in my almost twenty-seven years, a man told me he thought I was beautiful first thing in the morning with nothing on to conceal the blemishes, and he believes I really am.”

  Declan smoothed his thumb over her cheek. “That can’t be.”

  “It’s true.” She gave a slight grin.

  Declan shook his head. “You don’t need makeup, those tight clothes, and ridiculous heels to be beautiful. You are stunning the way you are.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to tell you how beautiful you are as much as possible to make up for all the jerks out there who were remiss.”

  If only you could take away the pain by telling me I’m beautiful.

  “Be a good girl,” Royce had said right before he snapped a picture, the flash blinding her.

  Tiffany blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and realized she’d allowed herself to drift into thoughts she didn’t want to remember and sure didn’t want to tell Declan about.

  When Declan dipped down and kissed her, little explosions went off from her head to her toes. What was she doing? She needed to stop this lip-lock. Men were nothing but nightmares, and she was well acquainted with nightmares; not to mention she didn’t do relationships for the simple fact every time she tried, she got burned. And she didn’t share anything of herself but her body.

  Giving her body to Declan wouldn’t be the problem, she decided, but she wasn’t sure she could give him full access to her and her secrets. Even though she wanted to trust him and needed things to be different with him, there were no assurances they would be. He was dangerous for many reasons, one being the power to tear out the remnants of her heart. Nonetheless, when his large hand slid up her spine and cupped the back of her neck, she changed her mind about stopping.

  Holy smokes. The man could kiss.

  “God,” she muttered against his lips. Her nipples were hard and pebbled, and her sex creamed. Declan broke the glide of his lips with hers. She blinked. “You want to go to my bedroom?”

  “Yes,” he said in a husky voice.

  She took hold of his hand.

  “No,” he said abruptly.

  She frowned. “No?”

  “Not today.”

  She glanced down at his hard crotch, which seemed to be saying yes.

  “Not today?” she asked.

  “Not today.”

  Was he nuts? He clearly wanted it today if the current state of his body had anything to do with the decision.

  “But—” She placed her hand on the bulge of his jeans, only to have it removed.

  “No,” he said.

  She wasn’t sure what to do with the rejection then decided to tempt him more.

  Tiffany slowly freed herself of her robe. The material slid from her body and fluttered around her hips, making a puddle of blush-colored fabric. “Are you sure?”

  The dark discs of his pupils surged when he looked at her. “Here’s what I want, sugar. I want to know more about you.” He tugged her robe up and covered her bare breasts. “So stop trying to distract me and pick a topic open for discussion.”

  She was on fire and not in a good way. She told herself she didn’t need him. But she did. She argued with the voice inside her head. She didn’t want him. Oh yes, she did. She straightened her spine. She didn’t have to have a man to tickle her fancy. She was perfectly capable, bad hand and all, of tickling her own.

  “I’ll get myself off when you go,” she said.

  Tiffany held up two fingers on her left hand, inserted them
into her mouth, sucked them, mimicking how she would suck his dick, and then slowly pulled them from her plump lips. When she slithered them down the curves of her body only to touch herself between her feminine crease, she thought she had him.

  His right eyebrow arched high. “Come without my permission, and I’ll turn you over my knee and spank your pretty little ass.”

  She glowered at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Try me,” he said.

  Something told her he would follow through. Did she want him to? The last time he’d spanked her, she’d gone off like a firecracker on the Fourth of July.

  She took in his impassiveness, his serious I’m-not-fooling-around kind of demeanor. His eyes snapped. Okay. She might not enjoy the spanking he had in mind. She pouted.

  “You really want to talk?”

  “Yep,” he said.

  She put her hand on her thigh and made a tight fist. She couldn’t believe him. He had turned her down. What kind of hot-blooded guy turned down pussy?

  “Sadist!”

  He hit her with his smirk. “I’ve been called worse, so go ahead and give it all you got. Maybe even throw the hand you have balled up at me, but you’re not going to make me flinch away from knowing you. So either get to swinging or talking…I’d prefer the talking.”

  With an expulsion of air, Tiffany put the robe on correctly and flung herself back against the sectional.

  “Fine,” she huffed. She listened to the silence in the room and couldn’t take it any longer. “Do you like cereal?”

  “Yeah.”

  She stood up. “Well, come on.”

  His brow furrowed. “Where are we going?”

  “To the kitchen to eat Cheerios and talk about the weather.”

  Chapter Ten

  Declan never knew watching a woman eat something as simple and unassuming as Cheerios could be so enticing, but then again, this was Tiffany, the woman who dripped sexuality from her fingertips.

  He observed her from across the dining room table as she sipped milk from her bowl like a naughty kitten, and his cock grew so hard it could burst free of his fly at any moment. He’d be damned if he would ruin things by giving over to the temptation of tugging her body out of the chair, pulling her robe free, and fucking her up against the polished-steel refrigerator doors looming in the background until she screamed his name during her release.