Body Politics

by Cara Bristol

  “It’s all m-my fault. I was supposed to do the c-c-class and didn’t, and Stephanie was resp-responsible, and she got fired. I told the board it was my fault, but they said it didn’t matter.”

  Mark shook his head. “Class?” What class? Was anybody going to speak sense today?

  “Communication training. Steph insisted we include men. I didn’t see it that way, so I put it off, and now she lost her job over it.”

  Not just her job. The organization she’d founded, given her blood, sweat, and tears to.

  This airhead was lucky she’d worked for Stephanie. If she reported to him and disobeyed a directive, he would have fired her ass for insubordination.

  “Where is Stephanie now?”

  “Home, I’d guess, but she’s not answering the phone. Will you tell her I’m sorry? I never meant for this to happen.”

  “I’ll pass the word on.”

  So he knew what had happened but not why. He had one more call to make before he went to Stephanie.

  “Woodhue, Orson, Bernstein, and Jessup, Ms. Alexander’s—”

  He cut in before the assistant finished her spiel. “This is Mark DeLuca. Put Liz on.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Ms. Alexander is on her way to court. May I take a message and have her call you?”

  “You may tell her now that I’m calling,” he commanded.

  Liz’s assistant oozed professionalism when she said, “I’ll check with her. Please hold, sir.”

  Half a minute later, Liz came on. “Mark, what did you say to Regina to put her nose out of joint?”

  “Why was Stephanie fired?”

  “How much did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything. I’ve been out of town.”

  “So how did you find out?”

  “From a WAN staffer.”

  “That’s totally unacceptable. That’s confidential information.”

  Mark held his temper. “Liz, answer the question. Why was she fired?”

  Liz exhaled heavily. “It was a debacle. One of her staff members caused a big to-do. The board had decided to fire Stephanie before she ever walked into the meeting.”

  The tips of his ears burned with fury. “You didn’t stop it?”

  “I’m only one vote, and I didn’t know. The board is aware I’m her chief supporter and didn’t include me until I showed up for the meeting.”

  “What was the ‘to-do’?”

  “She brought in one of those glasses from Bottom’s Up. You know, the ones the Bottom Burner comes in.”

  “She got fired over a glass?”

  “She was terminated because she’d butted heads with the board president too often. The glass offended one of Stephanie’s employees, and Gladys leveraged that to get the board on her side. Technically Stephanie was dismissed without cause. It protects the organization from lawsuits by preventing disgruntled employees from disputing the reason for their termination.”

  “Have many employees have been fired?”

  “Stephanie’s the first.”

  “Shit.”

  “She had the glass on her desk, and Evelyn, one of her staff members, took offense to it. She had put it away but left it at the office. Evelyn ran across it again it when she was looking for something in her desk, and then went over her head to the board president. Gladys and Stephanie have clashed since day one.”

  “Evelyn? The woman who answers the phone?”

  “Yes. She’s also the admin assistant and the office manager.”

  “She’s the one who told me Stephanie was fired.”

  Liz swore—something Mark had never heard her do. “I did a little checking on Evelyn.” She sounded grim. “She’s lodged several complaints against previous employers, but this is the only time her boss ended up getting terminated. I think this is worthy of some deeper investigation. I don’t know how much clout I have left on the board, but I’m going to do what I can to see justice served.” Liz sighed. “I called Stephanie all weekend, but she didn’t answer. I assume you’re going over to her place?”

  “As soon as I hang up.”

  “Let her know how sorry I am, and remind her about the position at Rod and Cane. She’d be able to develop and direct a brand-new program from the ground up.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The building manager opened his door wearing several days of beard, a stained wifebeater, and boxers. Mark flashed his badge and said the department had received a notification from a concerned friend that Ms. Gordon might be ill. The man didn’t ask why the police had responded instead of the more appropriate paramedics or express curiosity as to why the department would send the deputy chief of police to a routine call, but snagged a dirty robe and his passkey and shuffled to Stephanie’s second-floor apartment.

