Mischief Under The Mistletoe

by Maren Smith

  Careering round the corner way too fast, she nearly took out the gate post as she hooned down the driveway, bounced over the ruts and slid into the yard, skidding to a stop just outside the stables, sending gravel flying out from under the wheels.

  Clay must have sensed her distress because he had her door open before she’d even turned off the ignition and was helping her out of the car, gathering her up in his arms. She melted in to him, grateful to feel his strong arms around her, holding her possessively. Her breath was coming in big gulping sobs, almost hyperventilating, but as Clay’s hand on her back traced gentle circles and his other hand tangled in her hair, soothing her, and he kissed her forehead tenderly, cradling her close, she slowly calmed down enough to speak.

  “They’ve gotten rid of her daddy!” she cried. “They’ve cleaned out everything of hers... it’s all gone! It’s like she never even existed!!” Trembling in fury and despair, she buried her face into his shirt, the hard planes of his muscular body so familiar against her cheek.

  “Oh, baby girl, I’m so sorry,” Clay murmured into her hair, cuddling her tight. Clay didn’t say any more, he just stood there and held her, and slowly, so slowly, she calmed down. Her sobs subsided, her pulse steadied, and she hiccupped.

  “I need ice cream, daddy,” she announced, wiping her tears on his shirt, and looking up at him with big, innocent eyes.

  Clay leaned down and kissed her forehead. Her heart melted and her pussy clenched. Even when she was so upset, his acts of tenderness, of love, turned her on so much.

  “Okay, baby girl, let’s go and get ice cream. Let Daddy cheer you up.”

  Walking along beside Clay, with his resting gently, possessively, in the small of her back, felt so right. It was where she belonged. And she knew that, even though Annie wasn’t there to spend Christmas with her, she would still have a good time. Clay would make sure of it.

  CODY DELIVERED THEM a tree that afternoon. A baby pine he’d chopped down out on the farm, it stood not much taller than Bianca, and was perfectly formed. She could picture it now, how beautiful it would look with all the ornaments from her childhood gracing its boughs, and she spent most of the afternoon decorating the tree.

  As a child, she and Annie had always decorated the tree together, and Bianca’s Tourette’s had dictated where each ornament had to go. The baubles went on first and had to hang symmetrically, in order of colour, and the other decorations had to be evenly spaced around them. It was the same every year; Annie had never argued, she’d simply gone along with the pattern that Bianca needed to make to stay sane. And now, as Bianca rubbed her fingers over each ornament, remembering, before hanging it precisely, she missed her sister more than ever. Her tears never dried on her cheeks; each new ornament that she procured from the box sparked a fresh wave of tears. But by the time she stood back and admired her handiwork before going to help Clay bring in the horses, the tree was perfect.

  LEADING ONE HORSE IN each hand to bring them from their day paddock back into the stables, Clay watched Bianca as she walked in front of him, also leading two horses. After her emotional afternoon her tics were really bad and even being around the horses, when her tics were usually almost non-existent, they were still pretty violent. Her near-constant movements of shoulder shrugging, neck cracking and facial twitches, was unnerving the horses, and he watched helplessly as they pranced beside her, nervous bundles of energy. He was always worried when the horses played up around her; they were such big, strong beasts, so unpredictable, and Bianca was so tiny. But he needn’t have worried. After just a few seconds of talking to them soothingly, concentrating on the animals, they both settled down again and walked placidly beside her, eager to get back to the stables and the sweet grain that awaited them for their dinner.

  Most of the horses were shut away in their stalls now, so Clay watched from the door of the tack room as Bianca led Rose down the wide aisle of the barn, to her stall right at the back. The filly pranced beside her, her high-stepping gait making her look even more beautiful than normal. His heart clenched; Bianca looked so upset. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying most of the afternoon and she wasn’t smiling the way she usually did when she was around her beloved horse. Inside the stall now, Bianca unclipped the lead from Rose’s halter and kissed the velvety nose gently as Rose nuzzled her neck, comforting her in the way that only the horse could. Clearly, she could sense Bianca’s emotions. He wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms and comfort her, but instead he just watched as she threw her arms around the big horse’s sleek neck and cried into her mane and Rose stood there, her nose in Bianca’s hair, ignoring her bin of feed, imparting quiet, strong reassurance.

