by Leia Shaw
The riding crop pops into my head, along with the erotic scene from a book. I should read him that. Maybe he’ll be more receptive to an implement that will save his poor hand from misery. A small smile touches my lips. I can’t believe he had the nerve to complain that his hand hurt while my ass was throbbing from his cursed hand. As I fall asleep in Nick’s warm embrace, my love for this funny, sweet, caring man overwhelms me.
Chapter Eleven
It’s Christmas morning. I’m in the kitchen making pancakes with blueberry sauce—Nick’s favorite and a holiday tradition—and singing to a Christmas CD. I ignore the complaints about my song coming from the living room, where Nick is checking the news online while having his morning coffee. Christmas is my favorite holiday. I’m a bit ridiculous when it comes to presents. Wrapping paper, shiny bows, and packages under the tree, all of it excites me in a way that should be inappropriate for an adult my age. But I don’t care. My theory is that I’m compensating for the Christmases I spent with very few presents as a child. My mom did the best she could, even made some wonderful things herself.
And now we’re not rich, but we’re comfortable. So I go a little crazy with gift buying for my friends and family. And especially for Nick, which makes him roll his eyes. He doesn’t get the same thrill from presents as I do. But he’s aware of my excitement and makes sure there are plenty of shiny packages with my name on them.
I am a notorious gift snooper. If Nick had discovered spanking earlier, I’m pretty sure I’d have been in for it the weeks before Christmases past. I snicker to myself. A little less ballsy now, knowing retribution is just a few rope knots away. So with great effort, I behaved myself this year and didn’t peek at a single receipt, e-mail purchase confirmation, or package hidden in the closet.
I am almost jumping out of my skin with excitement. Breakfast first, Nick insists. I purse my lips and flip a pancake. Easy for him to say. Anything he wants badly enough, he buys for himself. It takes the fun out of Christmas shopping; that’s for sure. The scrooge.
As we eat breakfast, I bombard Nick with a dozen questions about my gifts. He rolls his eyes, gives cursory answers, and pretends to hide behind the gold wire Christmas tree table decoration. From the pile of bonbons waiting in a stack to go to the family gathering, I select one and toss it at him. He ignores me, so I prop on my elbows and put on my grumpiest look. How can anyone eat so slowly? Finally he threatens to tie me up and gag me until it’s time for our family party this evening. I gulp and give a nervous giggle because I’m not confident he’s joking.
Since I cooked the meal, Nick gets to clean up after breakfast—our usual arrangement.
At the entry to the kitchen he pauses. “Go take a shower while I do the dishes.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously. “Pajamas are traditional for opening presents on Christmas morning.” Besides, shaking the presents while I wait will be so much fun.
“Because I say so.”
I narrow my eyes. There’s something devious going on here, and to hell if I’m not going to try to figure out what it is.
He sighs at my hesitation. “You can put your pajamas back on if you want.”
“What are you planning?” To obey, or not to obey, that is the question. I suck my lip and shift from one foot to the other.
“Go.”
“Not until you tell me—”
“Go!”
I flinch at his demanding tone. “This Dom stuff has made you so pushy,” I grumble.
But the agonizing pull of a mystery is overcome by my sureness that nothing is going to happen unless I shower. So I curl my lip at him in a grumpy sneer that has him struggling to hold back a smile and make my way upstairs.
Showering in under fifteen minutes is inconceivable for me. Funny how this one takes about five. Once more in my precious pajamas—pink with sugarplums and candy canes on them—I dance past the kitchen in a little pirouette, grinning at Nick as he stacks the dishes.
“Don’t touch the presents,” he growls.
“Of course not, darling.” I give him my best angelic smile and pretend to adjust an invisible halo on my head.
He snorts. “I think your halo is flickering.”
“Needs new batteries.” I grin cheekily, leaving him laughing as I make my way to the living room.
I try not to shake the boxes and stare at them instead. Ten long minutes, then I run into the kitchen and pull on his arm. “I can’t take any more! Present time. Now.”
