“You lied to me again.”
“No, I didn’t!” I retorted.
“Strike four.” He scooped me up off my feet and carried me the rest of the way up the stairs. “Also, no shoes on the carpet.” He tugged at my ancient, dusty sneakers and threw them down the stairwell, where they landed on the tiled floor of the entrance hall with a thud.
In his guestroom, he placed me face down on the bed before I got a chance to look around. I pushed myself up but he sat down and grabbed my wrists, making it harder to get away.
I kicked my feet, ignoring the pain, while I tried to land a good one somewhere soft, but he dragged me over his knee in a way that left my legs flailing at thin air. He encircled both my wrists with one of his big hands and pinned them above my head. Face down, I didn’t have any way of stopping him doing anything he wanted to me.
“So far today, you’ve lied to me three times, jumped out in front of a car and you never said thank you after dinner. You’ve been a very bad girl, Kinsley. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t spank you right now.”
“Because I’ll die of shame,” I replied. “And then you’d have to figure out what to do with the body.”
“Why will you die of shame when I spank you?” His warm hand cupped my ass and I sighed into him. The sound filled the room before I could stop myself.
“Because my panties are soaked,” I breathed.
“Then I need to spank you for that, too.”
I squeaked, not quite sure how we got here but feeling like I ought to have put up more of a fight. I struggled against his grip, but it was really just to silence my inner voice, which couldn’t believe I was letting this happen.
His hand felt so good against my pants. But I was pretty sure I should be angry and outraged by the way he’d picked me up and put me over his knee. Everything was so confusing and I didn’t know how to process any of it.
“Twelve swats,” he growled. “For your recklessness and lies. And afterwards, you’re gonna thank me for it.”
I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. It was too far.
“Get ready, little lady.” His voice was husky and the sound sent chills along my spine, which culminated in a powerful spasm shooting through my core. I whimpered as his hand was raised from my ass.
He landed the flat of his hand straight across the part of me that I usually sat on. He wasn’t holding back, and I yelped as his palm made contact.
The pain thudded sorely through my jeans, and I tried to ball my fingers into fists but he held my wrists too tightly for me to move properly.
He continued at a leisurely pace, seeming to enjoy my reactions as his hand exploded against my sit-spot over and over again. Something about this was making me feel very small and chastised, but I didn’t know if it was the humiliation, the pain, the arousal, or the unfamiliar sounds.
When he stopped, I gasped for air over his knee.
“What do you need to do?” he prompted.
Oh no. Not that. I wasn’t going to do it.
“You can’t make me thank you for spanking me,” I accused.
“Can’t I?” His tone suggested otherwise.
“Nope.” Whichever way I looked at it, I didn’t see it happening.
“How’s about this. If you don’t say thank you, I’ll leave you aching to come instead of helping you out.”
My breath caught in the back of my throat and my eyes widened. I shook my head.
“You’re not fair,” I whispered.
“I don’t need to be.” He released my hands, tipped me upright, and maneuvered me off his knee. When he stood up and began walking toward the door, I realized two things: He was serious about leaving, and my body couldn’t stand the idea of being left like this.
“Wait!” I gasped, barely able to speak. My nipples dug into my shirt so hard the tips were chafing, even against the soft cotton.
“You got something you want to say?” He was enjoying this way too much.
I scrunched up my eyes and put my fingers in my ears, like that would make me forget I ever did this. “Thank you,” I muttered. I unblocked my ears again and stared pointedly at the white bedspread.
“Good girl.”
I waited for him to kiss me, or touch me, or something. The door closed and I just stared at it in surprise. Damn him, he left anyway!
Chapter 2
“The best way to guarantee a loss is to quit.” — Morgan Freeman
Clay
Spanking Kinsley was possibly one of the most erotic moments of my life, which was saying something, since I’d been to more BDSM clubs than rodeos—and I was pretty well-known for going to rodeos.
She’d been fully clothed, and it was twelve lousy swats to teach her a lesson. Barely a warm-up. But somehow, it had made my cock swell and ache so hard I needed to get away before I did something she wasn’t expecting. Not that she’d been entirely modest, either. I’d heard the little noises she’d made while she attempted to hide her arousal.
That girl was trouble. I smelled it on her.
Walking away was hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do. Already, things had gotten way out of hand. I hadn’t intended on taking advantage of a houseguest, especially not without a detailed discussion of consent and limits. This wasn’t like me at all. Add to that she was really hot and yet clearly far too young for me, and I hadn’t even mentioned BDSM.
Trying to put some distance between myself and Kinsley, I went to my room and looked out of the window at the desert grassland where my brother and I ranched. I felt stifled in the house. Needing to feel the wind on my face, I walked downstairs, put on some boots and went outside.
Framed by the three houses that belonged to myself, my brother Lawson and our cow man Barrett, the yard was quiet. Lights peeked around the edges of windows, and I felt a pang of envy for the cozy scenes of family life I knew were going on behind closed curtains.
I kept walking, past the big barn, where soft mooing and occasional rustling reassured me that all the cattle were rounded up and kept safe for the night. Soon, I was out into the wide open blackness. The further I walked, the quieter everything became, until out in the middle of the west enclosure, I finally found the empty silence I needed.