  “I can’t do it, Rose, I can’t do it girl,” he heard her say, but her voice was muffled and he didn’t know what it was that she was referring to. He wished she would talk to him, rather than the horse, but he respected the incredible bond that filly and woman had.

  “I’m sorry, girl,” she sobbed, her voice breaking, before she turned away and exited the stall, sliding the bolt home on the outside of the door to trap the horse safely inside.

  Clay stepped out of the shadows into the wide aisle of the barn as Bianca came toward him, and caught her up in his arms. She felt so tiny, so fragile, as he held her against his chest and dropped a kiss on the top of her hair. She was shaking, her body trembling against his. She seemed overcome with anguish.

  “What’s wrong, baby girl? What were you telling Rose you can’t do?”

  She looked up at him, aghast. Was she embarrassed that he’d seen and overheard her talking to her horse? He smiled at her encouragingly, hoping she would open up to him,

  “The race on Boxing Day.” She sniffed. “There’s no way I can do it. My tics are too bad. I’ll probably fall off, and if I don’t, I’ll be riding so badly that there’s no way we’ll be able to win. We’ll make fools of ourselves if I go out there like this. Rose deserves better. She deserves a jockey who can actually do her speed justice.”

  Clay felt his heart crush inside him. He took a deep breath, thinking about what to say. How did he encourage Bianca without trivialising what she was going through?

  “I disagree, princess,” he told her softly. “Rose has had a chance with other jockeys and she doesn’t do any good; she only runs well for you. You’ve got such a bond with that horse.” He rubbed her back, feeling her begin to relax beneath his hand. “And that’s how I know you’re going to do great out there, just like always. I doubt there’s another combination out there as strong as you two, in the whole of New Zealand. You’re going to nail it.”

  Cupping her chin gently, he tilted her tear-stained face up to look at him. The beginnings of a smile were touching her mouth now, but he knew how tense she was. He could feel the knots in her neck and shoulders even now, as he was holding her. Bending down, he kissed her softly, her lips responding urgently to his, sparks of passion flying between them as he deepened the kiss and pulled her pelvis in close to his. His cock strained against his pants at the feel of her body nestled against him. He wanted her. But it would have to wait. Forcing himself to pull away from her, he let go of her face.

  “Once we’ve got Christmas out of the way, I reckon you’ll be ready for the Boxing Day races. You’re not on until later in the day, so you’ll have the morning to cheer on Jen. You’ll do great, baby girl. You feel Rose flying beneath you every day, you know she’s good at this.” He smiled, and wiped the tears out of her eyes with his thumb. “Tell you what, let’s go home and I’ll make you a nice warm bubble bath and massage all the kinks out of your neck. I can feel them. They’re hurting, aren’t they?”

  She nodded.

  “And then we’ll go out for a nice dinner, if you’re up for it. Let me take care of you.”

  Finally, she smiled. A proper smile. “I’m up for it. Thank you, daddy. I love you.”

  “And I love you, baby girl.”

  IT WAS AT TIMES LIKE this that she wished she could wolf-whistle. Clay looked
gorgeous! His shaggy hair that usually flopped in his eyes and curled just above his collar had been tamed and brushed respectably back, giving him a sophisticated, truly alpha-male look. Black dress pants hugged his backside and clung to his muscular legs and his black shirt stretched tightly across his broad shoulders, emphasizing their width. He’d buttoned the sleeves right down to his wrists, hiding tanned, wiry forearms. Bianca sucked in a breath. Why was she so looking forward to seeing Clay dressed up in a Santa suit when she could see him dressed like this? He looked great in black. She couldn’t imagine him looking any better in red.