He chuckles. “You’re worse than a five-year-old. All right. Come on.” He swats my ass and follows me to the living room. “I’m excited this year too. I think for once you didn’t snoop.” His eyes narrow in suspicion, but I see the glint of humor there.
“I didn’t. That’s why I can’t wait anymore.”
He sits on the floor next to the tree and motions me next to him. “Okay, I won’t be cruel. Open yours first.”
I shake my head. “We’ll take turns.” I love giving as much as receiving.
I pull out one for him, and he hands one to me. The first few gifts we open are practical items. Socks, a travel coffee cup, a winter hat. I surprise him with a private golf lesson at a club. Though I’ve been making fun of him for taking up golf—which he assures me is only because he thinks it’ll help his chances of getting in good with the executives—I do support him in his career.
Nick surprises me with a new camera since mine fell off the sailboat we chartered around Block Island last summer.
“Sorry I couldn’t get your pictures back,” he says as I admire my gift. “But we’ll go again this year and recreate them.”
I grin. “Thanks, honey.”
Then he gets that devilish look in his eye that reminds me of when he’s got me tied up and at his mercy. “One more.”
He pulls a square box from behind the tree and places it in my hands. He’s excited about this—I can see it in his eyes. I unwrap it, then stare at the label on the box.
The Toy Box.
The Toy Box is an online sex toy shop notorious for selling BDSM products. My heart leaps, and I tear open the box. If he bought me a BDSM-related toy, then I know we’ve hit some kind of milestone. Excitedly I shove away the tissue paper and pull out what’s inside.
The blood drains from my face as I hold the item up to inspect.
“Underwear?” Black satin underwear with a little pink bow. They’re nice, but my heart sinks. I was hoping for…more.
“Not just underwear.” He snatches them from my hand and unfolds them. “Crotchless panties.”
He looks so thrilled with them that I can’t bring myself to tell him I think they’re dumber than stupid. I keep my disappointment to myself.
I never really understood the point of crotchless undergarments. If you’re going to remove the part that covers that, um, area, why wear underwear at all? I sigh. One of the many mysteries of men I’ll never understand.
“Uh…they’re nice, honey.” I force a small smile. “Thank you.”
His gaze darkens, and he hands them back to me. “Wear them today. Please? It’ll be hot.”
Since I plan on wearing slacks to his family’s Christmas party tonight, I suppose it’s not a big deal to wear the silly thing. I shrug. “Sure.”
His wicked grin is the only warning I have before he pounces, knocking me flat on my back. Balancing on his hands and knees, he leans in and kisses the breath out of me.
“Honey,” I rasp. “I have to start making the lemon cream pie.”
“Mmm.” His gaze is locked on my lips. “Pie can wait. Put on the panties.”
I chuckle and push against his chest. “No, really, it can’t wait. I told your family I’d bring pie.”
He frowns and sits back, and I rise from the floor, laughing at his exaggerated pout. “Don’t be a baby.” With a flirty smile I tell him, “Maybe you can eat my pie later.”
His male rumble of displeasure fills the room as he watches me like a hungry lion stalking its prey.
My inner red flag is waving. Distract him. “Go get dressed; then come help me bake.”
He points to the underwear, thrown haphazardly on the floor. “Panties or else.”
The monotone deadliness of his delivery tells me he won’t budge on this.
I fold my arms, and we try to outstare each other until he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
I giggle and cave in “Okay. But I have to cook, and my pajamas are going over the top.”
After a moment, he sighs. “All right. But I’m taking you up on that pie-eating promise later.”
* * * *
“You promised to help!” I yell from the kitchen, bowl of cream in one hand, beater in the other. With a little wriggle of my butt, I try to get comfortable—the lace on the panties is soft, but something about the elastic running between my legs is driving me nuts.
“I have to get ready,” is the response from upstairs.
I grunt and mumble, “Liar.”
He can get dressed and out the door for work in three minutes flat when he sleeps through the alarm. Now, all of the sudden, he needs an hour to get dressed?
