by Cara Bristol
She could hear Felix tick in the silence that hovered over the kitchen. Then: “He purchased the spanking bench, didn’t he?” Her aunt chortled with delight and clapped her hands. “Wonderful.”
“I’ll set the table.” Abby fled the kitchen.
* * * *
“The flowers you brought are so lovely, and gerbera daisies are a particular favorite of mine,” Aunt Quincy said and eyed the sideboard with the bouquet of sunny blooms. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. They seemed to suit you,” Harris answered, but looked at Abby to whom he’d presented three perfect sweet smelling pink roses.
“Where should I sit?” Harris stood tall, casual, and scrumptious in a pair of gray flannel slacks and a blue cotton sweater. A dusting of chest hair peeked above the V, and Abby imagined how springy it would feel to curl her fingers in it. Her ex, the hairless weasel, had had a chest as smooth as a baby’s bottom. She couldn’t resist comparing the two men, and couldn’t fail to notice Harris emerged on top when she did. Nor could she stop remembering their last interaction and his purchases.
“A man’s place is at the head of the table.” Aunt Quincy directed him.
He waited until she and her aunt had taken their seats before he sat, appearing at ease, comfortable as if he belonged. Head of the table. Head of household. Abby pressed a hand to her stomach to quell the flutters.
Aunt Quincy peered at her. “You look flushed, dear.”
Abby fanned her face. “The kitchen. The heat,” she lied. Until ten minutes ago, she’d been trying and discarding outfits until she settled for a pair of black leggings, tall riding boots, and an off the shoulder animal print tunic she’d paired with a black leather belt. She hadn’t been happy with that ensemble either, but had run out of time to change. His knock had come as she’d attached gold hoops to her ears.
Her aunt opened her mouth like she intended to comment further so Abby shot her a pleading look.
Thankfully, she seemed to get the hint because she smiled at Harris. “I’m so glad you could join us.”
“Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Lauder.”
“Oh, please, call me Aunt Quincy.”
“Aunt Quincy,” he repeated and received a beaming smile in return. “Everything smells wonderful,” he said.
“Thank you. I love to cook.” Aunt Quincy passed the platter of chicken to Harris. “My niece is an excellent cook also.”
Abby cringed at the blatant sales pitch. Poor Harris. Poor her.
“Do you cook often?” Harris looked her way as he forked a chicken hindquarter onto his plate.
He gripped the heavy platter with ease, his large hands dwarfing the serving fork. She eyed his choice of chicken. Drumstick and thigh. Did that mean he was a leg man? As a spanko, he probably preferred butts, and one’s legs extended from one’s derrière, so that would make sense. On the other hand, buttocks were rounded like breasts, and maybe a man’s choice of chicken parts held no correlation to what he liked in a woman. What had he asked her?
“Is it too warm in here?” Aunt Quincy peered across the table. “You’re still flushed. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
“I’m fine, Aunt Quincy.” Damn her fair skin.
“You look very pretty with a bit of color in your cheeks,” Harris said.
Double entendre? Her gaze shot to his face. He appeared innocent, except for a glint in his eyes. “Thank you,” she answered. Was she reading too much into the twinkle, imagining a suggestiveness in his comment? Maybe her sneaking suspicion that Aunt Quincy and Harris Montgomery were double-teaming her had arisen because she wanted him to be interested in her. Could it be she wearied of conventionality, playing it safe? Had she, like her aunt, dressed the part? Had she chosen this outfit because it signified an escape from her tame little world? A chance to go wild? The top had been a gift, but she’d never worn it because leopard seemed so out of character for a silk and lace kind of girl.
Rawrr!
Cooking. That was it. He’d asked her if she liked to cook. “I’m not as adventurous as Aunt Quincy. I’m more of a comfort food cook.” She stabbed a piece of tandoori chicken and passed the platter to her aunt. A basket of naan, Indian flatbread, headed her way, and she took a piece.
“Like what?” Harris scooped cucumber salad onto his plate and handed her the serving dish.
