by Cara Bristol
If it was the last thing he did, he vowed to buy back Abby’s house and restore her faith in him.
Dale peered into Amore’s large picture window, a perfect frame for his wife’s gentle beauty, a showcase for the smiles and laughter she directed at another man. Jealousy curdled the milkshake he’d slurped down on the drive to Corbin’s Bend.
She’d wasted no time in replacing him!
A voice of reason cut through the anger tightening his gut. He had to accept responsibility for his actions. He had ruined their marriage, and even after losing the love of his life, it still had taken him a while to get his shit together. But he’d found a near fulltime gig moving furniture and occasionally supplemented his income by delivering pizza.
Gambling could be a bitch of a mistress, and she had held his balls in her hand. But he was on top now. He had a big poker tournament coming up that would be his ticket to win Abby back. Despite the interloper—he glared at the asshole sitting across from her, he felt positive. When Lady Luck smiled, you couldn’t lose….
He glanced at Abby. Soon, babe. Soon.
Dale started the ignition.
* * * *
Amid the clack of dishes, the din of conversation and Volare playing though the restaurant speakers, a screech from outside the restaurant caught Harris’s attention in time to spy a rattrap SUV peel away from the curb. He didn’t recognize the vehicle as a local’s. Strange. As it disappeared down the street, it slipped from his mind. More important matters beckoned.
Her eyes sparkling, Abby leaned forward, her sexy lips curving into a happy smile. Her greeting when he arrived to pick her up had been warm and affectionate, and her receptive welcome had turned up the heat on his libido, which had simmered since dinner at Aunt Quincy’s.
“I forgot to ask you,” she said, in a low husky voice. “How did your tournament go?”
“Very well. I beat out most of my opponents.” The 200K he’d won had been worth the ten grand buy-in.
“Where was it held?”
“Vegas,” he answered.
“Wasn’t it a little hot there to play?”
“It’s not too hot yet in May, and I was inside in the A/C most of the time.”
A tiny frown creased her brows, but before he could inquire about it, the waiter appeared with their meals.
“For the lady, eggplant parmesan.” With flourish, the waiter set a dish in front of Abby. “And for the gentleman: sausage, peppers, and polenta.” He served Harris.
A cheese grater appeared in the waiter’s hand. “Would either of you care for some fresh grated Romano?”
“Please,” Abby said, and Harris nodded.
He cranked the grater over their plates, then refilled their wine glasses with Chianti and slipped away.
“It smells wonderful,” Abby said.
“It sure does,” he agreed. She smelled wonderful too, he’d noticed immediately when he picked her up for their date. Like vanilla and flowers. Her scent invited him to bury his face in her neck, and inhale. Instead, he’d been forced to settle for a quick kiss under the watchful eye of Cupid the Dragon. But they were alone now. “I thought of you a lot this week.”
“You did?” Her smile of pleasure turned flirty. “What did you think?”
That he wouldn’t rest until he had her naked in his bed. Over his knee and under his hand. He couldn’t wait to test his hunch that her ass would bloom with color.
He leaned closer. “I thought about…spanking you,” he admitted in a low voice, his discretion more for her comfort than necessity. They were all spankos here, eliminating a need to hide or pretend. He’d noticed several ladies—and a man or two—easing themselves into their seats at the restaurant. But out of deference to Abby’s feelings, he chose to be circumspect.
Arousal sparked in her eyes. If they’d been further along in their dinner, he might have hustled her out of the restaurant. She raised her glass of Chianti to her lips and peered at him over the rim. “Have I been a bad girl?” Huskiness infused her voice.
“Very bad,” he teased. He hoped she wouldn’t order dessert. He planned for her to be dessert.
Abby lowered her lashes and began to eat. She raised a forkful of breaded eggplant to her mouth. After swallowing, she cut another piece and said in the most nonchalant tone, “I tried some of the spanking implements at Auntie Q’s.”
Only his experienced poker face kept him from spewing polenta across the table. Yes, she had been very bad. “And how did you try them?”