In the darkness, the land was peaceful. It breathed at its own pace, with a strong, vital heartbeat a far cry from the seething ooze of city life. I inhaled the clean air, still warm from the heat of the day, and my thoughts changed from solidifying molasses into a flow of warm liquid honey.
Kinsley was eighteen. She had a plan, even if I thought it was a stupid one, and she was far too young and probably inexperienced. I was twenty-nine. My day-to-day life revolved around the ranch, which was about the polar opposite of acting.
When it came to women, I needed a submissive. I didn’t believe that some people were “real” submissives or “true” dominants and other people weren’t; that kind of thinking was a throwback to the days when people thought left-handedness was a sin. I believed anyone who was curious should be allowed to try out BDSM and see what they liked about it. But at the same time, I’d never played with anyone who was inexperienced. My circle exclusively contained people who knew what they wanted, and I’d never taught anyone how to submit, before.
Anyway, this whole train of thought was stupid. I had no idea if Kinsley even wanted to play. There was a difference between getting hot during a spanking and wanting to submit to a man. Consent was important to me. I had to consent to dominating her, and she had to consent to submit to me. And I wasn’t sure either of us could consent to the things I wanted to do to her. I had too many reservations—new and uncomfortable territory for me—and she lacked life experience to really know what she wanted.
I didn’t regret asking her to stay overnight. It had been the gentlemanly thing to do. But I shouldn’t have spanked her—even though she made no effort to stop me—because my cock had gotten harder than a battering ram.
Out here in the country air, my cock was returning to normal, but I kn
ew if I went back into the house and allowed myself to be alone with her, I would quickly be pulled into the headspace where my decision-making was ruled by my primal, animal instincts, which had demanded I grab her and fuck her until she was branded with my cum.
I was better than this.
Leaving her alone in my house, I went to the stables and knocked on Jake’s door.
“Clay? Everythin’ all right?” Jake looked up at me with a beer in one hand.
“Can I sleep here, tonight?”
He frowned, examined his beer bottle in the dim light from his hallway, and looked back up at me. “You serious?”
“Yeah. There’s a girl in my place.”
Jake opened the door immediately. “Come on in; sounds like you’ve a story I need to hear.”
I followed him with gratitude and soon I was explaining the whole thing over beer and tortilla chips.
* * *
Kinsley
He left me. Left the house. What the hell? Was he coming back? I waited where he’d put me, lying on the bed for what felt like forever but the whole place remained abandoned and silent.
This was too weird.
I decided this guy was clearly a nut ball and I wedged the bedroom door shut with a thick pair of socks from my plastic bag of clothes. If Clay returned in the night, I didn’t want him deciding to keep me company.
He’d spanked me, and I’d felt so turned on. It was like a fire had been awakened in my veins, and a whole new set of possibilities had opened up before me. The punishment had hurt. And I didn’t know why I’d allowed him to do that to me. I was an adult now, for God’s sake, I didn’t need to submit to people anymore. But... I’d wanted to. His actions, his demeanor, even his smell had spoken to me and kindled something I’d never known before. I’d been about two seconds away from dropping my panties and begging him to do things I’d only read about.
Then he’d bolted, like I was diseased or something. So screw him.
I didn’t have anything fancy like pajamas so I just changed into a T-shirt and left my panties on. I wanted to be asleep when he came back, but right now I was wide awake and filled with indignation. I reached deep into my cheap, battered purse and pulled out a folded set of glossy pages. I’d read this magazine article a thousand times, but it comforted me when I found myself wavering.
“Hollywood A-lister Marina Jonas on Love, Life and Following Her Dreams.” The title could be any throwaway non-article about a celebrity, but the reason I kept this particular article after I found it in the trash was because I was her.
Born in the rust belt in a half-horse town, Marina knew she didn’t fit in from an early age. “I wanted to make up stories, to act them out, while the other kids were obsessing over the latest plastic toy or candy craze. When we all got older, everyone else got into phone games, and I was imagining how I’d play characters we read about in English Lit.” Eventually, Marina ran away at sixteen to Hollywood, where she was discovered by chance...
This was going to be my story, too. One day, people would read an article just like this one, and my name would be on it. They would be photographing me wherever I went and making up garbage about what I ate for breakfast. But best of all, I would get to spend all day playing make-believe in costumes.
People said it was hard to become an actress. For me, it was harder to live life not being an actress when I wanted it so bad. I had to give this my best shot.
I folded the article back up and fell asleep.
* * *
Clay
After a couple of beers, I fell asleep on Jake’s couch. When I awoke, I was surrounded by trash and the TV was quietly telling me I could dial 1-800-NO-WEEDS to get free shipping on a large order of weed killer. I was pretty sure the EPA would be pissed if I bought enough of that stuff to use on the ranch. Anyway, the cattle would be disgruntled, too. They didn’t care if humans thought things were weeds. They ate pretty much anything green around here.
