by Cara Bristol
“No.” She pressed her fingers to her temple.
“Headache?”
“Not exactly. I feel a little…disoriented.”
Attending one’s memorial service incognito and listening to your eulogies? What could be disorienting about that? “Are you ready to go home?”
“I should stay…but yeah.” She nodded.
* * * *
On the way, they stopped for Chinese food anyway. Moo shu pork, shrimp fried rice, and egg rolls. Any other time, Zoe would have ordered a vegetable stir fry and plain brown rice. If he had a nickel for every difference since the accident, it would have paid for dinner and then some.
They ate at his dining table, neither of them inclined to talk. Zoe, the chopstick master, had eschewed them in favor of a fork.
“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.
Not yet ready to reveal his suspicions, he dodged. “I was thinking about Laura.”
“Laura?” A slight crease appeared between her eyebrows. “What about her?”
He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Isn’t she supposed to have ESP or something?”
She pursed her lips. “She doesn’t like to be called psychic, but that’s pretty much what she is.”
“So she what? Sees into the future?”
Destiny smiled. “Precognition?” She shook her head. “That’s what a lot of people assume psychic ability is, but that’s not Laura’s gift. She’s a clairvoyant and an empath. She gets visions, not that predict the future but that show her the way things are. And then she’s adept at picking up emotions, even those people hide or aren’t aware of themselves. Like if a person acts angry, Laura feels the fear beneath the anger.”
He chose his next words carefully. “I wonder if Destiny had similar ability.”
She shook her head vigorously. “None. She’d have done better to ask the Magic Eight Ball.”
“But they were sisters.”
“Not by blood. Their parents adopted Laura after Destiny’s mother discovered she couldn’t have any more children.” Grimness darkened her face. “Parents shouldn’t have favorites, but they do. Laura wasn’t it. Nor did her parents understand her extrasensory abilities. And Laura was too young to comprehend the seriousness.” She bent her head and poked her fork in her rice. “They sent her to an institution for a while because they thought she was crazy or possessed.”
“You seem to know a lot about her family.” He studied her face, watched for a reaction.
She stiffened. “Destiny and I used to talk.”
“It would be impossible to be anything but honest around Laura, I would imagine. She’d pick up on every nuance.”
She nodded. “I don’t understand how it works, but there’s a lot of chaff intermingled with her perceptions that clouds the picture or interferes with interpretation of the meaning. But Laura reads people very well.”
He almost wished he had Laura’s ability so he could discern who sat across the table from him and her true motivation. If it was Destiny, when would she tell him the truth? What if she never did?
WHY WAS HE so interested in Laura all of a sudden? Destiny bit into an egg roll. But better that than he focus on her. She could provide no answers to any questions he might ask.
Laura may have been convinced that Chance had liked her and that Zoe had encouraged it, but her sister erred. Coincidence. That was all it was.
She wished she could be honest with Chance, but people did not switch bodies. Laura recognized her only because of her special abilities. He would think she was crazy.
Trust Chance, said the voice.
And there was that—she’d started hearing a voice. Not loud, not often, but definitely there. She tried to dismiss it as her own imagining, but it was too distinct, too separate, too contrary. Too disturbing. The voice sounded exactly like Zoe.
She shivered. Laura had lost a year of her childhood in psychiatric lockup. She’d been too naïve, too innocent to understand the stakes. Only after Destiny had been permitted to visit and had advised her to tell the doctors what they expected to hear had the wheels been set in motion for her release. Lying had freed her sister. Honesty wasn’t always the best policy.
So what was she going to do? Take her secret to her deathbed? Give up any potential for happiness with Chance out of loyalty to a dead woman? The thought of that saddened her. But he’d obviously had feelings for Zoe, or they wouldn’t still be together. He’d had sex with her the other night or thought he had.
Tell Chance who you are.
“Stop!”
“I beg your pardon?” Chance raised his eyebrows.
Destiny thumped the side of her head with her palm. “Sorry. Just had a ringing in my ears.”