“I smacked them against my thigh and my butt.” She twirled long strands of pasta around her fork.
“Which ones?” He riveted his gaze on her face.
She chewed slowly. Very slowly. Swallowed. She took a sip of wine. “Some of the paddles. A leather one, a couple of wooden ones. The ones with holes do sting more. And I tried the flogger thingee.”
“On the bare?” he asked hoarsely. He would never be able to erase the image she conjured. Would never want to.
“I wish,” she said. “But no. I was in the shop. Anybody could have come in.”
Harris shifted in his chair. His erection did not fit well in his trousers. “So how did you like it?”
“I liked imagining you were spanking me.”
God, she was killing him. Or trying to. He leaned back and picked up his wine glass. He swirled the liquid and pretended to study its legs. “You should know two things,” he drawled. “First, I am pleased you are so receptive to the idea of spanking. And second,” he glanced around before returning his gaze to her face, “no one in this restaurant would blink if I bent you over this table and spanked your flirtatious ass.”
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
Harris laughed. “Try me.”
* * * *
What had she unleashed? With confidence in her womanly wiles boosted by memories of their kitchen kisses, Abby had flirted shamelessly in the restaurant. But now that she and Harris had pulled into his garage, courage had fled leaving her to handle the bill. She didn’t know who that brazen woman in Amore had been, but it wasn’t this jumpy innocent clutching the car armrest. My first time going to a man’s house. Would Harris expect sex?
Of course, he would. And based on their conversations, most likely he planned to spank her too. She had assumed she was ready, but now she didn’t know. What had seemed so natural, so thrilling, had turned… scary. Only the lack of a getaway car kept her from turning tail. He’d picked her up, and would have to drive her back to Aunt Quincy’s when she was ready.
Like now?
But he’d opened the passenger side door and waited for her. Abby took a deep breath. Get a grip. Don’t be such a baby. She slid out of the vehicle.
“This way.” He gestured to the cemented path leading to entrance of his house.
If Harris intended to bed her, shouldn’t he have touched her by now? Maybe played a little grab-ass? Perhaps a little aggression, possessiveness would calm her nerves. Abigail, settle down now. On the other hand, any sudden moves had the potential to send her running into the night. But Harris was as suave and polite as he was dominant, and he kept his hands to himself.
But since he hadn’t hesitated to kiss her in her aunt’s kitchen, perhaps this didn’t mean what she’d thought it meant. Maybe he had etchings to show her. Maybe besides owning and running a car wash and playing tennis, he painted. And here’s a lovely one of Corbin’s Bend at sunset…
After unlocking his front door, he motioned for her enter. Despite her panic, she stared with unabashed curiosity. An umbrella and a tennis racket shared the same space in a tall ceramic urn. Given Harris’s professionalism, she would have expected him to take better care of his sporting equipment—but then tennis divas had a reputation for racquet abuse, so she guessed it didn’t matter.
A few steps from the foyer, she sank into the thick shag carpeting of his living room. Perpendicular to a gas fireplace, modern umber leather sofas faced off across a massive stone coffee table. Bold contemporar
y paintings splashed vibrant color onto an otherwise neutral palette. Mounted atop a pedestal in the corner stood a marble piece modern art, but not so abstract she couldn’t recognize a butt when she saw one.
And kitty corner from the ass sculpture stood the antique spanking bench, out of place among the contemporary accoutrements, but perfectly at home considering what she knew of Harris. He liked abstract art, tennis, and spanking. She gulped and turned her attention to the wide sliding doors, blackened by the night. Had Corbin’s Bend been more developed, he would have had a nice view of city lights, but here he overlooked the foothills. In the morning, he probably could catch sight of deer and jackrabbits.
Right now she felt like a nervous long-eared rodent pursued by a hungry coyote. No, that wasn’t fair. She glanced at Harris. By word and deed she’d given him the impression she wanted to be here. She twisted her sweaty hands. Her gaze slid the length of his body from his intense, dark eyes to the breadth of his shoulders, to the bulge in his trousers. She interlocked her fingers and wished in vain she’d had more experience. She hoped she didn’t embarrass herself by doing something stupid. Would he be disappointed if she didn’t come? Sometimes an orgasm happened, sometimes it didn’t, and given her case of nerves the odds were on the latter. Dale had never said anything, but often she’d sensed he’d taken her failure to come as an indictment of his prowess.
