Light Her Fire (Private Pleasures 2)

“My turn.”

He intercepted, because he sure as hell wasn’t more in control now than he’d been when they first burst through the door. “No. We’ve been over this. No grabbing. You’ll get it when I give it to you.”

“You seem to be operating under the delusion that because you’re in charge at the firehouse, you’re in charge everywhere.” So saying, she reached for him again.

Stubborn. He blocked her again. “I’ve already warned you about the consequences of your behavior. Keep your hands to yourself or you’re not going to get to use them at all.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Her chin went up, and her blue eyes flashed like sapphires. A lot of guys would have found the combination imposing. He smiled.

“Bluelick, you could not be more wrong.” With that, he snared her wrists in one hand, grabbed a rubber tourniquet from the steel-topped table with the other, and secured her wrists together with a decisive snap of rubber.

“What the…?”

Best to keep things moving, he decided, and spun her around. She automatically propped her bound hands on the exam table to maintain her balance, which worked out perfectly because it got her hands and arms out of his way. Within seconds, her skirt puddled on the floor around her feet and the only thing on her that nature couldn’t take credit for was a pair of tiny white lace-trimmed panties.

“Climb up on the table.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes gleamed with something between nervousness and excitement, but she shook her head. “I can’t. Not like this.” She lifted her bound wrists.

He didn’t argue, simply lifted and positioned her where he wanted her—knees wide and balanced at the edge of the table, upper body braced on the heels of her hands. The suddenness of the movement jostled a small cry of out of her. “Hey, I’m not Catwoman. I’m going to slip off.”

Oh, where was the trust? He dragged those pretty white panties down, swallowing at the sight of her pretty white ass, and gave it a quick, playful slap.

Her startled “oh” ricocheted around the exam room.

“I won’t let that happen, and you know it. Now apologize for hurting my feelings.”

“Did you just…did you really just spank me?”

“You must want another one, because I didn’t hear an apology.” He trailed his fingertips over her smooth, slightly pink skin. She shivered and bowed her back a fraction of an inch deeper. Though small, the move sent an unmistakable message. He wasted no time unbuckling his belt, shoving his pants and briefs down and stepping out of the tangle of clothes.

She craned her neck and tried to look at him, but her position gave her limited range of motion. “This isn’t fair. I’m spread out on this table like Sunday supper, and I can’t see you at all.”

“Life’s not fair.” To emphasize his point, he spanked her again.

…

Something about the feel of his big, hard hand smacking her bare backside absolutely unraveled her. She couldn’t say whether she was about to laugh, scream, or come. It was anybody’s guess. He wasn’t hurting her. The restraint he exercised couldn’t be more obvious. On top of that, he told her nothing but the truth.

Life wasn’t fair. She’d had it unfairly good for the first eighteen years. Pretty. Popular. Fated for a future so blissfully happy half the girls in her senior class had secretly prayed to switch places with her. And then she’d landed hard at the other end of the rainbow, after ten years of stalled plans and confidence-eroding confusion, and dawning awareness, well aware nobody in their right mind would want to trade places with her.

Except now. Right at this moment, she suspected plenty of eager hands would shoot into the air if she asked for volunteers. Josh trailed his fingers along her inner thighs, coming close, but not quite close enough to the pitifully unused place aching for his attention.

He spanked her again, low this time, and the side of his hand grazed some very neglected territory. “That’s for making me hard as a battering ram in the goddamn coffee shop every other morning.”

“I’m sorry,” she offer

ed, and arched her back in hopes his next attempt to teach her a lesson would, indeed, teach her a lesson.

“No, you’re not. You deserve a tongue lashing.”

Did she ever. She readied herself to be flipped around, only to jump a mile when he simply cupped a hand to the back of her neck and lowered her forehead to the exam table.

“Josh?”