  “You scrub up well,” she acknowledged, ogling him slyly in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her hair. The flannel shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, stained jeans or, more recently rugby shorts, wool socks and work boots could stay in the stable where they belonged. The man standing behind her now was still just as ruggedly handsome, but now he looked debonair as well. She licked her lips. She was a lucky woman.

  Clay came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck, his hot breath on her skin tickling her. “You don’t look too bad yourself,” he murmured.

  Taking her hair brush and butterfly clip from her, he finished brushing her hair then twisted it into a sleek up-do, pressing the clip closed to hold it all in place.

  “You look divine, baby girl,” he whispered, his eyes sparkling with lust. He took her hand, her small fingers snug inside his. “Let’s go.”

  The soft jazz playing in the background of the classy restaurant was relaxing, after so many hours spent singing along to Christmas carols, although the tinsel draped along the bar, the brightly-lit Christmas tree standing resplendent in the corner and the bunches of holly as the centrepiece of each table, lent a decidedly festive atmosphere to the dining room. The furry reindeer antlers and dangly Santa earrings the waitress wore looked out of place with the rest of her professional attire, but Bianca liked it.

  Thanks to her hot bath and Clay’s tender ministrations earlier, her tics were the best they’d been in ages, and she found herself truly relaxing, enjoying the evening.

  Annie would have loved this! As if reading her mind, Clay gently took her hand across the table, linking his fingers in hers, his thumb rubbing her palm. Her eyes focused on the callouses on his work-roughened hand. His touch made her tingle. Her tummy flipped, and her pussy ached. She squirmed uncomfortably on the soft seat. If she sat on the wrong spot, her bottom was still tender. Just thinking about being spanked, increased her arousal, dampening her underwear. She remembered the way Clay’s hand had felt slapping her bare bottom, before he’d started spanking her for real. Electricity shot through her. Clay’s fingers squeezed hers and she looked at him, locking her eyes with his smouldering gaze.

  “Santa’s going to enjoy spanking his naughty elf,” he whispered across the table, giving her a rakish wink.

  She sucked in a breath sharply as he leaned forward and slipped his free hand under the table, reaching for her, his fingers trailing up the inside of her thigh, under her skirt. She tried to breathe normally, to act like everything was fine, but the air was too thick, and her breath came in a short, ragged gasp. Slowly, gently, his light touch barely there, Clay’s fingertips traced their way slowly up her skin, each second bringing them slightly closer to her damp underwear and her slick pussy, now pulsing with desire. She inhaled quickly and held her breath, her eyes locked with his, mesmerized. His fingers reached her underwear and traced their way around the edge to her very core where they rested, still, on her sodden gusset.

  “My, my!” he exclaimed at a whisper, one eyebrow raised. “You are very wet, princess. What are we going to do with you, little girl?”

  She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out as he slid one finger under the fabric covering her most intimate parts, and traced his finger upwards, to flick at her clit. She closed her eyes and fought against the moan building at the base of her throat. Damn. What was he doing to her? Here, in public?

  His finger delved inside her, deeper, up to the knuckle, while the rest of his hand stayed on the outside of her underwear, pushing aside the fabric now drenched with her juices, and slowly turned his wrist. She was going to explode. She could feel it ... lightning sparked within her, sending bolts of electricity to her core, his thumb against her clit now, teasing gently, his strong fingers tormenting her, driving her wild with desire.

  She felt him grasp the gusset of her underwear in his fist and tug; the elastic tightened around her hips, digging into her.

  “Lift your butt.” The order was whispered, but it was definitely an order. One she dared not disobey.

  As discreetly as she could, she leaned backwards in the chair, lifting her hips up, her calf muscles screaming at her, being so tested after spending so long in high heels, and she felt Clay’s hand against her thigh as he tugged her knickers roughly down by the crotch. Her knickers at mid-thigh now, she lowered herself gently back into her chair, gasping at the sensation of the roughish dress material against her bare bottom. So scandalous! So naughty! Clay winked; she felt her face flush. She froze as he drew her knickers slowly down her legs, his eyes never once leaving hers.