Harris brushed her hair away from her shoulder. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he said softly. “We can sit and talk, have a glass a wine.”
She took a breath. “That’s not exactly what I was thinking, but close. Are you psychic?”
He chuckled. “No. But you’re twisting your hands like you’re wringing out a dish rag.”
Abby glanced down. She’d tangled her fingers so tightly her knuckles had blanched. Embarrassed, she unclenched her hands and looked away. “I’m sorry. I’m new at this. You must think I’m an idiot.” After the way she flirted in the restaurant, to freeze up now painted her as a tease or a twit. You’re not ready for the big league.
With a gentle finger beneath her chin, Harris nudged her face toward his. “You’re beautiful and sexy. No pressure.” He kissed her softly.
“Come, sit down.” He took her hand and led her to one of the sofas. She sat, and he aimed a remote at the fireplace making it flare to life. He moved then to a sleek black cabinet and poured a dark coppery liquid from a decanter into two snifters.
“Cognac.” He handed her one and then settled beside her, stretching an arm behind her head and propping his feet on the coffee table. He cupped his glass in his palm and sipped. Relaxed and casual—like he brought a woman home every day.
Abby swirled her brandy, and sniffed. Rich. Warm. Like a sultry perfume. She took a hesitant swallow. A pleasant burn followed the path of liquid from throat to stomach. “Heady stuff.”
“Yes,” His eyes glittered, and she realized he feigned relaxation for her benefit.
This is what you wanted, so stop acting like such a baby. She took another sip of liquid courage. Heat seeped into her sinuses. “You can kiss me if you like,” she offered.
“Oh, I can?” His teeth flashed white, and his cheeks dimpled. “Why don’t you kiss me?”
Holding her glass steady, she leaned close and brushed her lips against his mouth. With her free hand, she trailed her fingers along his jaw. Growing bolder, she teased the seam of his lips with her tongue. His groan infused her with daring, and when he opened his mouth, she ventured inside.
He tangled one hand in her hair, crushing her curls, but letting her set the pace of their kiss. “You taste like cannoli,” he murmured against her mouth.
Abby smiled. “You do too.” She traced the edge of his V-neck sweater, wrapped a whorl of hair around her finger.
They continued to kiss while holding their drinks, but as caresses became bolder and heated, it required acrobatic juggling to keep from spilling. But she had lost her nervousness and was game to experience whatever he wanted to show her.
Abruptly, Harris broke contact, lifted her drink from her unresisting fingers and set hers and his both on the coffee table. He hauled her into his arms and plundered her mouth in earnest. Abby kissed him back and then twisted her head away to press her lips along his jaw. “I’m, uh, okay now,” she said.
“Good.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
Did he understand what she meant? “I mean about sleeping with you.” Abby paused. Inhaled. “With being spanked. And everything.” She exhaled.
He slid his hand under her hair to cup her throat, then caressed her jaw with his thumb. “Everything would be a lot.” His eyes smiled.
Abby jabbed his chest with her finger. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.” He teasingly poked her back, then covered her breast, located the nipple. The hardened tip beaded more.
His face sobered. “Give me a word that means no or stop.”
“What’s wrong with no or stop—oh, you mean, like a safeword.”
“I doubt you’ll need it, but in the heat of the moment no may not mean no. If something hurts more than you can take or makes you uncomfortable, you need to tell me. The word should be something you wouldn’t say during sex.”
Her stomach fluttered with scary thrilling excitement at the prospect that she could possibly need a safeword. Missionary position sexual intercourse with one’s spouse after the eleven o’clock news rarely (never) required a safeword. Now when she needed a one, her vocabulary failed her. Perhaps it was good they were having this conversation.
“Matelassé,” she said finally.
