by Thianna D
"I'll take it."
"Would you like it delivered or will you carry it with you?" She sounded all-business now.
"I think I can handle it."
"Would you like any paddles with that?" she asked in the same voice a burger flipper would suggest fries as an accompaniment.
"Good idea. Pick one out for me," he replied. He already owned a cache of implements, but a strong curiosity demanded to see what she would choose.
"Oh, I doubt I'm the right person to do that."
He approached her until the scent of strawberries teased his nose. "I'll give you a choice. You can select a paddle or you can tell me why you didn't tell your aunt the bench was for me."
"I don't know why."
"That's your answer?" He cocked his head and folded his arms.
She wet her lips and looked everywhere but at him. "What kind of paddle would you prefer?"
"What kind would you recommend?" he countered, knowing full well she had no idea of the differences.
"Well…" Abby moved to the wall where she'd hung the paddles carefully on coat racks. "We have uh, this kind." She pointed to a smooth wooden ping pong style.
"A solid choice to cover a lot of surface area," he said. "What else?"
"This one has holes." She gestured to another.
He shook his head. "Too stingy." For a beginner. Abby might have a secret spanking fetish, but she was still a virgin, so to speak.
"They're all here." Blushing profusely, she swept a graceful arm across the row of paddles like Vanna White lighting up a new Wheel of Fortune puzzle. "And over there." She gestured to a washstand upon which several more rested and hung from the carved towel holder.
"That one's leather." She unhooked a more generous oblong-shaped one, and traced the edge before smoothing her hand over the flat surface. He'd been right about her liking for leather. He suppressed a grin and watched her caress the paddle blade. Her skin appeared pale next to the darkness of the hide, her nails on the short side, but painted pink. Spanked ass pink. He bit back a growl.
"Let me see." Harris stepped over a pile of wadded newspapers. His cock pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He allowed his gaze to slide down to her chest, rising and falling. Her nipples formed beads underneath her ecru lace poet-style blouse. Leather and lace. Hard and soft. Masculine and feminine. Sexy.
He scanned her face. An answering desire swirled in her hazel eyes, but she wet her lips nervously. Seeing her tiny tongue flick over her lips cinched his intention. He'd offered to buy the bench on a whim, on a fantasy. But he would see her kneeling over it.
As he took the paddle, he allowed a finger to brush against the softness of hers. He squeezed the reinforced handle, testing the grip. Good fit. Abby's mouth had parted, and her eyes riveted on the implement.
He snapped it against his thigh. CRACK! Abby jumped. His cock ached.
"This one." He decided. "How much?" Didn't matter. He'd pay any price. Seeing the fascination on her face made it worth any and every penny she asked.
"Sixty dollars."
"You don't need to check with your aunt?" he teased.
"She gave me carte blanche to price smaller items."
He pulled out his wallet and handed his credit card and the paddle. "I'll carry the bench to the register."
Abby scurried to the front and rang up his purchases, using both an old manual cash register and a very modern credit card scanner. With amusement, he watched as she wrapped the paddle in tissue paper as if it was a fine piece of china and then bagged it.
"Thank you for shopping at Auntie Q's," she said politely.
Harris tucked his swaddled purchase under his arm, then picked up the bench. She hurried ahead to open the door.
He peered down at her. "Have you ever been spanked, Abby Delaney?" he asked in low voice.
She reddened. "That's kind of personal isn't it?"
"I'll see you at dinner," he said and left, smiling.
Chapter 3
Hand me the sugar, please, dear."
What if Harris Montgomery intended to spank her? What would she do? Since yesterday, Abby had thought of nothing else but that scenario. He'd bought the bench, and his insistence she pick out a paddle had given her the impression she was choosing the implement he would use on her. Her stomach fluttered, and she glanced at Felix, the vintage cat clock with the swishing tale and moving eyes mounted on the kitchen wall. In one hour Harris would arrive. Of course, he wouldn't spank her tonight. Dinner would be chaperoned by her aunt.
And even if he planned to spank her, that didn't mean she had to go along with it. Unless she wanted to. Did she?
"Abby, honey. The sugar?" her aunt repeated.
"Oh! Sorry." She grimaced and passed the bowl.
