by Cara Bristol
Chapter Two
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 much 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.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Would you like it delivered or will you carry it with you?” She sounded all-business now.
“I think I can handle it.”
“Would you like any paddles with that?” she asked in the same voice a burger flipper would suggest fries as an accompaniment.
“Good idea. Pick one out for me,” he replied. He already owned a cache of implements, but a strong curiosity demanded to see what she would choose.
“Oh, I doubt I’m the right person to do that.”
He approached her until the scent of strawberries teased his nose. “I’ll give you a choice. You can select a paddle or you can tell me why you didn’t tell your aunt the bench was for me.”
“I don’t know why.”
“That’s your answer?” He cocked his head and folded his arms.
She wet her lips and looked everywhere but at him. “What kind of paddle would you prefer?”
“What kind would you recommend?” he countered, knowing full well she had no idea of the differences.
“Well…” Abby moved to the wall where she’d hung the paddles carefully on coat racks. “We have uh, this kind.” She pointed to a smooth wooden ping pong style.
“A solid choice to cover a lot of surface area,” he said. “What else?”
“This one has holes.” She gestured to another.
He shook his head. “Too stingy.” For a beginner. Abby might have a secret spanking fetish, but she was still a virgin, so to speak.
“They’re all here.” Blushing profusely, she swept a graceful arm across the row of paddles like Vanna White lighting up a new Wheel of Fortune puzzle. “And over there.” She gestured to a washstand upon which several more rested and hung from the carved towel holder.
“That one’s leather.” She unhooked a more generous oblong-shaped one, and traced the edge before smoothing her hand over the flat surface. He’d been right about her liking for leather. He suppressed a grin and watched her caress the paddle blade. Her skin appeared pale next to the darkness of the hide, her nails on the short side, but painted pink. Spanked ass pink. He bit back a growl.
“Let me see.” Harris stepped over a pile of wadded newspapers. His cock pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He allowed his gaze to slide down to her chest, rising and falling. Her nipples formed beads underneath her ecru lace poet-style blouse. Leather and lace. Hard and soft. Masculine and feminine. Sexy.
He scanned her face. An answering desire swirled in her hazel eyes, but she wet her lips nervously. Seeing her tiny tongue flick over her lips cinched his intention. He’d offered to buy the bench on a whim, on a fantasy. But he would see her kneeling over it.
As he took the paddle, he allowed a finger to brush against the softness of hers. He squeezed the reinforced handle, testing the grip. Good fit. Abby’s mouth had parted, and her eyes riveted on the implement.
He snapped it against his thigh. CRACK! Abby jumped. His cock ached.
“This one.” He decided. “How much?” Didn’t matter. He’d pay any price. Seeing the fascination on her face made it worth any and every penny she asked.
“Sixty dollars.”
“You don’t need to check with your aunt?” he teased.
“She gave me carte blanche to price smaller items.”
He pulled out his wallet and handed his credit card and the paddle. “I’ll carry the bench to the register.”
Abby scurried to the front and rang up his purchases, using both an old manual cash register and a very modern credit card scanner. With amusement, he watched as she wrapped the paddle in tissue paper as if it was a fine piece of china and then bagged it.
“Thank you for shopping at Auntie Q’s,” she said politely.
Harris tucked his swaddled purchase under his arm, then picked up the bench. She hurried ahead to open the door.
He peered down at her. “Have you ever been spanked, Abby Delaney?” he asked in low voice.
She reddened. “That’s kind of personal isn’t it?”
“I’ll see you at dinner,” he said and left, smiling.
Chapter Three
“Hand me the sugar, please, dear.”
What if Harris Montgomery intended to spank her? What would she do? Since yesterday, Abby had thought of nothing else but that scenario. He’d bought the bench, and his insistence she pick out a paddle had given her the impression she was choosing the implement he would use on her. Her stomach fluttered, and she glanced at Felix, the vintage cat clock with the swishing tale and moving eyes mounted on the kitchen wall. In one hour Harris would arrive. Of course, he wouldn’t spank her tonight. Dinner would be chaperoned by her aunt.
And even if he planned to spank her, that didn’t mean she had to go along with it. Unless she wanted to. Did she?
“Abby, honey. The sugar?” her aunt repeated.
“Oh! Sorry.” She grimaced and passed the bowl.
Her aunt scooped out a measure with a spoon, added it to some white vinegar, and whisked. “Harris is an attractive man, isn’t he?” Aunt Quincy commented.
She didn’t quite hit the target, but close enough. Could everyone in Corbin’s Bend read minds? Did they put some sort of ESP aid in the water? Both times she’d run into Harris, she’d sensed he could see right through her. Now her aunt.
Abby twisted her mouth with amusement. In Aunt Quincy’s case, the touch of ESP could be the function of her third eye, the bindi she’d pasted on her forehead between her plucked eyebrows to accessorize the sari she’d donned. Her aunt had dressed to complement the dinner of cucumber salad, naan, basmati rice and tandoori chicken. An authentic Indian meal. The only thing missing was the actual clay tandoor. Seasoned with a yogurt mixture of garam masala, paprika, turmeric, and cayenne pepper, the chicken slow roasted in a regular oven. Before serving, her aunt would pop it under the broiler.
The baking chicken exuded an irresistible savory aroma, nearly as alluring as Harris’s warm masculine scent. Clean. Woodsy maybe? Come closer, his smell had beckoned.
“He’s handsome,” Abby said matter-of-factly. What would be the point of denying it?
“He reminds me of Joseph. Bless his departed soul.” Aunt Quincy poured the sugared vinegar over a medley of cucumber and onion and tossed
the salad.
“Because he’s good-looking?” Abby took a sip from her glass of pre-dinner wine to settle her nerves.
“Because he’s so clearly a spanko.”
Wine spewed through Abby’s nose. She coughed, her nasal passages burning from the alcohol. Aunt Quincy thumped her on the back.
Upon recovery, Abby said as evenly as she could, “Well, of course. He lives in Corbin’s Bend. Everyone here is.” Even you, she added silently.
Her aunt rocked her head from side to side. “Well, yeah. But like Joseph, Harris would stand out in a crowd. From the moment Joseph entered the diner where I worked, I recognized he would stand by no nonsense, but I was a bit of a wild child in my youth, if you can believe it.”
Abby stared at her aunt’s get-up. “Oh no, Auntie, not you,” she replied drily.
Her aunt laughed. “Joseph asked me out, but of course, I tested him—kept him waiting when he came to pick me up, sometimes I wouldn’t answer his calls. I even stood him up once.”
Abby widened her eyes. “Uh oh.” Her uncle’s heart had been as big as the sky, but he was a law and order man. A cop by profession, he’d also upheld the rules at home.
Aunt Quincy nodded. “Times were different when we were courting. We never slept together before we married, but he burned my bare bottom many times.”
Heat singed Abby’s cheeks. Her aunt had never spoken so openly about their lifestyle and practices.
“I imagine you and Harris will be the same—except for the waiting to have sex part.”
Abby choked. “Aunt Quincy! Please!”
The former wild child had turned into a flamboyant widow. An unrepentant flamboyant widow. “I don’t mean to shock you, dear, but to prepare you for what you can expect.”
“He’s only coming to dinner. And you’re the one who invited him. I’ve only met the man twice!” Sure she’d been spinning possibilities, but her aunt didn’t need to know.
“Twice?” Hawk-eyes focused on her face. “You mean when he helped you move and tonight?”
“Are you done with this?” Abby held up the sugar bowl. At the nod, she returned it to the pantry cupboard along with the vinegar. She delayed, arranging spices and condiments label side out. “He dropped by Auntie Q’s the other day too.”