“Chicken and dumplings, beef stew, lasagna.”
He held the bowl of fragrant Basmati rice, waiting as Abby served herself the salad. “Thank you,” she said and relieved him of his burden.
When her aunt finished dishing up her plate, they began to eat.
Harris bit into his chicken and an expression of pleasure stole across his face. “Mmm. Excellent,” he said, gesturing with his fork.
“Not too spicy?” Aunt Quincy asked.
“Perfect. A bit of heat enlivens most experiences.” He looked at Abby. “And your favorite thing to cook is…”
“Macaroni and cheese,” she answered sheepishly.
“Why do you say it like that?”
She shrugged. “It’s kiddie food, isn’t it?”
“It’s comfort. Isn’t that what people seek in life? A balance of homey satisfaction and excitement? Mac and cheese and tandoori chicken. Both fulfill needs.”
“Exactly,” Aunt Quincy chimed in.
“Besides, how is macaroni and cheese different from fettuccine alfredo? For a man who eats take-out and canned tuna most of the time, homemade macaroni and cheese sounds like heaven to me.”
A hint? Abby took a breath. “I’d be happy to cook macaroni and cheese for you.”
“It’s a date then.”
Aunt Quincy beamed smugly, and Abby could see her notch her invisible belt.
Harris had brought a bottle of pinot grigio, which they enjoyed with dinner, but it was his company that gave Abby a buzz. Every nerve ending received jolts of awareness from his closeness. She tried not to be obvious as she took note of his features. The sprinkle of hair above his sweater. The size and strength of his hands. The rumble of his laugh, his dimples, the gleaming lock of hair that kept falling over his forehead. The way he seemed to study her also.
Under his scrutiny, she became conscious of every move. Her posture, her hair brushing her neck, her bottom pressing on the chair, the tingle between her thighs, how her hand shook as she held her fork or lifted the wine glass to her lips.
She giggled at his stories of teenage escapades, but squirmed when her aunt chimed in with tales of Abby’s exploits. After dinner, Abby served coffee and the lemon cake she had baked.
“If your macaroni and cheese is half as good as this dessert, I’m in for a real treat.” Harris praised her efforts with a heated glance that warmed her.
“Thank you.” She ducked her head, suddenly shy. It had been too long since a man had paid her positive attention. She and Dale had married a week after high school graduation. But their young love, so full of promise, had withered under their marriage difficulties, and only barbs and taunts remained when they divorced seven years later. How good it felt to be on the receiving end of a man’s admiration for a change.
When Aunt Quincy began the clear the table. Abby stood to assist, but her aunt waved her away. “Why don’t you two have another glass of wine or a cup of coffee in the living room? I’ll take care of the dishes.”
“Point out what can and can’t go in the dishwasher, and I’ll do the clean-up,” Harris said.
Aunt Quincy shook her head. “You’re a guest. I’ll do them.”
“Absolutely not,” he insisted. “I won’t hear of it. You prepared a lovely dinner. The cook shouldn’t have to do the dishes too.” The helpfulness of his offer did not hide the hint of steel beneath it.
He sounded like her late Uncle Joe when he put his foot down. As head of household, Uncle Joe gave Aunt Quincy great leeway to spin circles around their home and community, but when he decided she needed to settle and listen, she obeyed. Harris’s quiet offer had the
same effect now.
“Very well. I would like to put my feet up. Thank you.”
“I’ll help him Aunt Quincy,” Abby answered, but checked with Harris for confirmation.
He nodded. “That will be fine.” And then he winked.
“We’ll join you when we’re finished.” She picked up the stack of plates.
“Take your time, dear,” her aunt replied as if urging her to run off and have some fun.
In short order, they cleared the table. In the kitchen, Abby prepared to scrape the plates, but Harris leaned his backside against the counter and grabbed her hand. “Hey,” he said, and drew her to stand between his legs. He threaded his fingers between hers.
“Hey,” she repeated, her heart thumping hard.