Her aunt scooped out a measure with a spoon, added it to some white vinegar, and whisked. "Harris is an attractive man, isn't he?" Aunt Quincy commented.
She didn't quite hit the target, but close enough. Could everyone in Corbin's Bend read minds? Did they put some sort of ESP aid in the water? Both times she'd run into Harris, she'd sensed he could see right through her. Now her aunt.
Abby twisted her mouth with amusement. In Aunt Quincy's case, the touch of ESP could be the function of her third eye, the bindi she'd pasted on her forehead between her plucked eyebrows to accessorize the sari she'd donned. Her aunt had dressed to complement the dinner of cucumber salad, naan, basmati rice and tandoori chicken. An authentic Indian meal. The only thing missing was the actual clay tandoor. Seasoned with a yogurt mixture of garam masala, paprika, turmeric, and cayenne pepper, the chicken slow roasted in a regular oven. Before serving, her aunt would pop it under the broiler.
The baking chicken exuded an irresistible savory aroma, nearly as alluring as Harris's warm masculine scent. Clean. Woodsy maybe? Come closer, his smell had beckoned.
"He's handsome," Abby said matter-of-factly. What would be the point of denying it?
"He reminds me of Joseph. Bless his departed soul." Aunt Quincy poured the sugared vinegar over a medley of cucumber and onion and tossed the salad.
"Because he's good-looking?" Abby took a sip from her glass of pre-dinner wine to settle her nerves.
"Because he's so clearly a spanko."
Wine spewed through Abby's nose. She coughed, her nasal passages burning from the alcohol. Aunt Quincy thumped her on the back.
Upon recovery, Abby said as evenly as she could, "Well, of course. He lives in Corbin's Bend. Everyone here is." Even you, she added silently.
Her aunt rocked her head from side to side. "Well, yeah. But like Joseph, Harris would stand out in a crowd. From the moment Joseph entered the diner where I worked, I recognized he would stand by no nonsense, but I was a bit of a wild child in my youth, if you can believe it."
Abby stared at her aunt's get-up. "Oh no, Auntie, not you," she replied drily.
Her aunt laughed. "Joseph asked me out, but of course, I tested him—kept him waiting when he came to pick me up, sometimes I wouldn't answer his calls. I even stood him up once."
Abby widened her eyes. "Uh oh." Her uncle's heart had been as big as the sky, but he was a law and order man. A cop by profession, he'd also upheld the rules at home.
Aunt Quincy nodded. "Times were different when we were courting. We never slept together before we married, but he burned my bare bottom many times."
Heat singed Abby's cheeks. Her aunt had never spoken so openly about their lifestyle and practices.
"I imagine you and Harris will be the same—except for the waiting to have sex part."
Abby choked. "Aunt Quincy! Please!"
The former wild child had turned into a flamboyant widow. An unrepentant flamboyant widow. "I don't mean to shock you, dear, but to prepare you for what you can expect."
"He's only coming to dinner. And you're the one who invited him. I've only met the man twice!" Sure she'd been spinning possibilities, but her aunt didn't need to know.
"Twice?" Hawk-eyes focused on her face. "Y
ou mean when he helped you move and tonight?"
"Are you done with this?" Abby held up the sugar bowl. At the nod, she returned it to the pantry cupboard along with the vinegar. She delayed, arranging spices and condiments label side out. "He dropped by Auntie Q's the other day too."
She could hear Felix tick in the silence that hovered over the kitchen. Then: "He purchased the spanking bench, didn't he?" Her aunt chortled with delight and clapped her hands. "Wonderful."
"I'll set the table." Abby fled the kitchen.
"The flowers you brought are so lovely, and gerbera daisies are a particular favorite of mine," Aunt Quincy said and eyed the sideboard with the bouquet of sunny blooms. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. They seemed to suit you," Harris answered, but looked at Abby to whom he'd presented three perfect sweet smelling pink roses.
"Where should I sit?" Harris stood tall, casual, and scrumptious in a pair of gray flannel slacks and a blue cotton sweater. A dusting of chest hair peeked above the V, and Abby imagined how springy it would feel to curl her fingers in it. Her ex, the hairless weasel, had had a chest as smooth as a baby's bottom. She couldn't resist comparing the two men, and couldn't fail to notice Harris emerged on top when she did. Nor could she stop remembering their last interaction and his purchases.