I hitch one ass cheek against the kitchen island to shift those damn panties. Yes! The part of me down there that was trapped is now happy again. The renovated kitchen in our little house is gorgeous, but who’d have thought I’d be using it for underwear adjusting?
“I can give you some product tips for stubborn hair, Ryan Seacre— Ah!” I yelp and squirm away from the pinch on my butt.
When I spin around, Nick is standing in front of me with two challenging brows raised, dressed neatly in tan trousers and blue cotton shirt, looking so…formidable. My heart skips a beat. I like him this way—a little unpredictable.
I shake my whipped-cream-covered spoon at him. “If you’re not going to help, then leave me alone so I can finish.”
He firms his mouth, then slowly shakes his head. Though I’m nearly as tall as he is, Nick has a broad and muscled male physique. When he’s set on doing something, he can be pretty imposing. I back away from the island with him following me, and the counter bumps at my back.
The recipes occupying my thoughts are swept away. I focus instead on eluding my husband, who is stalking me in my kitchen.
“Honey.” I go for a stern tone. “I have to finish this. I promised your family.”
He takes another step forward, determination in his eyes. This isn’t going to end well. Late to dinner and maybe a half-finished pie. In an act of desperation, I grab the spoon out of my mixing bowl, hold it up, and fling a big glob of cream at him. It lands on his neck, to the right of his Adam’s apple.
I watch his reaction, biting my lip to keep from laughing. His lips purse as he studies me. I gulp. Oh crap.
Two hands slam down on the counter on either side of me. His nose is within inches of mine.
“Lick it off,” he commands.
“Uh-uh.” I look left, then right, see that I’m trapped, and contemplate another dollop of cream. Something in his manner warns me not to.
The mixing bowl is jammed between us. As deliberately as a man disarming a bomb, he takes the bowl from me and sets it aside, then does the same for the spoon.
Slowly he leans in, until his mouth is above my ear.
“Lick it off, and I’ll have mercy on you.” His warm breath sifts over my skin. His cheek rests on mine, and the scent of soap, Nick, and freshly applied cologne tantalizes me.
“Mercy?” The squeak in my voice betrays my nerves. The world lurches downward. “Just what are you planning to…”
I trail off when his hand shoves down my pants and nestles between my legs. “I’m planning to show you why crotchless panties are so appealing.”
There’s nothing between us there—skin on skin.
Old reflexes hit, and I stiffen with anxiety. Then his fingers sweep sideways, brushing over my lower lips at the same time as he closes his teeth on my earlobe. The tiny pain shoots from ear to groin. Arousal flashes through me, and my clit stirs until he releases my ear. Gone. The warmth drains to a flat, dreary nothing.
“Um.” I wriggle and feel his fingers poke around down there again. Nerve-plucking tension is rapidly eclipsing Nick’s seductive ways.
“What?” He nibbles my neck, then draws away to watch me like I’m some scientific project while he fiddles about in my crotch. Not squirming is difficult to do, but I manage to stay still.
“Nothing.” I grope at the sink behind me, searching for the bowl. “This is nice, but…”
“I have another Christmas present for you.” He turns me around to face the sink, then grabs a paper towel from the counter, I assume, to wipe his neck. “Grab the tap and don’t let go.”
My hesitation earns me a swat on one butt cheek. I hold the faucet, wrapping my fingers over one another. This time the tension stirring is the good kind. Nick undoes the tie at my waist. As my pajama pants slide down my legs, the soft cloth feels like a lover’s caress. He holds each ankle to strip the pants from me, then rises to his feet.
I’m naked, or almost, with him behind me. What is he doing? I crane my neck to see.
Though he steps back, he keeps one hand on my butt and traces the edge of the panties where they dive between my legs. “Whoa. That’s more like it.”
Another two smacks vibrate my ass. I gasp, then shudder when he rubs his palms in heavy, hot circles. The way I rise up to his touch is inevitable. I want more and put the tip of my tongue to my lip, ready to plead. The elastic of the panties snaps into my cleft.