“Maybe you should tell the doctor. When’s your follow-up appointment?”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Just a touch of schizophrenia.
She moved her rice around on her plate. Tell Chance or don’t? If by some miracle he believed her, she’d end up a loser because she wasn’t the woman he wanted. She remembered the way they’d made love, the emotion and the tenderness he’d given thinking he was with Zoe. She thought of the surprises hidden in the secret chest, remembered the tingles when she’d tried them out, imagined how much better it could be if someone else was wielding the tawse or the flogger. Was it wrong to want to do those things with Chance? Was it sinful to want him? Would acting on her feelings make her a bad person?
For the first time, she questioned her assumptions. Zoe had died. But Destiny lived, and so did Chance. Nothing she did or didn’t do would bring her friend back. Eventually Chance would find somebody else anyway. Why not her? And even though it wouldn’t lead to anything permanent, what was wrong about a spanky sexual interlude if it brought them release and, for a moment, forgetfulness of the tragedy?
She was still entitled to comfort and happiness.
Or punishment. Maybe she should ask him to chastise her for disloyalty and selfishness. Instead of spanking, it would be more like flagellation. She’d bare her bottom, he’d warm her ass with his hand, because she’d heard that was important, and then he’d whip her tender bottom with the tawse. Because she was bad. A terrible friend. Unfortunately, twisting her motivation didn’t hide the truth. She wanted to be spanked, flogged, tawsed for the fun of it, the closeness, the release.
The heat of shame and desire flooded her from the bottom up.
“Are you all right?” Chance regarded her, his eyes narrowing with concern. “Your cheeks are turning red.”
She wished he’d turn her cheeks red. She fortified her decision with a deep breath. “I organized the bedroom closet last week.”
“Good.” He arched his eyebrows.
“I opened the…uh…chest.”
“Ah. We haven’t used that in a while.” He smiled as if recalling pleasant memories.
Blood roared in her ears. Come on, girl. Grow a pair. Just say it. She licked her dry lips, glanced at her hands, then raised her head and locked her gaze on his. “Maybe…maybe we should use some of those things now.”
Chapter Ten
Chance’s eyes turned molten. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he said thickly.
She’d attempted to do the noble thing, but maybe her assumptions were in error—or maybe she needed them to be wrong—but she refused to give up without a fight. And if it didn’t work, she’d at least have memories and the knowledge that she’d tried.
A good idea? Time would tell.
“Yes,” she lied. “I need you to touch me, to hold me, to spank me.” She’d never expressed her desires to a man so openly before. But she withheld the most important piece. I need you. She loved Chance and craved him in every possible way.
She wanted him when he came home from the shop greasy and dirty, when he woke up with morning breath and morning wood, when he padded around the bedroom wearing nothing but a towel, when his muscles flexed when he did ordinary things like unload the dishwasher or grab a cup off th
e shelf. When he laughed at the television. After he shaved and when his face grew scratchy again. In the daytime and in the evening. On Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and every other day. “I want you…and sex and spanking.”
“Me. Sex. Spanking.” Chance paused as if her request required consideration. He nodded. “I can accommodate you. When would you like all that?”
Her tongue seemed to swell inside her mouth, impeding the formation of words. “Now.” Perhaps only one word would be necessary.
Chance shoved away from the table. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Stomach fluttering, Destiny rose to her feet. Like this? No lead-in, no preamble. Just bam! The suddenness aroused nervousness and excitement.
He motioned for her to precede him, and she shuffled for the bedroom, trying to decipher the meaning behind his about-face.
A hard swat landed on her ass. She squealed.
“There’s more where that came from if you don’t get a move on. And even more if you do.” He smiled wickedly. Problems could wait. This could not. She scurried down the hall with Chance at her heels.
In the bedroom, he dug the chest out of the closet. Anything he chose would have been fine with her, but he selected the tawse, and her excitement spiked into the red zone. This is really happening. Oh God. Her pussy dampened, and butterflies stormed her stomach. He set the tawse on the nightstand, and it stood out stark and wicked, a shrine to naughty intent.