“Is that an antique?”
“It’s a bed coverlet,” she said. “But if it’s not a good word…”
He chuckled. “No, it’s good. I doubt it will come up in conversation.”
Abby fluttered her lashes. “You don’t think I would say, ‘I’m naked and cold, pull up the matelassé?’”
“Naked. I like that part,” he said. “But you won’t need a matelassé. I’ll keep you warm.” Harris pulled her close and tight and kissed her.
He was right. Chest to chest, his mouth on hers, they produced more than enough heat. She squeaked when he scooped her up and cradled her on his lap. Definitely no need for a matelassé. Harris made full use of the opportunity, spreading heady kisses from her mouth to her jaw, her throat. He caressed her body, stroking her neck, her shoulder, her breast through her clothing. With the sundress, she’d been unable to wear a bra, and the peak of her nipple tented the fabric. He circled the bud with his thumb, igniting an ache that tugged at her core.
Abby snaked a hand underneath his sweater, reveled in the contrast to her body. Hard instead of soft, rough rather than smooth. She curled her fingers into his chest hair and dragged her lips across his throat, his shadow causing her mouth to tingle.
Harris ran his hand along her thigh over her dress, then slipped under the hem. Awareness skittered, and her breath caught in her throat as he moved his hand higher. He cupped her ass over her panties. Squeezed.
A moan of pleasure trembled on her lips.
A smile lit his face with traces of devilment and lust, but also affection. He was so damned cute. And sexy. The combination of boyish fun and masculine intent ignited flutters of excitement, and the indecision melted. While kissing her, he continued to caress her buttocks and legs, kneading and stroking, creating a heated throb between her thighs.
“You have a nice ass,” he whispered.
“Mm,” she murmured. “Glad you like it.”
After another hard kiss, he shifted her again so that she lay butt up over his lap, elbows on one side, knees on the other. What a strategist. By having her sit in the middle of the sofa, he’d plotted ahead to this moment. Devious.
Is he going to spank me now? Her heart hammered with returning trepidation.
But his hand, when he brought it down, did not strike, but caressed, drawing slow circles over her clothing. His sensual massage calmed
her ruffled nerves, yet cranked up her libido. Of course, his erection, digging into her hip had its effect too.
A breath of cool air wafted across her bare legs when he flipped her dress over her waist.
Thank goodness she’d worn decent panties. She’d wavered between a thong and bikinis, and ended up opting for the latter, not sure she wanted her naked ass to be the first thing he saw. But then he slipped a finger underneath the elastic band.
“These need to come off.”
The moment of truth. She swallowed. “Okay.” She counted as one woman among Harris’s many playmates. One small step for him, but one giant leap for her. Her participation in this sexual spanking escapade meant she was leaving behind her loss and the trauma of her divorce to sail forth into unchartered territory. Fortunately, a very capable captain had his hands on the helm.
And her panties.
At his tug, she raised her hips, and he pulled her underwear down her legs and over her sandaled feet. Equal parts embarrassment and excitement flooded her body with heat—and moisture. She hoped she didn’t leave a huge wet spot on his slacks. From her position on the sofa, she could spy the spanking bench. He’d kind of implied they wouldn’t be using that, hadn’t he? But if he asked her to, she would.
She jumped when Harris palmed her ass cheek: He chuckled. Her pussy quivered.
Almost like she had the flu, her sensitive skin registered each stroke, each squeeze. Fever consumed her, yet his hand felt hotter still as he kneaded her bottom.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
Aside from being caught in a tangle of confusion and lust? “Fine,” she answered. “I mean, I like what you’re doing,” she amended. ‘Fine’ sufficed when a grocery store checker who didn’t care asked how you were. When a sexy, hot guy squeezed your naked ass causing your pussy to shudder, ‘fine’ didn’t cut the mustard.
He continued to massage and knead, alternating soft squeezes with harder ones bordering on pain, but that suffused her body with pleasure and yearning. More. She needed more, and began to wiggle. He clamped his arm across her waist, holding her steady, and then smacked her ass.