  On the spot Mark decided Stephanie would move to a more secure place—his condo.

  The manager let him in and left. Mark shut the door. “Stephanie? It’s Mark.”

  A sad-looking cardboard box bulging with the kind of stuff people used to personalize their offices sat on the foyer table. Fuck. Of all the times for him to have been out of town.

  “Stephanie?” he called again. Her car was outside. It was almost nine thirty. If she wasn’t home, where was she? Her purse was beside the box; she wouldn’t have left without it. He scanned the premises as he passed through the living room, noting signs of occupation in the kitchen: something dark spilled on the counter, a canister of whipped cream on its side next to it.

  Her bedroom door was closed. He rapped twice, called her name again, and pushed it open.

  She’d burrowed into the bedclothes until only the top of her head was visible, but it was enough. With relief came the full knowledge of how worried he’d been. He stared at her for a long moment, then surveyed the mound of sheets on the floor, the phone cord disconnected from the jack, an empty ice-cream carton and a spoon on the bedside table.

  He tiptoed to the window and tilted the blinds to lighten the room, then moved to the bed. He sat on the edge and jostled her shoulder gently. “Stephanie, it’s Mark.”

  She mumbled, and he shook her a little harder. “Wake up, kitten.”

  She poked her face out from the blankets. He knew what she looked like when she woke up in the morning, and this wasn’t it. Bright eyes had dulled. “Tuesday. Already?” Her voice was just as lifeless. Relief evaporated.

  “No, it’s Monday. I left the conference because I was worried about you.”

  “Didn’t you get my message?” Her words slurred. He’d never heard her speak this way before, and it scared him.

  “It was hardly adequate,” he said gently.

  “I’m sorry I caused you trouble. I’m glad you’re home, but I need to sleep some more. Please.” She pulled the covers over her face.

  He tugged on the blanket. “I know what happened at WAN. I’m sorry.”

  She said nothing.

  He flung off the covers and lifted her to a sitting position. She slumped as if she had only the merest hint of starch in her spine. A horrible thought knifed through him. He grabbed her chin. “Look at me!”

  Slowly she lifted her gaze and focused.

  “Did you take something?” he demanded, studying her eyes.

  “What do you mean?” Confusion creased her forehead, then cleared. A tiny flash of anger sparked, and she wrested her chin out of his grasp. “No! How could you think that?”

  The small glare she directed at him slowed his hammering heart, and he understood. She had folded inward, retreated into depression to escape her pain rather than confront it. But at what cost to her spirit and her body? Given her degree of lethargy, he surmised she hadn’t been out of bed since Friday night. Pain, anger, and grief were normal emotions when processed in a healthy manner. Curling into a ball and refusing to deal with them? Not so healthy.

  She needed to face what had happened rather than hide from it.

  “Talk to me.”

  Sh
e didn’t pretend to misunderstand but shook her head. “Don’t want to.” She grabbed the covers and flopped on the mattress. “I’m sorry I worried you and you felt you had to leave your conference to check on me, but I need to sleep.” She burrowed under her pillow.

  Go away, she meant. And if he did, when he returned tomorrow and the next day, he’d likely find her no better off, maybe worse.

  He stood up, yanked away the pillow, and stripped the comforter entirely off the bed. Her nightshirt had ridden up her thighs.

  She tugged on it to cover herself and squinted at him. “Why are you doing this? I told you I don’t want to discuss it. You ought to respect my wishes.”

  “Not if it’s detrimental to you. Sit up.”

  “No.”

  “Talk to me—or I’ll spank you.”

  “Go away.”

  Mark sat and, before she could move a muscle, hauled her over his knees. Her nightshirt rode up in the most accommodating way. “Let me go.” She attempted to roll off his lap. It was the most spirit she’d displayed since he’d arrived, but the fight in her was much less than what she was capable of.

  He held her and rubbed and squeezed her rounded tush, warming it up. “One last time,” he said. “Tell me what happened on Friday.”

