He adjusted his stance, pulling me that much closer into it, encouraging me to lean against him as his arms tightened just slightly around me.
And I did, my tummy encountering a hardness I hadn't expected, but didn't flinch from.
Deck cupped my cheeks, holding me still for a much deeper, more passionate kiss that practically left me in a puddle at his feet.
But when he raised his head, he did something I couldn't have foreseen.
He stepped away from me, and I could literally see him dampening his ardor, forcing himself to relax, slowing his breath from the husky panting he'd been doing while kissing me to a more normal rate.
Then his hand shot out and captured mine, and he brought me to his couch, sitting down himself and pulling me down next to him.
I tried to make sure that I wasn't that close to him—not knowing where this was going—if anywhere—but he hauled me next to him anyway, and I don't think I'd ever been held up against anyone who felt quite as solid as he did, and I knew that was not just his build, but it was also his personality—who he was.
He stared down at where he still had hold of my hand for a moment, then looked back up at me. "We've been friends for a while now. You came into my life at a time when I needed someone. I didn't expect to find a friend, but I did."
Deck and I had met at a grief support group. He had lost his beloved wife to breast cancer at an obscenely early age, and I had lost my husband—who was quite a bit older than I was but the man I consider to be the love of my life nonetheless—to a sudden heart attack when he was fifty-two and I was thirty-seven.
For a very long time, I was quite adamant that there wasn't going to be anyone else in my life. Instead, I threw myself into my work and advanced quite nicely to a place where I have a pretty comfortable life.
I had been in the grief group for about a year before Decker came—once only, as some people do—then he wasn't seen again for about six months. I had liked the experience from the start—it was nice to be around people who understood how I felt about losing my husband, who were just as devastated by their own loss as I was by mine, as opposed to well-meaning but unthinking people closer to me who—after a year or so—were wondering out loud why I wasn't at least dating yet, if not already remarried, as if one could so blithely get over the loss of someone who was the center of one's universe.
Deck was obviously struggling with his loss, but the second time around took and he continued to come. It's a very informal setting—no one is pressured to share in any way. Sometimes, we have a guest speaker, but more often than not, it's just a core group of us sharing our experiences—with the occasional addition or subtraction here and there.
I didn't share much myself. The women there used to joke that they knew when I was going to speak because they could see that I'd brought my own box of Kleenex with me. But sometimes, it's really good to get it all out—to express the feelings out loud that one suppresses in favor of seeming all right to friends or family, and everyone there was more empathetic than anyone else could be.
When Deck finally shared—doing something unusual for a man, from what I had heard previously—concentrating on his feelings rather than simply relaying the cold hard facts—when most men tended to relay the timeline of their loved one's death, purposely leaving out how he felt about it.
Instead, he spoke truthfully and with great candor about how it had affected him, and it was obvious to anyone who heard him how much he had adored his wife.
It happened to be the same night that I decided to share, so when I could see that he was tearing up, I handed him my box and he took it gratefully.
Later, just as I was about to leave, he caught me and asked me for coffee. We ended up closing the coffee shop down—of course, this being rural New England, that wasn't too hard to do since they closed at eight.
From there, we developed a casual relationship, if a surprisingly close one. Sharing that kind of experience will do that for you—or to you. Strong bonds are formed. I had even seen a couple of marriages result from meetings at that group.
However, the opposite was also true. Sometimes, people tended to get together and spend all their time doing nothing but reliving memories of what they definitely considered to be better days, so when I began to become friends with him, I made sure that Deck and I found other things to talk about.
Luckily, we had a lot in common. We were both married to our jobs now—although neither of us had been when we were married, and we were both quite successful as a result. Of the things one could turn to during a loss like this, work is one of the most benign. We were both word nerds and highly verbose as well as literate—long phone calls were conducted, and pages of emails were not at all uncommon—even our texts were pretty long and not as full of abbreviations as they might be. Both of us loved the ocean and marine life—and we'd developed the habit of going on at least one whale watch a year, sometimes more—travelling, movies, restaurants, playing board and card games, as well as good TV.
I still remember the depths of my relief when he told me what he watched.
Not a reality TV show in sight. Not one.
This man was a keeper!
I don't know if I'd sent out some kind of signals that warned him off making any romantic advances, but until now, he never had, despite the fact that we'd spent quite a bit of time together, and had gotten a bit tipsy enough, a time or two, to share some very intimate secrets.
One of those times, he admitted to me that he was…as he put it, the "head of his household".
I was—I'm ashamed now to admit—hard pressed not to laugh in his face. That sounded like such an old-fashioned notion, even to me.
"You're kidding?"
I must've sound so incredulous that he got a little defensive.
"No, I'm not."
I caught his eye, and when he stared back at me with the truth plain on his face, I decided an apology was in order. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you at all. It's just…I don't know. I suppose I should have suspected. You have an 'old world' manner about you. You've been very solicitous and protective of me since we met—much more so than any other man I've ever known, frankly. And that's not a bad thing—in fact, I like it—but it is unusual in this day and age."