He spun her around and fastened his mouth on hers, and she forgot her nervousness, focused instead on the pleasure of his kiss, the way he stroked and explored with his tongue, caressed with his lips. She moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, plastering her body to his. His cock swelled against her, sending a lustful zing through her veins.
Chance wrapped his arms around her shoulders, almost crushing her, but she thrilled at his desire, his expression of need. He paused midkiss to murmur against her lips. “I missed you this week.”
She’d hoped the physical intimacy of the other night would have drawn them closer, but instead there’d been a distance, fostered at least in part by his absence. He’d worked late several nights. She’d waited for him, aching; missing her had been his choice, but she said, “I missed you too,” and sought his mouth. She worked his shirt buttons loose and shoved the garment off his shoulders. He broke hold to let it fall to the floor and to tug her black knit top over her head. With the dexterity of a master, he dispensed with her bra.
“Why do you wear that thing? You don’t need it.” He covered her breasts with his hands, his touch warm, arousing.
“Are you saying I have small boobs?” she demanded. Her old body had been top heavy. She’d jiggled too much to go braless.
He expelled a sigh of male exasperation. “I’m saying you have perfect tits. I like easy access.” He stroked his thumbs over her nipples, and they hardened. “See? Perfect. Perky. Cute.” He bent his head and captured one between his lips. Her clit responded to the suction with a pulse.
He released her nipple to shove her skirt down her legs and pull off her panties. His slacks and shorts went next, and then he palmed her buttocks, holding her against his cock as he kneaded her cheeks. “Quite spankworthy.”
Even the word made her pussy damp. Destiny slipped between their bodies to close her fingers around his cock and stroke his shaft. Precum pearled at the opening, and she swirled her thumb in the moisture, enjoying the smoothness.
Chance sucked in a breath of air, and his head fell back. He closed his eyes; his nostrils flared. A muscle twitched in his cheek.
Gripping him tightly, she slid her hand up and down his shaft while cupping his balls. He jerked. Pleasure skipped across his face.
This is me, Chance. Destiny. She willed him to understand.
His eyes flew open. A flush burned across his cheekbones.
Me. She fondled. Me. She squeezed.
Bending, she sucked the crown into her mouth. Me. She drew hard while continuing to stroke. She relished the difference between the petal softness of his glans, the solidness of his shaft, the heavy texture of his sac. All male. All hers. At least for now. She traced the underside of his erection with her tongue, then engulfed the head again. Chance groaned an exhortation. Her pussy answered the summons, contracting on cue. He called; she answered.
When I’m calling you…ou…ou… Strains of Jeannette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy singing “Indian Love Call” filtered through her head. She couldn’t prevent a titter.
Chance tensed. “Are you laughing?” Indignation reddened his face.
A giggle bubbled in her throat, No. No. Oh, no. She averted her eyes from his outraged gaze and swiped her tongue around the ridge of his cockhead, but suppressed laughter swelled. When I’m calling you…ou…ou…
She lunged for a distraction. Tax audit. Waiting in line at the DMV. La. La. La. La. La.
Destiny squeezed her eyes shut and sucked hard. His body relaxed. A tiny groan of pleasure left his lips. Her pussy responded with a twitch. Reprise. When I’m calling you…ou…ou
The bubble burst, and a full-on laugh snorted out the sides of her mouth. Her body shook, and she gurgled and choked. Her teeth threatened to chatter. Before she chomped, she let go of his cock, which released the reins on her amusement.
She convulsed in a fit of laughter.
“What the fuck?” Chance bit out.
Destiny peeked at him through the tears streaming from her eyes. His jaw had dropped, and he stared like she’d lost her mind. His erection had lost its magnificence.
Not funny. Except it was.
