Long Shot (Corbin's Bend Book 5)

by Cara Bristol

  She glowered. “I just exited a marriage. I’m not seeking to jump into another one.”

  “You feel like that today,” he said. “But time will pass, and you’ll start thinking white lace and flowers, and you need be aware I don’t ever intend to go there.”

  “Don’t tell me how I feel,” she snapped.

  “Fair enough,” he conceded, as his control over the situation slipped away. Hell, he’d never had it. He’d botched this from the onset. He wished he could start this conversation anew.

  Temper turned her expression mulish.

  “Abby, listen.” He took her hand. She didn’t resist, but she didn’t curl her fingers into his either. “Marriage doesn’t work in my family. My parents have had more spouses than most people have pets in their lifetime. My sister, who is a year older than you, is already divorcing her third husband—or maybe he’s divorcing her. Too many marriages have failed in my family.”

  “My parents have a happy marriage. And so did Uncle Joe and Aunt Quincy.”

  The fortunate, lucky few. And while chance played a role in poker, winning arose more from skill, the ability to psych out one’s opponent. But Harris had no skills for marriage, which required forming a collaborative partnership. He knew his strengths and his limitations. He was not cut from the cloth that could be sewn into marriage material.

  The waitress delivered their order, and Harris didn’t know whether to be relieved or irritated by the intrusion. “Can I get you anything else? Another beer?” she asked.

  “No, we’re fine. Thank you.” Harris willed her to leave.

  Abby stared at her plate like she considered shoving it away and charging out of the restaurant. After the bomb he’d dropped he wouldn’t blame her.

  “I’ll understand, if under the circumstances you decide to cut your losses and don’t want to see me anymore,” he said, his stomach knotting. He had not expected the afternoon to take this turn. This was what happened when a person failed to predict the outcome. When you allowed your mouth to race ahead of your brain. But broaching the subject had been the correct thing to do. The longer he waited, the greater the chance of hurting her. The intimacies they’d already experienced together required full disclosure and demanded it sooner rather than later.

  She sighed and poked at the tortilla-wrapped steak with her fork. The burritos were too big to pick up.

  “No, I want to see you,” she said.

  Harris released a silent sigh of relief.

  “Marriage hadn’t entered my head,” Abby continued. “It’s far too soon in this thing we have to think that way. But your pronouncement has raised questions. I’m trying to picture what form a relationship would take.” She cut into her burrito.

  At any other time, this would have been his cue to raise the subject of domestic discipline. But the first part of his relationship discussion hadn’t gone over well. He hoped she had some inkling already. To not realize DD was the practiced norm in Corbin’s Bend would be like moving into a retirement community and being surprised by the senior citizens.

  He knew his requirements. Marriage-no. Spanking and discipline-yes. Before they progressed, he had to determine what her needs were—or what she would agree to. But how much more could he push it? Too much information too soon could undermine their fragile foundation, which had become shakier in the past hour. He’d handled the marriage discussion with all the finesse of an airport baggage handler. Not what he expected of himself. No wonder she had concerns. At least Abby was calmly eating lunch. She hadn’t stormed out or tossed the contents of her water glass in his face. He’d take the absence of a negative as a positive.

  “The shape and form of our relationship is something we need to discuss and negotiate so both of us are fulfilled. I know what I want, but you have to tell me what you need.”

  “Do you expect a domestic discipline arrangement?” She cut to the chase, surprising him by her forthrightness and that her expression appeared smooth, unreadable. At a crucial moment, his perceptive abilities failed.

  “Would you be amendable?”

  “What would be involved?”

  “For starters, I would expect you to answer my question before you asked one of your own.”

  Abby held her ground. “You didn’t answer my original question,” she pointed out.

  Fair enough. “Yes, I would like a domestic discipline relationship.”

  “I need more details about your expectations before I can answer your question.”

  He nodded. “We would talk matters over, like we’re doing now, but I will have the final say. I would set some basic rules based on what I believe is best for you. If you break one, you’ll be disciplined. It may or may not involve spanking.” He scanned her face for a reaction. The absence of outrage, fear or shock reassured him. So far so good.

  She tilted her head. “So because you’re the man you get to set the rules?” she asked with more curiosity than heat.

  He shook his head. “No. It has nothing to do with male and female, but because structure would benefit us both. It won’t be something I impose on you, but something you have agreed to.

  “Domestic discipline is consensual, and it boils down to what motivates us as individuals, where we fit, what clicks for us. Leading, being the dominant in the relationship, is where I fit. It’s natural to me.” He looked at Abby. “Cross your arms, please.”

  She arched her eyebrows, but laid down her fork and folded her arms. Such a simple, revealing act. A rush of heat warmed him from the inside out.

  “Now, unfold your arms and cross them the other way,” he instructed.

  She did as he asked, but paused for a second as if she had to think about it. Then she tucked her left over her right.

  “You may uncross.”

  Abby picked up her fork, but peered at him with a question in her eyes.