"I know. I was taught early how a man treats a lady, and I've stuck to it. It's second nature now."
"But you identify as a feminist. I know you have a pretty equal balance of men and women in positions of power around you."
He nodded slowly. "Just because I treat women well doesn't mean that I think they're less than I am. Hell, several of the women I have working for me now are much smarter than I am. It's not like I don't recognize the dichotomy there. I just think women are special—if anything, I think they're better than men, in some ways."
"And yet you…what? Spanked your wife?"
I half expected him to deny it and say he was joshing me.
Instead, he looked into his rocks glass of good Irish whiskey and admitted it flat out. "Yes, I did."
I giggled, then apologized for myself again. "I don't know why I'm reacting like this, really. I guess…I just…you're the last person I would have pegged for being into that." Although, at the same time—I said to myself—I did get the feeling that he was a man who was very firm in his resolves. A very no-nonsense type, although not without a wicked sense of humor. He just liked things done well and thoroughly and to his particular specifications.
The look he gave me made me fidget beneath it. I opened my mouth to say something, then, in the face of that look, closed it again, having thought better of it.
"What were you going to say?" he asked laconically, taking a puff of a cigar that I had been surprised to find I didn't mind the smell of in the least.
I sat up more than I had been. I'd been kind of slumped into the corner of the couch while he sat in his big easy chair, cigar in one big hand, whiskey in the other.
"You don't mind me asking questions?"
He
chuckled softly. "No, not really. It's an aspect of my life I haven't talked about since before she died. But go ahead and ask away, honey, if you're curious about it."
I was, and I did. I asked him all sorts of things—even ones I was sure he'd refuse to answer. And he answered them all.
"Was your wife…into it, too?"
He raised his eyebrow at me. "Well, I'd hardly have done it without her consent."
Reassured by that, I grew bolder. "What were some of the things you spanked her for?"
"Forgetting to do something I'd very specifically asked her to do. Cancelling or just plain not going to doctor's visits—this was before she got sick, and it was never anything like her mammograms—she was religious about them because her mom and her grandmother and her aunt had had it before her. Most often, it was the dentist. She hated to go to the dentist. I had to whup her bottom till it was scarlet several times for that."
What was it about him saying that last sentence that made my whole body shiver? And—more important than that—had he seen me do it?
But he made no indication whatsoever that he had, so I forgot to worry about it.
"And when she tore her rotator cuff, she'd blow off physical therapy, then complain at me that it wasn't getting any better, so I put the kibosh to that very quickly. She never missed a PT appointment again after that."
Trying to resist the urge to change positions frequently as we were speaking, I also kept my eyes away from his, as if it would be entirely revealing of me to let him see mine.
"And she just let you do that to her?"
He rose, surprising me, and I jumped involuntarily.
He just stood there at the other end of the couch and asked, around the cigar, "Top you off?"
My drink had been largely forgotten in favor of this highly intriguing discussion. "No, thanks."
He frowned—I didn't usually stop drinking so early in the evening. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked down at me, blatant concern on his face. "You all right, Gem?"
I nodded enthusiastically. "I'm fine, thanks."
As he walked over towards the bar that was in the corner of the room, he began to answer my last question. "I like strong women. Women who know their own minds, know what they want and go after it."
"That also seems like a dichotomy."
"Why?"
Shrugging, I answered, "Because why would a strong woman let you do that to her?"
He chortled a bit. "You can say it, honey. You don't have to dance around it. I spanked her. And there's nothing weak in a woman who knows what she wants—or what she needs, even more—especially not in one who is able to admit those needs to a man who won't be afraid to fulfill them."
Deck took his seat again and sat there for a moment, pondering. I kept silent, knowing there was more that he was going to say. "It takes a helluva lot of guts for a woman, who was about your size, to agree to be disciplined by anyone, much less someone of my size. But she did. It wasn't as if I pulled her over my knee the first time we met. We talked a lot about it before I ever touched her in that way, and even after we'd decided that that was how we were going to handle things, I was very careful to keep checking in with her every once in a while, to make sure that it was still fulfilling her needs." He looked down and cleared his throat. "I'd do that especially after she'd gotten a severe punishment. I never wanted her to feel abused in any way, of course, and I never wanted her to forget that disciplining her came from my deep love for her."
Just as I had been able to that first night in the grief group, I could hear the love for his wife in his voice, in the reverent way he spoke of her.
"It was actually her idea. I suggested spanking just as something interesting to do in the bedroom, but she came to me and asked me if I'd make it more than that for her. I'd long since known that was something I craved, but I don't remember ever planning to tell her about that side of me, really. But she seemed to sense it, I guess. We were that close."
I remembered every word of our conversation that night and any of the subsequent ones when we'd discussed his relationship with his wife, replaying it often in my mind, wondering how it might feel to have him do that for me.