  “Lift your left foot.” Again, that whispered command, but a command so full of authority that she dared not disobey.

  Still holding her gaze, fire burning brightly in his eyes, Clay leaned down low across the table, his fingers tugging the fabric of her underwear down her legs, over her ankle, then slipped it off over her raised foot. It caught on the heel of her shoe; a brief frown flitted across his face before she felt his fumbling fingers unhook the garment and clench it tightly in his fist again.

  “Lift your other foot.” There was a definite huskiness in his whispered order this time, his arousal was evident in his voice. She longed to peek under the table to spy the erection she knew would be tenting the front of his pants, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Her face burned from the blush she knew was there; she wanted to both sink through the floor from embarrassment at what the other diners might be seeing, and stand up proudly that this wickedly handsome man was removing her underwear in such a public place.

  She wriggled her foot, removing it from her shoe and raised it just enough for him to slip the knickers off over her pointed toes. She bit her lip. Goosebumps prickled her body. Clay winked again as he palmed her knickers, squeezing them into a tight ball, hidden inside his fist, then slipped them into his pocket.

  “Your knickers are sodden, you naughty little girl!” he scolded in a whisper. “I’m going to have to spank you for that, young lady!”

  Her breasts ached under taut nipples, and it took everything within her to suppress the moan that teetered on the edge of her lips as Clay’s words sent bolts of passion straight to her core. Her thighs were slick as another wave of desire rocked through her; her pulsing pussy was drenched. She couldn’t get enough air. How the hell was she meant to eat her meal like this, driven half-crazy with desire, with no knickers on, her juices flooding between her legs?

  It was almost impossible to act normal, to eat and drink slowly, to enjoy her nice meal with her husband, when all she wanted to do was take him by the hand and drag him outside where he could finish what he’d started. She longed to feel his hard hand smacking her ass, his huge cock grinding into her, bringing her release, over and over again.

  Although Clay’s eyes glowed with arousal, he took his sweet time, chatting pleasantly to the waitress as he ordered for them both. Her pussy felt bereft without his fingers there, and she felt so scandalised, knowing that he had her underwear.

  Just as she began to relax, Clay reached under the table again and walked his fingertips deliberately up the inside of her leg. Her muscles clenched in sweet anticipation as his fingers drew closer to her core, but he stopped, his hand resting lightly on her leg, less than an inch away from her intimate parts that were burning for him.

  The meal seemed to drag on forever, and Clay smiled slowly, teasingly, a
t her, and patted his pocket, where her knickers were stuffed. He fed her dessert: decadent chocolate mousse on the end of a long-handled spoon. His eyes held hers and he licked his lips.

  “Are you finished, princess? Let’s go.”

  The fabric of her dress clung to her curves as she moved, and she felt herself blush, certain it must be obvious to everyone who cared to look that her bottom was bare under her dress. If she looked carefully, she could just see the top of her underwear peeking out of Clay’s pocket. His hand pressed against the small of her back, claiming her as he always did, guiding her, giving her the sense of security that she so often craved. When they halted at the front desk to pay the bill she shivered as his fingers roamed across her back, tracing the path along the base of her spine where the top of her knickers should be, but weren’t. His face didn’t give anything away as he handed over his credit card, but she couldn’t stop squirming.

  The carpark was deserted as Clay pulled her close, leading her to their navy blue late model double cab Holden Colorado Ute. She shivered in the cool evening air as Clay unlocked the door.

  “Bend over, princess. I promised you a spanking.”

  She hesitated. “No! Someone will see!” She wanted to refuse, but at the same time, her insides quivered with excitement.

  “No one’s going to see, baby girl. We’re all alone out here. Now bend over, so I can smack that naughty bottom of yours. Only naughty little girls get their knickers so wet with their juices. And naughty little girls get spanked.” The arousal in his voice was unmistakable. And as he moved closer to her, pressing his body up against hers, she felt his erection against her hip. His breathing sounded as ragged and shallow as her own.

  “Place your hands on the seat,” he ordered gruffly. “Bend over.”