  “The way you crossed your arms, right over left happened naturally, didn’t it? But the other way wasn’t as comfortable. That’s how I feel in my role as head of household or the leader of a relationship. It’s automatic. And for the taken in hand, submission occurs the same way.

  “Like it did with you, by the way. My request had aroused your curiosity, but that didn’t deter your obedience.”

  Abby rolled her eyes, a spankable offense if they’d been farther along in their relationship. Desire contracted in his gut. Domestic discipline for him could be serious or erotic. He didn’t expect a paragon as a playmate, didn’t want a woman so perfect she never gave him a reason to spank her.

  Small moments of rebellion, of willfulness, spiced up a relationship.

  “How does folding one’s arms when asked differ from handing over the shaker when someone says ‘pass the salt.’ It’s common courtesy.” She pursed her lips in doubt.

  He could have pointed out the swiftness and eagerness with which she’d presented her bare bottom to be spanked and talked about how wet she’d gotten, but that wouldn’t be gentlemanly. “Why don’t we explore the parameters together,” he suggested.

  They resumed eating, but Harris could almost see the wheels spinning in Abby’s head, churning out questions.

  She’d consumed about half her burrito when she pushed it aside. “So what kind of rules are we talking about?”

  “We would focus on respect, honesty and obedience, as well as safety, but as our relationship matures, as I come to know you better, they’ll be based on specifics geared to your personality and needs. I’m not the type to toss out arbitrary edicts. You mentioned common courtesy before, really that’s all it is. Manners.”

  But he would ensure he challenged her a little. He saw no benefit to craft a rule around something she did anyway. If she curled up in bed by 10 p.m., little would be gained by giving her a curfew.

  “What if I don’t need discipline?”

  “Do you know anyone who doesn’t?”

  She conceded his point with a shake of her head, but then asked, “What about you?”

  “Good quest
ion. By accepting responsibility, I grow in my leadership.” He grinned. “Think of it as OJT—on the job training.”

  “What if you tell me to do something, and I think you’re wrong?”

  “I will always listen to you, Abby, but as I said, I will have the final say.”

  “What about my safeword?”

  “If you reach your limit, use it. But otherwise, I’ll expect you to respect the roles we’ve agreed upon. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t expect you will earn many punishment spankings, but when you do, they won’t be fun, and you shouldn’t expect them to be.”

  ****

  Matelassé, matelassé! MATELASSÉ!

  Would he chase her if she threw down her napkin and sprinted from restaurant? Abby couldn’t remember the last time she felt this nervous—or excited. All the talk of discipline, rules, spanking had soaked her panties. She’d always considered herself to be a bit prissy and full of starch, but her insides had melted into a puddle of submissive goo.

  She didn’t fear Harris or his rules or his discipline, but her response. He’d hit the nail on the head about fitting into the right role in the relationship. Could she have been searching for that kind of guidance all along? No one had accepted Uncle Joe and Aunt Quincy’s lifestyle with the ease she had. While her aunt and uncle never practiced it openly—she’d never overhead the slaps and thwacks of a hardcore spanking—but she had spied Uncle Joe deliver a love pat to Aunt Quincy’s well-padded behind. Hadn’t there been a hint of envy, of longing to be on the receiving end of such affection from the man in her life?

  Hadn’t she loved visiting not just them, but the community of Corbin’s Bend?

  Harris appeared impassive, but she’d caught the gleam in his eye. He wanted to spank her as much as she craved to be spanked by him.

  Still, she hesitated. He had made it plain punishment would be no walk in the park, and that scared her a little. But wet panties did not lie. The concept of punishment excited her. A man who set standards and stood by them? No small matter, and sexy as hell.

  He’d vetoed marriage. He’d been so opposed, it had thrown her. One could not control what the heart craved. Still, she’d gotten the message loud and clear, thank you, sir.

  Would he expect her to call him sir? Why did that prospect cause excited flutters?

  She wet her lips nervously as Harris leaned forward. “Whatever is causing your cheeks to blush invites me to lay you over my knee right here and spank your bottom until the color matches.”

  She gasped in shock, but a thrill shot through her to even fantasize about engaging in such a public spectacle. He was joking wasn’t he? She peeked at his face. The man gave nothing away. She was not as adept as he at reading emotions—nor at hiding her own.

  What would be the harm in trying DD? She had an escape hatch—whatever she and Harris did would be temporary. She wasn’t locked into a relationship with him. What did she have to lose? Adventures in discipline. She could approach it as a game.

  Remove my panties? Yes, sir. Thwack! Oh sir, I’ve been so naughty.

  If he became overbearing or she didn’t like him bossing her around, she’d walk away.

  Abby took a breath. “I would like to give domestic discipline a try.”

  Chapter Seven

  One month later

  Without crossing her eyes, Abby couldn’t see the coin, but imagined she could smell the copper as she pressed the penny to the wall with her nose. She did detect the faint odor of paint since Harris’s home was one of the newer buildings. Stronger still was the scent of arousal. Interesting how dread and trepidation mixed together could create lust.

