by Alta Hensley
But she shrugged his hands off as soon as she got back onto her feet, reaching immediately down to pull up her jeans and panties, avoiding his eyes at all costs.
She turned to leave without saying a word to him, still occasionally hiccoughing a sob. Clay reached out, caught the edge of her shirt and pulled her back. "Don't leave like this." He tried to pull her into his arms, but she stayed put as if her feet had been planted in cement, head doggedly down, arms hanging at her sides. So he came to her, opening his arms to wind them around her, but Elodie remained stiff as a board within them. Clay leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
*****
His arms wrapped around her, holding her close, not in a sexual way, but in a manner that offered comfort. But to Elodie it was cold comfort indeed. She didn't want to be standing in the arms of this man who had just seen her bare bottom and spanked it to within an inch of her life. She should be resisting more, she thought, instead allowing herself to melt a little against him. She should be home by now, where she could soak her butt in a bucket of ice. He'd started to rub her upper back and rock back and forth just a little, not enough to disturb her, but just enough to make her feel better than she wanted to. Her tears came more quickly at his kindness. She felt the safety and comfort of him surrounding her, and it made her feel more cared for than she had in years.
"There, there," he murmured against her hair.
And it all felt good. Too damned good. It was just what she wanted, almost, close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades. She was trying to stand there and enjoy and absorb as much as she could of it for later, when she could roll the moments around in her mind at a more leisurely pace. But then she didn't want to enjoy or revel in it—he'd just spanked her! She didn't think she'd ever get over it! He'd taken her over his knees and paddled her with his hand!
Reaching back to rub her bottom, she realized that it looked as though she needed to make a trip to Goodwill, as much as she didn't want to.
Clay looked down at her as she clutched awkwardly at her own butt. "What shall we do together next week?" he asked.
"How about avoid each other entirely?" Elodie suggested sourly, fidgeting within his arms.
Clay squeezed her tight, then let her go. "No, I don't think so. Why don't we go bowling?"
Elodie sighed. Another week without lunches... and a lot of dinners. "Sure." She started to wander towards the door again, wondering if he was going to reclaim her again.
But he didn't. Instead, he drove her home without further incident, and on the way he decided that they'd bowl in a week, then maybe go out to eat. The last thing he said before driving away, though, was that he expected to see her winter coat the next time they met, or what she'd just gotten would resemble friendly pats.
Elodie watched him drive off after tooting his horn, and wandered into her apartment. They'd essentially gone out on two dates. They had kissed—the most amazing kiss of her life. He'd seen her naked from the waist down, and had spanked her—hard. So much for keeping him at a polite distance.
What the hell was she supposed to do now?
Chapter 8
When she got back to her place, the first thing Elodie did was go into her bathroom, where there was a full-length mirror on the back of the door. She shucked her jeans and panties down and turned around to see if there was any evidence of her bottom getting smacked, and there was plenty. She was so fair that she could see not only a definite all over pinkness, but also telltale separate and distinct handprints. His hand was so big that he'd gotten all of her butt in one hard whack! The odd thing was that she wasn't appalled, in fact, quite the opposite. Seeing the marks of her spanking made her smile. She actually liked seeing the leftover signs of his discipline. Was she losing her mind?
Elodie climbed into her loosest set of pajamas and sat down gingerly on the side of her bed, snuggling under the covers, even though it was only about six thirty in the evening. She was almost numb—except in some strategic areas; and she was exhausted... yet she was humming with what had happened to her within the past several hours.
Clay didn't spank at all like her father, or what she could remember of being spanked by Daddy, which wasn't much. It was so much more intimate; so much more real, not faraway and fuzzy, to be spanked as an adult. It was a memory that was literally seared into her—brain and bottom. How his legs felt beneath her, crushing her too ample for her figure breasts, the unexpected part of him drilling into her tummy at the same time as she could both feel and hear each swat, distinctly, as it landed. He hadn't attacked her with a barrage of small smacks. They had all been horridly individual and aimed for maximum impact, as her poor sore flesh would certainly attest to.
