Have Paddle, Will Travel (Corbin's Bend Season Two Book 7)
Page 12
Chuckling, Vance held himself as deep inside of her as he could go. “I like that way better than horn dog. And just for the record, I haven’t done this—” He withdrew only to thrust again, so hard she could feel it all the way up to her throat. “—with anyone else either.”
Her only response was the moan his next withdrawal dragged from her as he began to move. Four years, seven months and who the hell cared how many days were utterly destroyed on the cool marble tiles of her foyer, and Ettie couldn’t have cared less that the man rising on strong arms above her was the same one she thought she couldn’t stand one week earlier.
She had tormented him for years; now he returned the favor one tender kiss at her lips, one suckling hickey upon her breasts, and one heart-deep thrust at a time. Her whole body quivered. She forgot how to breathe. Or, maybe it was simply that his kisses stole the air right out of her. All she knew was that at that pinnacle moment when his pumping hips began to rock harder, shallower and faster, and every inch of her tightened around every inch of him, when it reached its most overwhelming and all she wanted to do was bury her face in her arms and feel, that was when he fisted her hair in his hand.
“Look at me,” he ordered, refusing to let her hide.
She clung to him, letting him be both the anchor that held her as well as the driving force that tore her all apart. Her climax shattered her. His “Good girl,” groaned against her ear as he slammed in deep and shuddered to the gripping convulsions of her sex, was the balm that mended her back together again.
It wasn’t anything at all like what she had imagined in her story. It was better.
And for them, it was just the beginning.
EPILOGUE
“Hey, Ettie,” Vance called across the house. Standing at the full-length mirror just inside the closet door, he had one eye on the necktie he was trying to wrestle into submission and one eye on the moving van just now pulling into the driveway of his old house. “I think someone’s moving in across the street!”
“Good for them!” she called back. It was fifteen minutes until they had to leave and yet, from the sounds of it, she’d abandoned the kitchen and was back in her office. Probably writing again; only one of the many hazards, he’d discovered, associated with living with a writer. Every waking moment was spent either writing or plotting, to the point that they were late everywhere they went because it took an act of Congress (or Vance taking off his belt) before she’d abandon her computer.
He almost rolled his eyes. Checking the time, he called, “Ettie, I swear, if you burn the ham, I’m going to burn your butt!”
“Oh, you and what army?” The acoustics in this house were great. He heard her mutter that all the way from her office.
Pulling the tie off from around his neck—torturous, medieval strangulation device that it was; the community’s Christmas dinner was supposed to be a casual event anyway, damn it—Vance tossed it on the dresser as he left their bedroom. Already unbuttoning his wrist cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, he was halfway down the hall when he heard the tell-tale thump of her chair hitting the wall behind her desk and then one set of human feet and two sets of scrambling dog paws racing their way back to the kitchen. By the time he reached the adjoining living room, she was pulling the pineapple-glazed ham for the potluck dinner out of the oven. It both looked and smelled perfect. Not that he was about to let that assuage him.
“What you mind repeating what you just said?” he asked, coming around the kitchen island toward her.
“I said, um…yes, sir?” Ettie replied. She even snapped off a belated salute, but backed away when he kept coming. She let herself be trapped against the sink all too easily, and they were both smiling when he caught her arm and drew her back to him.
They’d been together as an official couple for two months, and any day now, Vance hoped she might stop killing him in her paper. In the meantime, it had been zero days since her last spanking—not that anyone was counting.
The End
Maren Smith
“Hi, I'm Maren. I'm 30, married to a wonderful, dominant man, and have five four–legged children: two dogs and three cats. I love strong, authoritative men–men who are both ready and willing to leave the lady of their choosing red–bottomed and weeping and for her own good. Writing has given me the wonderful freedom to explore my spanking side without feeling 'weird.' Even better, with the invention of the Internet, I can write what I love and know it will be appreciated by people with the same interests.”
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OTHER BOOKS BY MAREN SMITH
Last Dance for Cadence, Corbin's Bend Book 8
How to Live Without a Man
Something Has to Give
B-Flick
Bippity-Boppity-Boo
Black Sheep
Daughter of the Strong
The Diva
Enemies
The Great Prank
Jinxie’s Orchids
Katy Run Away
Kindred Spirits
Life After Rachel
The Locket
The Miner’s Wife
Mistress
Morogh the Demon
Mountain Man
My Lady Robin Hood
The Next Ex
Saga: Constance’s Story
Spanking Tails I thru X
The Suffragettes
Treasure
Varden’s Lady
Masters of the Castle Series:
Holding Hannah (Book One)
Kaylee’s Keeper (Book Two)
Saving Sara (Book Three)
Sweet Sinclair (Book Four)
Chasing Chelsea (Book Five)
Box Sets:
With Hearts Aflame
Masters of the Castle
The Naughty List
Spanking Tails Vol. 1
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Epilogue
About Maren Smith
Ebook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
About Blushing Books