  Her first punishment was about to occur. Abby shivered with anticipation. No longer a spanking novice, she and Harris had played quite bit, and she’d even gotten to where she could read his expression sometimes, could recognize a particular glint in his eye that meant her panties would soon puddle around her ankles and she’d be bottom up over his lap—or crouched on the spanking bench. But those times had been for fun.

  This would be different.

  Such a little thing, a shush. She and Harris had enjoyed a quiet evening. With jazz drifting over his sound system, they had curled up on his sofa with their reading material. Harris with a news magazine, she with a spicy romance novel. He’d interrupted her twice with comments about an article. She was getting to the good part in her book—the sex scene—when Harris made another remark. Another interruption.

  “Sh!” she’d said without thinking, without the realization of what she’d done until a chill rolled into the room.

  Then his quiet voice: “What did you say to me?”

  She had snapped her gaze to his face, a squiggle of guilt inching over her. “Nothing.” Pause. “I’m sorry.”

  “And why would you be sorry for nothing?”

  He had her there. How could she argue? She knew which rule she’d violated. Yes, he’d given her some. Printed them out, signed by him in his illegible masculine scrawl and by her in her loopy script. Topping the list at Rule No. 1 he’d written, “When we are together, you will listen and give me your full attention.”

  She could admit she needed some work on that. She’d become so jaded by Dale’s empty promises, she developed a habit of ignoring him, of focusing on her concerns, living in her head. She hadn’t intended disrespect to Harris, but she’d been tuned into herself and her book and allowed the irritation of the moment to speak for her.

  Before she could fashion a defense, Harris had set aside his magazine. “Please go into the bedroom and remove your clothing, and stand in the corner and wait for me.” From his pocket, he fished a penny so bright and shiny it could have been minted yesterday. “Hold this to the wall with your nose.”

  A penny for your thoughts. She’d never think of pennies the same way again.

  A breath of air whispered over her bare backside signaling Harris had entered the bedroom. Her skin tingled with awareness.

  “Turn around, please.” In his displeasure, he’d become even more polite as if to model the behavior he expected.

  Abby stepped back, tried to catch the penny before it fell, but it landed on the soft carpet. She bent to pick it up but Harris stopped her. “Leave it,” he said. “Come here.”

  Simple commands. Easy to follow. No need to think. Training, she realized. With every word, every deed he meant to instill obedience, respect.

  She swayed on her feet before him. Her inner thighs felt sticky from the moisture that leaked from her excited pussy, but her knees trembled with nervousness.

  “Are you scared?” he asked.

  “A-a little.” She peered up at him. Damn, he seemed big. Tall. Broad.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “For being scared?”

  “For being honest.”

  Wouldn’t want to compound my crime. Telling the truth was Rule No. 2.

  “Tell me why you deserve to be punished.”

  Abby wet her lips. The flash of heat she saw in his gaze settled her churning stomach a little, but had the opposite effect on her clenching pussy. Eroticism and discipline entwined. “Because I shushed you. Because I acted as if my book was more important than you, and I did not give you my complete attention.”

  “Correct,” he replied. “Please lie on the bed, on your back and hold your knees against your chest.”

  To be the center of his attention—his disapproval—was discomforting enough, but as she raised her legs and clasped her arms behind her thighs, the extent of her humiliating exposure hit her. When she stretched out over his lap, he could see only her buttocks and an occasional flash of pussy. Like this, she displayed everything—her butt, her pussy—and the betraying moisture slickening her folds and trickling over her rosette, also visible.

  Her body belonged to him. All of it. To do with as he pleased.

  Such a little thing, a shush. Such big consequences.

  He towered over her beside the bed, his face unreadable. Something
else she’d noticed about him—how he shielded his emotions, revealing only what he chose to disclose. She’d never perfected that skill, and he was more attuned to the nuances of expressions than most. And to what motivated her. He coaxed her obedience so it appeared to be her deepest desire all along.

  Perhaps it was. Why else would she position herself like this? She gazed into his eyes, heart palpitating, body vibrating. Without warning, his hand landed on her ass in a caress. She flinched. He smoothed his palm over her cheeks, exploring the flesh that was his to stroke or to redden.

  He fondled the roundness with a gentle squeeze, and skimmed his hand over her thigh. Her body flushed with anticipation and portent, quivering inside. She poised on an inhale, waiting for sudden movement, the punishing kiss.

  He trailed one finger the length of her slit and up again, the easy slip and slide, offering more evidence of her arousal. He toyed with the nub at the top of her sex, flicking it, circling it as if his motive were exploration. “Please…” the entreaty slipped from her lips.

  “Please, what?” His finger poised at her entrance now.

  Abby bit her lip, rocked her head from side to side. “I don’t know.”

  “Please fuck you?” he asked. He eased a digit into her channel, stroked. His gaze bore into hers, desire hewn on his face. Her heart soared, and she dropped her gaze to the length of his body. His cock tented his slacks.

  He removed his finger and before she could fathom what he might do next, a slap stung her pussy. Abby jackknifed and squealed.

  “No.” Harris scolded in a quiet voice, pressed her legs back against her abdomen and rebuked her with several sharp slaps to her sex.