But it had been Clay's lap that she was over. He was the one who had been staring down at her wobbling hillocks, touching them if somewhat impartially, peering down to instantaneously divine where the next strike should land.
Elodie could barely wrap her mind around what had happened. She should have stayed at home, she thought belatedly, but then jettisoned the thought. He would have come after her in a shot, she knew. There was no hesitation in that man—if what he wanted didn't come to him, he'd go and get it, no doubt about it.
And there was obviously no couth in him, either, since he seemed to be making a move on his dead wife's sister. But she wasn't exactly fighting it. He had seen everything from the waist down! And no doubt his lap was wet from her signs of arousal. Why? How? What was it about this man, the spanking, everything? She couldn't breathe right. She couldn't think right. Nothing about this was right… and yet, the warmth in her body spoke otherwise.
Elodie lay in bed with visions of the only adult spanking she'd ever had dancing in her head, turning it around and around in her mind until she let it go and fell asleep.
*****
Across town, Clay was sitting in his study—the scene of the crime—with a shot of twelve-year-old scotch in front of him. Well, okay, a bottle of twelve-year-old scotch. The shot glass was a mere formality to prevent the complete breakdown of civilization that he knew would surely result if he should drink directly from the bottle like some wino.
Spanking Elodie had been, outwardly, a relatively easy event. He'd given her an order, and made it plain as day clear to her that there would be consequences if she didn't obey him. He didn't know what the big deal was about a winter coat, but that was neither here nor there. She had disobeyed, and in his world—of which she was an ever growing part—that meant a spanking.
But inwardly, spanking her had made him feel two parts guilty for every one part positive. He really believed that spankings helped some women be better than they might on their own, if they didn't have the reinforcement of sound, logical rules. April had been one of those women. She'd positively blossomed under the safe umbrella of his adoring discipline; she'd taken better care of herself, been more aware of her own safety than she probably ever would have if they hadn't gotten together, and he had been strong enough to implement some very painful reminders that he loved her, and he expected her to look out for herself at all times, because of that strong, abiding love.
Elodie was another matter entirely. In some ways, he felt like he had definitely overstepped his brother-in-lawish bounds by spanking her, not to mention when he kissed her at her front door. They hadn't had any other intimate physical connection—unless you counted the mind-blowing kiss—and yet he'd tipped her over and given her a very sound spanking—on the bare bottom. Clay couldn't deny that he was becoming attracted to Elodie—the proof was painfully obvious even as his palm had begun to hurt; he could still have split a diamond with his erection.
Although, thinking back on it, she could have protested a lot more than she did. She acquiesced more quickly than he expected, and although she certainly hadn't appeared to be happy with the turn of events, she hadn't slapped his face or threatened to call the police on him once he'd let her up.
Slightly buzzed, Clay's eyes settled where they always did when he was at h
is desk—on the photo of April staring back at him, in all her vivid beauty and vitality, with that big grin of hers, and curls like streamers blowing out behind her.
Silently, he raised his glass and nodded in salute to her, his eyes filling with tears. "I love you, April," he said, his speech barely slurred. "Pardon the indiscretion."
He knew that if April had been standing there, she would be laughing at him, that tinkling laugh that always brought a smile to his lips even when he didn't want it to. April would never have wanted him to go through any angst on her account. She was too much of a free spirit—and had been married to the original stodgy guy—to want anything for him but whatever happiness he could carve out of his life. If she wasn't going to be able to be there to drive him crazy, she would be ecstatic if he found someone else to do so.
In fact, she'd probably be tickled pink that the only woman he'd shown any interest in—emotionally, intellectually, and very definitely physically—was Elodie. April had always been selfless and loving. Would she want this? If he were able to ask April for her permission, would she say yes?