Harris slid his hand under her hair and cupped her face, his touch warm, slightly rough against her skin. Oh God, he’s going to kiss me. Every nerve ending sizzled. Her breath caught in her chest. The kitchen seemed to spin as his head descended. He brushed his lips against hers. Pressed gently. Teased. Then coaxed her mouth to open with a flick of his tongue.
She parted her lips, and he laid claim with a gentle but thorough exploration. He tangled his fingers in her hair, released her hand and wrapped an arm around her waist to bring her closer. Her stomach bumped against his erection, and a shivery thrill raced through her.
Harris tasted like spicy tandoori chicken, sweet and tart lemon cake, and masculinity. His scent mingled with his kiss to wrap her in comfort and excitement. She twined her arms around his neck, and surrendered to his kisses. It felt so good to be held, to be touched to be appreciated—and by a man who knew how to do it.
She hoped he didn’t find her lacking. Other than with Dale, her experience amounted to a few stolen pecks at boy-girl parties during her early teens. So no experience that counted.
He broke away to lean his forehead against hers. “I’ve wanted to do that all evening,” he said.
“I wanted you to,” she answered.
He moved in for another kiss.
“Do you need any help in there?” Aunt Quincy called from the other room, and Abby jumped.
“We’re doing fine, Aunt Quincy,” Harris yelled back, his eyes glinting with humor.
She didn’t find it as amusing as he did.
“Are you sure?” Her aunt asked.
“He’s sure. We’ve got it covered,” Abby shouted.
“I wish she’d decide whether she’s going to play cupid or guardian dragon,” Abby muttered.
“She plays both well,” Harris murmured.
“It’s like she has a sixth sense or something.”
“ESP,” he agreed in a hushed voice.
“Why are we whispering?” Abby asked, keeping her volume low.
“Because Cupid the Dragon is in the other room,” he mouthed.
Abby giggled. Laughter caught in her throat when Harris slid his palm under her loose-fitting top and splayed his hand over her lower back. His thumb drew lazy circles. “And because you’re so sexy when you think you’re acting sneaky.” He dove in for another kiss and cupped her ass cheeks, pulling her against the cradle of his hips. Against her tummy, his erection stretched long and thick.
His breath teased her senses as his tongue played with her mouth.
Abby moaned. When Harris came up for air, she hooked her fingers into the V of his sweater, touching skin and curly hair. She wound a springy whorl around her finger. Marshalling her courage, she peered at him through her lashes. “Do you plan to spank me?” she asked, as if kneading her ass didn’t provide enough of a clue.
“Yes. How do you feel about that?”
Like she’d transformed into pudding or something equally gooey. Like she very much needed to lean against him because her legs wouldn’t support her.
“I think I would like to try it,” she admitted, and watched as a flame ignited in his eyes. She wet her suddenly dry lips. “Will you…will you, uh, use the spanking bench?”
“I bought it with you in mind, but we won’t use it until you’re ready. We’ll start easy and slow. An over-the-knee hand spanking. I want your first time to be intimate, more pleasure than pain.”
Ruthless butterflies beat their wings in her stomach, but her panties dampened. She pressed her thighs together. How could something so scary be so exciting? “When?”
“Soon.” He lifted his hands from her ass to her waist. “Waiting is like foreplay. It’s part of the anticipation. Do you trust me to decide when that is?”
The way she felt right now, if he asked her to jump off a bridge she’d probably do it. She nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Approval flared. “Good. Trust is very important. I promise I won’t hurt you, Abby.”
“Isn’t it supposed to hurt?”
“Yes, but in a good way. Not all pain is the same.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth, and set her away from him. “Let’s get these dishes done before your aunt investigates.”
While he rinsed, she loaded.
“I’m going out of town for a tournament for a few days,” he said.
“A tournament? Wow! I’m impressed.” She’d assumed he played tennis for fun. “So you play professionally?” She supposed there were tourneys for amateurs, but wasn’t up on the tennis world.