She pressed a hand to her chest and extended the other in a plea. “I’m s-s-sorry—” She doubled over. “I’m not, not laughing…at y-you-ou-ou.” The tune of “Indian Love Call” replayed like a scratched vinyl LP, and, she clutched her aching stomach. “Oh God, I c-can’t stop.”
Call her the mistress of bad timing. Just when she had an opportunity to get intimate with Chance again, she suffered a laughing fit.
“Would you like me to help you stop?”
“Y-y-yes!” Her stomach hurt.
With a gentle shove, he nudged her toward the bed. He sat on the mattress, pulled her convulsing body over his lap. She bumped against his semihard member.
“Maybe this will do the trick.” He stung her ass.
The painful shock reverberated through her. “Ow!” she cried out, still laughing.
He smacked the other cheek. Then switched to the first with a spank that choked off her laughter and halted the breath in her throat. He adjusted her on his lap and clamped his forearm across her waist.
Chance spanked firmly and fast, burning the center of her buttocks, the crease between her thighs and ass. Against her hip, his cock hardened to its former glory. Her pussy dampened, and amusement vanished.
She jerked with each blow, relishing the sting, the heat, the hand-to-ass contact. The muscles in Chance’s thighs tensed before each strike, creating a delicious mix of anticipation and dread.
“Now tell me”— smack—“what was so”— smack—“funny.” Smack.
How could she explain it? He wouldn’t understand the “Indian Love Song.” He’d probably never even heard of it. She knew because as a little girl she’d sneak out of bed to watch late-night television, and commercials featuring recordings of oldies—real oldies—would air. She felt Chance raise his hand. Words rushed out of her mouth. “Every time you groaned, it made my pussy pulse.”
“What’s funny about that?”
“It was such an automatic response.” She peered over her shoulder. “Like my desire was wired to yours—like we’re in sync.”
He massaged her ass, easing the burn he’d caused, and goose bumps broke out on her skin. In sync. Yeah, like that. He slipped a caressing hand between her thighs to find her wetness, to dip two fingers into it. A groan rumbled from his throat. She clenched.
“Being over my knee gets you wet.” He growled with satisfaction and continued to apply his hand to her as
s, transforming her into a writhing, humping mass of lust.
“And hot.” He roughly kneaded a throbbing moon.
He grabbed for the tawse, and time stopped. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears.
At the snap of the leather across her aching, heated ass, the breath left her lungs in a howl. Sweet pain sizzled across her flesh in two places. He brought the strap down again, and a line of fire blazed across the other cheek.
Two more snaps sliced across her flesh, lighting two places on fire each time. She writhed, a horizontal dance of pleasure too sharp to bear, legs thrashing, arms flailing.
“Easy. Easy,” he murmured. He rubbed her ass, smothered the fire, and then lit it again with several more strikes. And another. The tail end of the tawse marked the crease between ass and thigh.
Chance flung aside the leather strap and stroked her folds, slid his finger into her slit. She didn’t need his hum of pleasure to alert her she was sopping wet.
She expected him to fuck her then, but he sat her up and positioned her heels on the bed’s edge, the sensation cool and rough against her flaming bottom. He dropped to his knees in front of her splayed legs.
The tautness of his face betrayed his need, but his teeth flashed white in the most rakish grin. He bent his head. Wet heat engulfed her sex. If she thought his smile wicked, it couldn’t compare to his tongue, which he fluttered over her clit, teased her pussy lips, and delved into her channel. She clutched his head, curled her fingers into his soft, silky hair, and ground herself against his face. Her spanked ass rubbed against the bed, evoking tingles similar to the rasp of his five o’clock shadow against her sensitive sex. Soft mouth, hard, abrasive jaw. Delicious friction. Molten need.
With his thumbs, he spread her open. Licked. Pressure and heat built in her clit. She clutched his face, held him against her. Flung her head back in ecstasy. Close. So close.
He mumbled something, his words muffled against her flesh.
“What?” she gasped. Struggled to focus. Her clit burned. Closer…
He raised his head, and she bit her lip in frustration.