Slamming the glass down after draining it, he winked lasciviously at April and hauled himself out of his chair, intent on making it to bed before he collapsed. He accomplished his goal, but barely, falling asleep with a belly full of scotch and a heart full to bursting with Elodie. April. Elodie.
Chapter 9
They each plunged back into their respective lives as if nothing at all unusual had happened that weekend—Clay was busy with the ranch, she assumed, since she hadn't heard from him, and Elodie buried herself in work and painting.
One night Elodie came home and there was a light on in her apartment. She checked the parking lot and spotted a little red Mini, and knew that Joshua had dropped by. Despite the fact that she'd just worked a double to try to afford the coat she didn't want but which Clay wanted her to have, Elodie sprinted up the stairs and into her apartment, only to be crushed in a bear hug the moment she opened the door.
"Elodie!"
Joshua was a thin, small man, but he gave huge, wonderful, all out hugs, and she felt herself let go and relax against him. It was the first time she'd felt relaxed since things had started to develop with Clay.
"Joshua! It's so good to see you!" She hugged him back, but she knew that her hugs weren't nearly as fantastic as his were.
He leaned back and kissed her, then returned to the small galley kitchen where he began stirring a pot. "I was just going to leave a contribution to the 'feed a starving artiste' fund. I thought you worked mornings on Tuesdays?"
Elodie crowded into the kitchen with him and took a deep breath of the fragrant steam from the pot of whatever it was he had on the burner. It smelled like pure heaven to her. The restaurant where she worked didn't have the usual policy towards employees; that they could eat there free of charge. Instead, they gave a small discount on the price of a meal, and since Elodie could eat more cheaply at home, she almost never ate what she served all day long.
The truth was, she didn't eat much at all. Once she got home, food didn't even enter the picture; all she wanted to do was either sleep or paint. Nine times out of ten, painting won out over sleep.
"Yeah, I do, but today I did a double."
Joshua stopped stirring long enough to give her a glare that reminded her uncomfortably of Clay. "Is the Bill Fairy going to have to pay you a visit again?" he asked, pulling his gold, wire-rimmed glasses down his nose and giving her his best schoolmarm imitation.
"No, he is not! I still owe the Bill Fairy from the last bailout!" She watched as he began to ladle his famous Not French Onion soup into four of the oven proof bowls he'd accidentally left at her place. That soup in particular was a favorite of Elodie's, Joshua knew. It was unlike French Onion soup because it was nowhere near as salty. The base wasn't beef broth, as was the norm, but rather a lighter vegetable broth, chock full of all sorts of onions—not just the usual Spanish, but Vidalia and red and shallots and scallions, along with just a hint of garlic and white wine.
There was no chunk of soggy bread in the middle of Joshua's soup, either. Both he and Elodie detested that, so instead he had made some homemade garlic bread that was crisp and hot from the oven. After topping the soup bowls with mounds of cheese, he set them under the broiler long enough to melt it and grabbed two large soup spoons from the drawer, giving her one.
They both stood there, staring at the ancient gold oven as if it held the secret to immortality. The minute or so that it took to melt the cheese seemed like forever when you were waiting to feel all that warm, oniony goodness making your mouth happy.
When it was ready, they fairly descended on it, each grabbing a bowl on a plate and several slices of garlic bread for dunking, then making their way to Elodie's tiny living room, where he had already parked a two liter bottle of chilled white wine in ice in a cooler, and strategically positioned two empty glasses.
Elodie broke through the slight resistance of the browned cheese to the liquid goodness beneath, sighing in ecstasy with the first swallow. In complete seriousness, she asked, "Joshua, will you marry me?"
Involved in his own gastronomic orgy a few feet away, Joshua ignored her. She always proposed to him when he cooked for her. She was easy.
Minutes later, when they were both sated but still looking forward to their second bowl, Joshua asked in a deliberately casual voice, "So what's this I hear about you dating Clay?"