  “You already know.”

  “I do. But I want to hear it from you.”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just can’t. Spank me if you have to.”

  “Very well.” He brought his hand down with medium force in the center of her cheek. She flinched but didn’t utter a sound. He lay into her with a steady, urgent stroke. Talk to me. Please. She remained stoic for the longest time; then her arms and legs began to twitch with the blows.

  He spanked harder.

  “Ow! That hurts.”

  “Does it?” He smacked her several times in the same spot. “Does it?” He stung the other cheek in the same way. “Tell me how much it hurts.”

  “It hurts, okay? It hurts!”

  Smack. Smack. Smack. Her ass was an even pink, as was his palm, which stung, although probably not as much as her ass. Smack! “What hurts?”

  “My ass. Stop it!” She flailed her arms and legs, fighting him with real effort, showing her claws for the first time.

  Good, good. That’s my girl. But you’re not there yet. He anchored his arm around her waist and delivered a series of hard, quick slaps.

  “It’s not fair!” she yelled. She tried to cover her butt, and he grabbed her wrists and held them against her lower spine.

  “What’s not fair?” He continued, not missing a beat.

  “That you’re spanking me!” Stephanie bucked her hips, but her timing was off, and her ass rose to connect with his downward palm. She howled.

  He focused on one particularly red spot and slapped it repeatedly.

  “NOT fair!” Her shout wobbled.

  “Why isn’t it?” Spank. Spank. Tell me. Let me stop. Let me give you what you need. He laid into her hard and fast, not permitting her time to anticipate or recover from the blows. He refused to let her hide.

  “Because I started WAN! Me! Not the board, not that bitch Gladys, not Evelyn, not Bethany.” The words exploded out of her mouth. “And they stole it from me.” Stephanie began to cry. Hand raised midair, Mark ceased spanking. “I recruited every single board member. Hired the staff. And th-they acted like nothing I did mattered. Like I didn’t matter. It’s not fair. It’s not fair! It’s not FAIR!” Her voice rose on a crescendo and ended in a scream. She wept, sobs racking her body.

  Mark hauled her into his arms. She pressed her fists to his chest and wailed against his collar, spewing oddly meaningful non sequiturs. “Fucking boys…the girls…bitch Evelyn…thought he liked me…cheating bastard…Gladys…only a drinking glass.” He held her tight, tangled his fingers in her matted hair, and rubbed her ass.

  He rocked and stroked as she dampened his shirt with her tears and seared his heart with her pain. Her eyes and her nose ran, and he snagged a tissue from a box on the nightstand and wiped her face.

  “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

  When her sobs dwindled to hiccups, he held a couple of tissues to her nose. “Blow,” he said.

  She did, then turned her face in to his neck. Her body trembled. “I knew this w-would happen. I hate for you to see me this way.”

  He massaged her reddened ass. “What way? Sad? Mad? You’re entitled to be both.”

  She shook her head. “Weak. I don’t w-want to be weak. To break down. To cry.”

  “You’re not weak. And everybody cries.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I can’t remember the last time, true, but I’m tough.”

  “And I’m weak.”

  “No. You’re a woman.” He shook her gently. “The next time something upsets you, tell me. No more stuffing it inside. Do you understand?” he said in a tone that brooked no refusal.

  “We’ll see,” she brooked.

  He kissed her ass with his palm. “There’s always the alternative.”

  She scowled into his face. “You think spanking is the answer to everything.”

  “Not everything. But it will do you good if I redden your ass for real about once a week after we’re married.”

  She widened her eyes and dropped her jaw. “What did you say to me?”

  “We’ve discussed maintenance spankings,” he reminded her.

  “Not that! The other part of the sentence.”

  “After we’re married?”

  He never saw the punch coming. Her fist flew out and connected with the left side of his chest. How she got such a good swing when she was sitting so close, he couldn’t figure. He gaped at her furious face.