Why was I even giving this stupid infomercial space in my brain? I needed to leave. Sitting up carefully, I rounded up some of the trash and put it in the can. I didn’t want Jake to come downstairs to a mess.
I checked my phone. Five a.m. Jake wouldn’t be up for a few more hours, but Barrett would, and I didn’t want to run into him in the yard, because the conversation would be too awkward. Trying to be quiet, I left and returned to my own place.
When I reached my front door, I squared my shoulders. She wasn’t going to keep me out of my house. I let myself in and went upstairs to my own bed, hoping for a couple more hours rest before the day began. Sleep didn’t come, however, and after tossing and turning for too long, I ended up cooking breakfast in the kitchen by six-thirty.
* * *
Kinsley
Someone was banging on a door nearby. Where was I? I opened my eyes and saw half-familiar soft blue furnishings. Cream-painted walls. I’d stayed here last night.
The banging continued.
“Kinsley? Open the door.”
Ugh. Clay. What ungodly hour was this, anyway? A clock by the bed told me it was six forty-five. Anything before seven was unthinkable. I rolled out of bed and pulled on the door. It was stuck. Oh, yeah, the socks.
I unjammed them and cracked the door.
“You know, you don’t need to keep banging on the door like a five-year-old,” I grumbled.
“It’s my door. I can do what I like with it.”
I sighed. He was infuriating.
“Okay.” I closed the door.
He pushed it open. “Why d’you do that?”
“What?” I sat on the bed, already deciding as soon as I was dressed properly, I’d walk to the next place with cars if I needed to, to get away from this crazy guy.
“I was trying to get your attention.”
“I thought you said you were banging on your door because, and I quote, ‘It’s my door. I can do what I like with it.’ Or did I mishear you? I closed the door so you could get on with it.” I shrugged like it wasn’t my concern what a homeowner did with his guest room door.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Messing things up. Spectacularly.”
Finally. Something we could both agree on. But it didn’t address the question.
“Do I need to kick you to get a straight answer out of you? Because you’ve been weird ever since you spanked me.”
His face changed. I’d found it. The reason he was acting strange was something to do with that spanking. It didn’t make sense to me.
“I made breakfast,” he said in a gruff voice. “You’re welcome to join me.”
That was a surprise.
“Thanks.”
“You should probably put some clothes on first. Shower’s through there.” He pointed down the hallway.
“Why do you do that?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Tell me things that are really obvious. I’m eighteen, not four. I know that when I wake up, I can’t just walk around half-naked and dirty until my momma dresses me and changes my diaper.”
He sighed. “Food’s downstairs. Take or leave it.”
He walked off and yet again, I was left with a sense that some underlying, unspoken feelings between us were stopping us from getting along. Had I done something to offend him? Why did he keep treating me like a child? He looked like he was in his twenties, thirty at most, so there was no reason for him to see me as a kid.
I washed up, dressed and went down to investigate the food. Clay had kept it warming in the oven and he pulled it out when I came into the kitchen. There were eggs, beans, hash browns and some slices of bacon.
“Looks delicious,” I said. “Thanks.” It was hard to say thank you to someone I wanted to kick but I got the word out, somehow. Breakfast or no, he was still a giant ass and I wasn’t shallow enough to be won over by gestures, which at the end of the day were far easier than not being an ass in the first place.
“Well don
e for remembering your manners.”
Was he being patronizing or sarcastic? I couldn’t tell. Either way, it was a stupid thing for him to say, so I didn’t respond.
“Where’s your food?” I asked, as he sat down opposite me with a cup of coffee.
“I already ate. Eat up.”
There it was again. Telling me to do something I was blatantly about to do. What was the point?
“You can stop treating me like a child, now. I already told you, I’m eighteen.”
I stuck my fork into the food and my mouth exploded with egg white and freshly-grated fried potato. On my second forkful, I dipped the hash brown into the egg yolk, savoring the wholesome taste.
“I know how old you are.” His country twang was almost mocking me.
“How old are you?” I countered, feeling like we were having one of those inane semi-conversations from Spanish class.
“Twenty-nine,” he replied. “I was eleven when you were born.”
Way to rub it in. I thought once I hit eighteen things like that didn’t matter to anyone. Especially not to guys. The TV, movies, books and plays all implied that guys preferred younger women. So why was he being so hostile about my barely-legal status?
“What does that matter?” I asked through a mouthful of food.
“Don’t talk while you’re eating,” he chided. I had to try really hard not to roll my eyes. “And it matters because I say it does.”
I swallowed a little prematurely, and my throat protested as I tried to speak. “Did anyone ever tell you, you’re a control freak?”
“All the time. The women I play with like it that way.”
Play with. He was still talking down to me.
“I’m glad you’ve found people in your life who will share their toys with you and let you join their games,” I replied, imagining him on the floor with his building blocks telling all the girls what to do.
“That’s not how it works, little girl. I bring the toys. And I decide what games we play.”
I had no idea what he was implying, but my body shivered as a new and unfamiliar sensation of lust tore through me. My mouth fell open and I froze, staring at him, while my fork hung in mid-air dropping potato back onto my plate.
Take Me Hard: Arizona Heat 3 Page 2