"A man's place is at the head of the table." Aunt Quincy directed him.
He waited until she and her aunt had taken their seats before he sat, appearing at ease, comfortable as if he belonged. Head of the table. Head of household. Abby pressed a hand to her stomach to quell the flutters.
Aunt Quincy peered at her. "You look flushed, dear."
Abby fanned her face. "The kitchen. The heat," she lied. Until ten minutes ago, she'd been trying and discarding outfits until she settled for a pair of black leggings, tall riding boots, and an off the shoulder animal print tunic she'd paired with a black leather belt. She hadn't been happy with that ensemble either, but had run out of time to change. His knock had come as she'd attached gold hoops to her ears.
Her aunt opened her mouth like she intended to comment further so Abby shot her a pleading look.
Thankfully, she seemed to get the hint because she smiled at Harris. "I'm so glad you could join us."
"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Lauder."
"Oh, please, call me Aunt Quincy."
"Aunt Quincy," he repeated and received a beaming smile in return. "Everything smells wonderful," he said.
"Thank you. I love to cook." Aunt Quincy passed the platter of chicken to Harris. "My niece is an excellent cook also."
Abby cringed at the blatant sales pitch. Poor Harris. Poor her.
"Do you cook often?" Harris looked her way as he forked a chicken hindquarter onto his plate.
He gripped the heavy platter with ease, his large hands dwarfing the serving fork. She eyed his choice of chicken. Drumstick and thigh. Did that mean he was a leg man? As a spanko, he probably preferred butts, and one's legs extended from one's derrière, so that would make sense. On the other hand, buttocks were rounded like breasts, and maybe a man's choice of chicken parts held no correlation to what he liked in a woman. What had he asked her?
"Is it too warm in here?" Aunt Quincy peered across the table. "You're still flushed. I hope you're not coming down with something."
"I'm fine, Aunt Quincy." Damn her fair skin.
"You look very pretty with a bit of color in your cheeks," Harris said.
Double entendre? Her gaze shot to his face. He appeared innocent, except for a glint in his eyes. "Thank you," she answered. Was she reading too much into the twinkle, imagining a suggestiveness in his comment? Maybe her sneaking suspicion that Aunt Quincy and Harris Montgomery were double-teaming her had arisen because she wanted him to be interested in her. Could it be she wearied of conventionality, playing it safe? Had she, like her aunt, dressed the part? Had she chosen this outfit because it signified an escape from her tame little world? A chance to go wild? The top had been a gift, but she'd never worn it because leopard seemed so out of character for a silk and lace kind of girl.
Rawrr!
Cooking. That was it. He'd asked her if she liked to cook. "I'm not as adventurous as Aunt Quincy. I'm more of a comfort food cook." She stabbed a piece of tandoori chicken and passed the platter to her aunt. A basket of naan, Indian flatbread, headed her way, and she took a piece.
"Like what?" Harris scooped cucumber salad onto his plate and handed her the serving dish.
"Chicken and dumplings, beef stew, lasagna."
He held the bowl of fragrant Basmati rice, waiting as Abby served herself the salad. "Thank you," she said and relieved him of his burden.
When her aunt finished dishing up her plate, they began to eat.
Harris bit into his chicken and an expression of pleasure stole across his face. "Mmm. Excellent," he said, gesturing with his fork.
"Not too spicy?" Aunt Quincy asked.
"Perfect. A bit of heat enlivens most experiences." He looked at Abby. "And your favorite thing to cook is…"
"Macaroni and cheese," she answered sheepishly.
"Why do you say it like that?"
She shrugged. "It's kiddie food, isn't it?"
"It's comfort. Isn't that what people seek in life? A balance of homey satisfaction and excitement? Mac and cheese and tandoori chicken. Both fulfill needs."
"Exactly," Aunt Quincy chimed in.
"Besides, how is macaroni and cheese different from fettuccine alfredo? For a man who eats take-out and canned tuna most of the time, homemade macaroni and cheese sounds like heaven to me."