  She leaped off his lap as if she’d been scalded and stomped around the room. “What world do you live in?” she yelled, making him wonder if it had been wise to encourage her to express her emotions. “In this one, you don’t tell a woman she’s going to marry you—you ask her! That’s an absolute.”

  “Oh.” The tips of his ears burned, not from anger but embarrassment. That had been his original intention, but he’d bungled one of the most important moments of his life. How the hell did he save this?

  When he’d imagined proposing, he’d pictured her glowing as he slipped a ring on her finger. Instead, due to his ineptitude, she glowered at him, her hands squeezed into fists in case she needed to get his attention again. The oversize shirt she wore hung on her frame like a sack, her hair stuck out every which way, and her eyes were swollen and red from crying, her nose tinged pink. But he’d be the luckiest man alive—if she’d have him. If he hadn’t blown it.

  He slipped off the bed, onto his knees. He kissed the knuckles of the fist that had punched him. His heart pounded. Fuck, what if she said no? “I love you, kit—Stephanie. Will you marry me?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The only thing more outrageous than being fired from the organization one had founded would be to marry Mark DeLuca. When she’d sunk to the lowest point of her life, he’d somehow broken into her apartment, turned her over his knee, and damn near spanked the living daylights out of her. He was arrogant, presumptuous, entirely too frickin’ sure of himself, and domineering. Marriage, as he defined it, would be 180 degrees off course from the egalitarian, meet-you-halfway partnership she had envisioned for herself.

  Because Mark wouldn’t meet her halfway. He’d go the entire distance. He’d give 100 percent. Like he had today, dropping everything to hop on a plane and race to her side.

  At his discretion, her ass would feel the imprint of the paddle, but her heart would flourish under his love, his protection. Just like Liz had said. He would be her rock. He wasn’t so much domineering, she amended, but authoritarian, a man who commanded because it was his nature. And she was a feminist who, through his dominance, would appreciate and express her gentler side. She would be his soft place to fall.

  No, Ma
rk wasn’t the man she’d envisioned loving. He was much better.

  And right now he was on his knees, a glint of worry in his earnest gaze. She rather liked the uncertainty he wore. It fit him like a poorly tailored suit, the mismatch that much more appealing. She would hate to see him humbled very often, but for this moment? It meant the world that this proud, dominant man would drop to his knees because he loved her.

  Her heart swelled until it pressed against her ribs. “Yes,” she shouted and flung herself at him. He caught her with open arms. “I’ll marry you. I love you,” she managed to say before he crushed her mouth beneath his.

  “You took long enough to answer,” he growled between kisses.

  “Did I?” she said as he nibbled on her neck. “It didn’t seem that way to me.”

  He pulled her nightshirt over her head and tossed it aside. He drew on a nipple with fierce suction. The hardening bud tingled, and her womb contracted. The rasp of his jaw grazed a trail from one breast to the other. “I think you were toying with me,” he said and smacked her bottom lightly.

  She cradled his head as he sucked on the taut peaks of her breasts. She felt herself falling, but she relaxed into Mark’s hold and landed softly on the carpeted floor. Her insides melted under his lustful adoration as he stripped himself of his clothes and dropped to his knees, but this time in full control. Uncertainty had evaporated.

  Wide shoulders sturdy enough to bear her burdens tapered to a trim waist she could cling to for support. Biceps and forearms bulged with the strength to carry her. His hands…ah, his hands… They caressed and coddled, they spanked and disciplined, they guided and loved.

  His cock jutted out, ever ready for her pleasure. Curly dark hairs swirled around its base and darkened his muscular thighs, braced wide apart. Even on his knees he remained dominant.

  He kissed her, his mouth plundering, his insistent, stroking hands staking possession. She gripped his biceps, then flattened her palms over his chest and reveled in the hardness before sweeping through the dusting of body hair to the crown jewels. A powerful marvel of rigidity. She seized him, her squeeze-and-slide technique earning her a gratifying growl. “Ah, kitten, what you do to me,” he murmured against her mouth.