He was courteous and chivalrous—with every woman—although he was even more so with me. But he'd never crossed that line from being solicitous and warm and friendly into anything romantic.
Until tonight.
"I found a great friend, too," I responded, hoping for more from him but not expecting it, regardless of the kisses.
"I don't want to wreck what we have, Gemma, but I—" He whispered the last part, "I find that I want more than just friendship from you."
His body tensed terribly, and I knew exactly what he was struggling with.
And I knew I had to say what I was thinking, to remind him of the truth that I wrestled with myself. "Which does not mean that you are dishonoring her memory. It does not make you unfaithful to her. It would not make her unhappy. In fact, you being alone when you don't want to be is what would make her unhappy, because she loved you as much as you loved her, and she would want you to live your life fully," I said, saying all the things to him that I was saying to myself, in my head.
And it wasn't working in either place, unfortunately.
I was so close to sobbing, but I still got it out, because I didn't want him to feel alone in this, when he wasn't, tremulously, "I want more from you, too. And it's wonderful and it's excruciatingly horrid at the same time."
Like the smart man I knew him to be, Deck pulled me onto his lap and just held me. He didn't try to stop me from crying—and may well have cried a few of his own tears—I was too selfishly wrapped up in my own misery to notice until later, when I lifted my head from where it had been tucked against the curve of his neck.
"Oh, God, I'm so sorry—I've been crying all over you without a thought for you. Are you all right?" I took hold of his face in much the same fashion as he had held mine, leaning away from him so that I could see him better, and there was evidence of tears, although he hadn't cried as much as I had, but then, that was him. I was honored that he'd cried in front of me at all. I knew it wasn't an easy thing for him to do.
I wished I could hold him on my lap, but I'd probably never walk again if I did, so I settled for pulling him to me and hugging him as hard as I could, my hand at the back of his neck, fingers automatically playing with the short hairs there, which led them to disappear into the soft thicket of slightly longer ones just above.
I really was just trying to be soothing, but that, apparently, wasn't how it came across.
Chapter 3
Because, before I knew it, I found myself on my back beneath him. Although I was really just surprised, I must've looked more than the startled that I was, because he immediately leaned back, away from me.
"Are you all right?"
I nodded.
He remained still above me. "You looked frightened for a moment there. I don't want you to be afraid of me."
I bit my lip against asking the question that came to mind.
"What is it? I can see that hamster running himself ragged in there, behind your eyes—ow! Stop that!"
I knew I couldn't have hurt him if I tried—and I never would—but I did smack him occasionally, and he always whined as if he was a ninety-eight-pound weakling when I did it.
"Don't say disparaging things about me and I won't have to hit you, will I?"
Deck paused for a moment, then prompted, "You didn't answer my question."
"What question was that?" I asked, batting my eyelashes at him innocently.
"That doesn't work on me, as you might soon find out." There was no smile in his voice or on his face when he asked again, "What were you going to say?"
I couldn't look at him when I asked it, but I did sneak a peek at him afterwards, to see if he was offended. "Was she afraid of you when you spanked her?"
But he didn't seem to be. He addressed my question seriously. I could see that he was putting
a lot of thought into it. "I don't think so—and I certainly hope she wasn't. She didn't seem to be—I mean, she certainly wasn't any in hurry to have it happen, and I completely understand that. Sometimes, she'd struggle quite frantically against it until I got her over my knee or into whatever position. A few times I had to use restraints, but, as I've mentioned before, I don't like brats, so, especially once she learned how it was going to be between us, what I was like as a dominant husband, then she usually knew just how far she could go before she'd end up punished for being disobedient or being disrespectful towards me. And if it was going to be a bad one, she knew—probably when she did whatever it was—that she was going to get into trouble for it, and, as I always did, I would have already talked to her about why I was disciplining her before we got to the point of me flipping her onto her belly."
Then he thought for another moment and said, "If I had ever seen fear in her eyes, rather than the sincere reluctance I would expect, I would have stopped immediately and we would have had to have a serious talk about how she felt about things. I expected respect from her because I gave her respect in return." I heard him swallow hard and his voice was throttled as he answered, "But I think it would have killed me if I'd ever looked into her eyes and seen her looking back at me with real fear."
My arms found their way around his neck of their own volition, and I caught him sneaking a look at me.
"You are a very good man, Decker Hale."
I adored making him blush, and complimenting him in any way was a surefire way to get him to flush a pretty red.
"You still think so?" He actually looked worried. "Even knowing what you do about me?"
I nodded vigorously. "Oh yes, even before this wonderfully revealing little chat we're having. Probably more so because of it. If I'd had any doubts about how much you loved Jane before this, they would have been obliterated by you talking to me about the more intimate aspects of your relationship with her."
Slowly, with great care for my comfort, he lay back down atop me.
"Oh my God, you're heavy!" The words slipped out before I had a chance to think about them, and they made him rise from me again. "I didn't say that was a bad thing—in fact, it's a good thing."
Ready for Love Page 3