Elodie's spoon clanged noisily into her bowl. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he admonished gently. "You guys went out to Red Creek week before last, and went to a movie last weekend."
"Jeez, Joshua, stalking me any?" Startled but not angry, Elodie got up and headed for round two of everything.
She could hear his snort behind her. "Small towns make stalking a waste of energy," he called, then appeared at the kitchen doorway, content to wait while she served herself.
"Uh huh. Lovely. I'd forgotten the gossip quotient in this place." She moved past him, back to the living room.
"Yep—so get ready to spill when I get back in there."
Elodie tried to busy herself with her soup, but no such luck.
Joshua positioned himself back in his chair, and even before he took his first scoop of melted cheese and broth, he stared at her and said, "Dish."
Although she tried to downplay what was going on, Joshua wasn't buying any of it. He listened politely to her glossed over version of what had happened, then said, "Okay, now tell me what's really going on."
Leave it to Joshua to want to delve into the meat of the matter. He wasn't the type to put up with casual niceties. He didn't believe in putting a face on things. He was the most honest person—intellectually and emotionally—she had ever met.
Their friendship had developed strangely; he'd been a regular at the restaurant where she worked. He was a few years older than she was—kind of like Clay—and went to school with one of her brothers. He was always more than polite, and was an extravagant tipper, and he started to always sit in her section. They chatted, and eventually he'd asked her if she'd like to go to a gallery opening with him the following Saturday.
He seemed harmless enough, and she'd never seen him in the restaurant with anyone else—male or female. And he'd hit on her weak spot for anything involving any type of art. It seemed highly unlikely that a gallery opening would end up with her dead in an alley, so she said yes.
That was the beginning of a beautiful, if somewhat unusual, friendship. Joshua had never made any sort of overture towards her that smacked of anything but friendship and affection. She'd known him since just after April had died, and she'd never heard of him dating anyone. Elodie had come to the conclusion that he was pretty much asexual, which she assumed was highly unusual, especially in a man. But there he was. It was also very likely he was gay, but Elodie didn't feel it right to ask unless he wanted to offer. It didn't matter to her… he was her friend, and that was what was important.
He was act
ually the best friend she'd ever had—besides April. He was warm and truly affectionate, and she never had to worry that his hands would wander during one of his phenomenal hugs. He was supportive, but also forthright without being pushy. He'd told her that she should shop her paintings around; that she was very good to his amateur eye, and that he thought she should try to contact someone and see if they would show her work.
But he never overstepped his bounds.
Joshua knew she sometimes forgot to eat, especially if she was in the grip of a creative streak, so he'd started leaving pots of food on the stove for her—on the stoop until she gave him a key—stews and pretty good Kao Pau chicken and jambalaya. Sometimes they were the only meals she ate all week. He consciously made sure they were things she could ladle into a bowl and shove in the microwave. That was the full extent of Elodie's culinary talents.
Elodie bit her lip, debating about whether or not to really spill her guts to Joshua. On impulse, she ran into her bedroom and finagled the portrait of Clay out of her closet, bringing it back into the living room and coming to stand in front of Joshua, with the painting facing her.
Joshua was just licking his fingers from the buttery garlic bread, and looked up at her with his index finger still in his mouth. Elodie turned the picture around and heard his indrawn breath as he stared at it for the first time.
"Wow—it's friggin' gorgeous!"
He stood and took the portrait into his own hands, trying to see it in a better light. Then, seconds later, he looked up from Clay's face and into Elodie's, then back down and up again. "You love him."
Elodie didn't say a thing, but she knew Joshua knew the truth in his heart.
"Oh, honey, only someone who felt very strongly about him could have painted him in this way." Joshua put the painting to one side and tugged Elodie up into a hug. "What are you waiting for, girl, go get him!" He turned her loose with that enthusiastic suggestion, but Elodie just sank back down into her chair.