“Ow!”
“Nice. They make me want to bite you down here. Makes you look sexy and available.”
Oh. Yes. Damn. I don’t care what the panties do so long as he smacks me again. Or bites me. I hold the tap even tighter, hoping for, at the very least, a nip. But Nick smooths a hand up my side and beneath my top, skimming the undercurve of my breast. The length of his body presses into me. He pinches and tweaks one nipple to hardness.
“Makes me want to fuck you. Don’t let go of the faucet.” Again the low tremor of his voice reaches into me like a minor earthquake.
To my surprise he produces my pajama pants, wraps one leg of the pants about my wrist, winds the cloth about the tap, then around the other wrist, before knotting everything firmly into place.
My heart does an up-tempo cha-cha-cha. I try out the knots with a twisting motion of my wrists, but no matter how I pull, I can’t get loose. Heat surges—my lower body seems plugged into a power socket. Half the fun happens when I realize I’m caught, controlled in an inescapable way—one of those things I’m learning about myself. When Nick molds himself into the contours of my back, slides a hand over each of my breasts, and thumbs my nipples, I let out a long sigh that melts into a moan.
He chuckles, then quickly unbuttons my matching sugarplum flannel top and drags it down my shoulders as far as he can. Cool air teases my exposed flesh. “Got you going now, huh? Let’s see if you like the rest of this present.”
When he pulls out the kitchen utensil drawer and stands there, peering and poking and rattling the contents, I figure this is all impromptu.
Anticipation sings high inside me, and I’m so needy. My body hums for more of whatever he decides to do. But I can’t stop a smart-ass remark. “Lost your way, sir? Need some ideas?” I wiggle my near-naked butt in the air like a red cape before a bull.
His gaze zeroes in on my second-best feature, then on my boobs, so I try wiggling them too. With my hands fastened to the tap, it’s a pretty poor effort.
A strangled laugh erupts from Nick. Triumphantly he holds up a spatula and whips the end back and forth. “How red would you like your ass, honey? Medium rare?”
I clear the tightness from my throat. “Um. Just a little pink?” I ask with hope lilting my voice. The way his eyes darken and his mouth turns up at the corner tells me he has other plans. “Mercy?” I squeak.
He shakes his head. “Too late for that. Though…” He tosses the spatula to the counter, fumbles
with his belt buckle, and pulls it through the loops. “I need more practice with this. First course?”
The slap of the doubled-over belt on his palm reminds me of the last time. I want to feel the sting—can imagine the whack and spread of that blissful bite—but I’m equally afraid of what he can do with it.
When he approaches, I’m as quivery as Bambi would be on spotting a wolf sneaking up. Plus I’ve got my hands trapped. But the first touch of the leather on my butt makes me lean my elbows on the edge of the sink, stick out my rear, and bow my head. I wait. My pussy clenches, and I squeeze my thighs.
“Stay still,” he mutters. Having meandered the belt across one cheek and down into my cleft, then across the other cheek, he lifts it away.
The first strike plants on me fast and burning. I yelp, but more from surprise. Five more stripe up and down one side before he whacks the other. Two more power strokes there make me squeak and try to dodge, but he pushes on my lower back.
“Stop moving or I might miss.” Another blow and this time I hear a hiss from Nick. Then silence. Though his hand still pushes at my back, I see him brace his other fist on the counter and lean in. His face is pale, and he breathes deep and fast through his teeth.
Something’s wrong.
I’m still tied to the tap. “Nick?” Nothing.
He bends farther and presses his forehead to the counter. A long groan escapes his lips.
“Nick? What’s wrong? Let me go!” I tug and tug before he interrupts me.
“’S okay.” He pats the small of my back and straightens—even manages a shaky grin. “Just got myself in the balls is all.”
“You what?” My chest shakes. I’ve got my mouth firmly closed, but the laughter is bundled up so tight it’s going to come out my ears any minute. I make what could only be described as a snorting sound through my nose, then erupt into hysterical giggles.