A hint? Abby took a breath. "I'd be happy to cook macaroni and cheese for you."
"It's a date then."
Aunt Quincy beamed smugly, and Abby could see her notch her invisible belt.
Harris had brought a bottle of pinot grigio, which they enjoyed with dinner, but it was his company that gave Abby a buzz. Every nerve ending received jolts of awareness from his closeness. She tried not to be obvious as she took note of his features. The sprinkle of hair above his sweater. The size and strength of his hands. The rumble of his laugh, his dimples, the gleaming lock of hair that kept falling over his forehead. The way he seemed to study her also.
Under his scrutiny, she became conscious of every move. Her posture, her hair brushing her neck, her bottom pressing on the chair, the tingle between her thighs, how her hand shook as she held her fork or lifted the wine glass to her lips.
She giggled at his stories of teenage escapades, but squirmed when her aunt chimed in with tales of Abby's exploits. After dinner, Abby served coffee and the lemon cake she had baked.
"If your macaroni and cheese is half as good as this dessert, I'm in for a real treat." Harris praised her efforts with a heated glance that warmed her.
"Thank you." She ducked her head, suddenly shy. It had been too long since a man had paid her positive attention. She and Dale had married a week after high school graduation. But their young love, so full of promise, had withered under their marriage difficulties, and only barbs and taunts remained when they divorced seven years later. How good it felt to be on the receiving end of a man's admiration for a change.
When Aunt Quincy began the clear the table. Abby stood to assist, but her aunt waved her away. "Why don't you two have another glass of wine or a cup of coffee in the living room? I'll take care of the dishes."
"Point out what can and can't go in the dishwasher, and I'll do the clean-up," Harris said.
Aunt Quincy shook her head. "You're a guest. I'll do them."
"Absolutely not," he insisted. "I won't hear of it. You prepared a lovely dinner. The cook shouldn't have to do the dishes too." The helpfulness of his offer did not hide the hint of steel beneath it.
He sounded like her late Uncle Joe when he put his foot down. As head of household, Uncle Joe gave Aunt Quincy great leeway to spin circles around their home and community, but when he decided she needed to settle and listen, she obeyed. Harris's quiet offer
had the same effect now.
"Very well. I would like to put my feet up. Thank you."
"I'll help him Aunt Quincy," Abby answered, but checked with Harris for confirmation.
He nodded. "That will be fine." And then he winked.
"We'll join you when we're finished." She picked up the stack of plates.
"Take your time, dear," her aunt replied as if urging her to run off and have some fun.
In short order, they cleared the table. In the kitchen, Abby prepared to scrape the plates, but Harris leaned his backside against the counter and grabbed her hand. "Hey," he said, and drew her to stand between his legs. He threaded his fingers between hers.
"Hey," she repeated, her heart thumping hard.
Harris slid his hand under her hair and cupped her face, his touch warm, slightly rough against her skin. Oh God, he's going to kiss me. Every nerve ending sizzled. Her breath caught in her chest. The kitchen seemed to spin as his head descended. He brushed his lips against hers. Pressed gently. Teased. Then coaxed her mouth to open with a flick of his tongue.
She parted her lips, and he laid claim with a gentle but thorough exploration. He tangled his fingers in her hair, released her hand and wrapped an arm around her waist to bring her closer. Her stomach bumped against his erection, and a shivery thrill raced through her.
Harris tasted like spicy tandoori chicken, sweet and tart lemon cake, and masculinity. His scent mingled with his kiss to wrap her in comfort and excitement. She twined her arms around his neck, and surrendered to his kisses. It felt so good to be held, to be touched to be appreciated—and by a man who knew how to do it.
She hoped he didn't find her lacking. Other than with Dale, her experience amounted to a few stolen pecks at boy-girl parties during her early teens. So no experience that counted.
He broke away to lean his forehead against hers. "I've wanted to do that all evening," he said.
"I wanted you to," she answered.
He moved in for another kiss.
"Do you need any help in there?" Aunt Quincy called from the other room, and Abby jumped.
"We're doing fine, Aunt Quincy," Harris yelled back, his eyes glinting with humor.