“Yes, I play for money.” He made wry face. “Of course I don’t always take home the big purse, but I win more than I lose. The car wash has turned out to be lucrative, but for a long time, tournaments accounted for my sole source of income.”
Harris added a dish tab to the machine, shut the door, and started it up.
“How long will you be gone?” Abby asked.
“A few days. May I see you on Friday? I’d like to take you to dinner.”
Abby cocked her head to the side. “You don’t want me to make macaroni and cheese?”
“Oh yes, but not on our first official alone date.”
Abby giggled. “Not a double date with Aunt Quincy?”
“I like your aunt. She’s a nice lady. I liked your Uncle Joe too. But no, we should solo next time.”
Abby’s pulse raced with possibilities, probabilities. A week ago she’d sought a place to hide, could not have imagined dating so soon. Now, she counted the days until she could see him again. Kiss him and more. Would he try to spank her on their date? Would she let him?
She didn’t know if she’d like the pain part, but her body tingled when she contemplated lying across this man’s lap. Abby tossed the dish rag with which she’d been wiping the counters into the sink.
Harris stalked toward her and stopped before their bodies touched. Heat radiated off him, blazed in his eyes. “Does dating me make you nervous?”
Dating. Kissing. Spanking. Having sex with a man other than Dale. All of it. She might be able to fake poise and nonchalance, but for how long? Besides, lying would get her nowhere but into trouble. The man could read her like a book. “A little,” she admitted.
“Because of spanking?”
“Partly. And because dating in general is big step for me.” She twisted her hands. “But I like you,” she admitted. Her experience with Dale had undermined her self-confidence. When you thought you knew a person, and everything you believed turned out wrong, how could you trust again? It wasn’t only Dale who had failed her, so had her judgment.
But one mistake didn’t mean she should cut herself off from all men for her entire life. She was a normal, healthy woman with an active libido. And an even richer fantasy life, if she cared to tell the whole truth. Shouldn’t life be an adventure? She did not plan to creep through the years like an old lady on a Sunday drive, but throw herself into new experiences with heart and soul so her last words were, “Woo hoo! What a ride.”
A hunch told her Harris could give her that ride.
“We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.” Harris brushed a knuckle over her cheek. He’d misunderstood her hesitation. But his small touch incinerated her reservations. She swayed toward him, and he caught h
er, crushed her mouth under his. When he released her, he left her breathless. “We’d better rejoin your aunt,” he said hoarsely.
He held open the swinging kitchen door, and Abby preceded him into the living room.
“Well, there you are!” Aunt Quincy said. “I feared you two had gotten lost…”
Chapter Four
Dale Delaney tugged his ball cap low over his forehead and slumped in the front seat of his SUV and surveyed Amore, the Italian restaurant across the street. Three people had stopped to ask if he needed assistance. He doubted friendliness motivated their inquiry. “May I help you,” was code for, “Who are you and why are you here?” Assholes. It was none of their damn business!
He didn’t understand how Abby could stand living in a town as provincial as Corbin’s Bend. He didn’t know much about the community, other than it was located in the middle of nowhere. Conscious of Quincy’s and Joe Lauder’s silent reproach, he’d found excuses to avoid accompanying his wife on her visits to Corbin’s Bend during their marriage. In retrospect, it would be hard to prove the Lauders wrong in their disapproval since he’d fucked up so royally. He’d hurt Abby and destroyed their marriage, ruining the best thing to ever happen to him. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her in their ninth grade social studies class he’d coveted her attention, her smiles, her love. Until gambling seized him and awakened an insatiable lust. Desperation had driven him to violate his best intentions, his heartfelt promises. Out of love and trust, Abby had put his name on the deed to the house she inherited from her maternal grandmother, and he’d used it as collateral for a loan so he could enter a high stakes poker game.
He lost the game, the house and Abby.
Climbing out of the hole he’d dug for himself had proven much harder than falling in, but he had curtailed playing online poker by virtue of the fact that that his internet service provider had disconnected his account for nonpayment.
