Welcome To Corbin's Bend Page 31

  Abby twisted her hands in her lap. She swallowed. "Okay, let's do it."

  Desire flashed in his gaze before he banked it and arched his brows. "Do it?"

  "Let's go have lunch." She smiled.

  He threw back his head and laughed. "Touché."

  Chapter 6

  Harris adjusted himself before rounding the car to open Abby's door. Just seeing her had given him a woody. Kissing her in the car wash had exacerbated his desire. The discussion about punishments pretty much had left him on the verge of coming in his pants like a teenager. What kind of stupid fool would raise that subject on a lunch break when he had to go back to work?

  A horny one who'd enjoyed himself more than he had in ages. Abby's combination of innocence and adventurousness had proven too alluring to resist. She offered a refreshing change from the jaded kinksters he'd played with in the past.

  He'd been honest in his aim to take her in hand for discipline as well as fun. Not because of disrespect or misbehavior, but because he loved to see how a woman thrived under guidance and protection. Not all did, or even most to be sure, but if he read Abby correctly—she would.

  He almost wished he could be her forever guy, and before their relationship progressed much further, they would need to have that talk.

  A sign inside the restaurant instructed them to seat themselves, so Harris led them to a booth in a private corner. A waitress delivered a basket of fried tortilla chips and two bowls of salsa. "This one is mild." She pointed to the green bowl. "The red one is spicy." She handed them each a menu. "I'll give you a few minutes, and I'll be back to take your order."

  Harris chose the spicy salsa. He noted with approval Abby did the same, but her eyes teared as she bit into the chip. "Whew!" She fanned her face, but selected another chip and dove into the red bowl.

  "You like it hot," Harris observed.

  She licked a crumb off her lip, and his cock twitched. Damn, if she didn't entice him to heat her ass right now.

  "Why do I get the feeling you're not talking about salsa?" She teased him with a flirtatious smile. "Yes," she replied.

  Did that mean she liked spicy food? Or she enjoyed having her delectable rear warmed? He would have asked, but she buried her face in her menu. "What's good here?"

  "It's all good," he replied. "How about if I order for you?"

  "Thank you." She snapped her menu shut.

  Such a simple act—such an enormous tell. Not only had she accepted his judgment, she'd expressed gratitude for it. Few women these days deferred to a man, but insisted on retaining complete control to the point of ridiculousness. If he suggested they take an umbrella during a deluge of rain, they would argue the sun would come out any second.

  One person, one vote worked well when both agreed, but democracy would not break a deadlock.

  "Is there anything you don't care for?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "Well, a few things that don't apply here. But I trust you."

  She referred to food, but her words caused another heat spike. He remembered her willingness to become vulnerable despite her inexperience, the way she'd lain across his lap. Her uninhibited response. Erotic as hell. But worrisome too. That kind of trust could plant seeds that grew into dreams. If that happened, Abby would be hurt. Damn it all. He'd do anything to avoid that.

  Except leave her alone? Except take a chance?

  Their waitress returned. "What can I get you?"

  "Two carne asada burritos, please," he said.

  "Anything to drink?"

  He looked at Abby. "Would you like a Mexican beer?"

  She shook her head. "Just water."

  "Water for the lady and a Pacifico for me."

  "Got it." She grabbed their menus and left.

  "So what don't you like?" Harris asked.

  Abby dipped a chip into the salsa. "It's random. Not a fan of pistachio, artichoke or raw celery. I can eat cooked celery, but raw?" She shuddered, then popped the laden chip into her mouth.

  "All those things you mentioned are green."

  She chewed. After swallowing, she said, "I do like broccoli, Brussels sprouts and kale."

  "All members of the cabbage family."

  She blinked. "Right again. You're good at spotting connections, the associations."

  "Helps me in my job."

  "Sizing up your opponents?"

  "Exactly."

  The waitress delivered their drinks. She set a tumbler of iced water in front of Abby and poured his Pacifico into an iced mug. A sliver of orange decorated the rim. When they were alone again, Harris squeezed the juice from the orange into his mug, then dropped the sliver into the beer. "Taste?" he offered.

  Abby sampled it. "Nice. Smooth." She handed it back, and with her tongue swiped at her tiny foam mustache.

  Harris riveted on her lips. "You're trying to drive me insane, aren't you?"

  "What did I do?" She blinked in genuine bewilderment. Which made his lust worse, not better.

  "Everything you do is sexy," he said.

  "Oh." She ducked her head. "Thank you."

  Harris inhaled and released. "I don't want to hurt you," he said.

  She met his gaze. "I'm tougher than I seem. I enjoyed what we did the other night, and if it gets too intense, well, isn't that what a matelassé is for?" she joked.

  "I won't marry you," he blurted out.

  Abby flinched.

  He cringed. Way to go buddy.

  She stared, and in her changing expression, anger built. "What arrogance! If you count today's lunch, and dinner with my aunt, we've had, what, three dates?" Her eyes sparked. "I haven't said or done anything to imply I expect marriage." Her face flushed, and she glared at him.

  "You're right." Harris held up his hands. "I owe you an apology. I wasn't insinuating that at all—it came across wrong." He leaned into the table. "I like you, Abby—you're a remarkable woman. I think we could have a satisfying relationship. You deserve honesty so I don't want to mislead you. At some point in the future you might desire our intimacy to become permanent." It had happened a couple of times before. Women claimed they were fine with no-strings, but before long they started dropping hints, and the Brides magazine came out. "I am not the marrying kind."

  She glowered. "I just exited a marriage. I'm not seeking to jump into another one."

  "You feel like that today," he said. "But time will pass, and you'll start thinking white lace and flowers, and you need be aware I don't ever intend to go there."

  "Don't tell me how I feel," she snapped.

  "Fair enough," he conceded, as his control over the situation slipped away. Hell, he'd never had it. He'd botched this from the onset. He wished he could start this conversation anew.

  Temper turned her expression mulish.

  "Abby, listen." He took her hand. She didn't resist, but she didn't curl her fingers into his either. "Marriage doesn't work in my family. My parents have had more spouses than most people have pets in their lifetime. My sister, who is a year older than you, is already divorcing her third husband—or maybe he's divorcing her. Too many marriages have failed in my family."

  "My parents have a happy marriage. And so did Uncle Joe and Aunt Quincy."

  The fortunate, lucky few. And while chance played a role in poker, winning arose more from skill, the ability to psych out one's opponent. But Harris had no skills for marriage, which required forming a collaborative partnership. He knew his strengths and his limitations. He was not cut from the cloth that could be sewn into marriage material.

  The waitress delivered their order, and Harris didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated by the intrusion. "Can I get you anything else? Another beer?" she asked.

  "No, we're fine. Thank you." Harris willed her to leave.

  Abby stared at her plate like she considered shoving it away and charging out of the restaurant. After the bomb he'd dropped he wouldn't blame her.

  "I'll understand, if under the circumstances you decide to cut your losses and don't
want to see me anymore," he said, his stomach knotting. He had not expected the afternoon to take this turn. This was what happened when a person failed to predict the outcome. When you allowed your mouth to race ahead of your brain. But broaching the subject had been the correct thing to do. The longer he waited, the greater the chance of hurting her. The intimacies they'd already experienced together required full disclosure and demanded it sooner rather than later.

  She sighed and poked at the tortilla-wrapped steak with her fork. The burritos were too big to pick up.

  "No, I want to see you," she said.

  Harris released a silent sigh of relief.

  "Marriage hadn't entered my head," Abby continued. "It's far too soon in this thing we have to think that way. But your pronouncement has raised questions. I'm trying to picture what form a relationship would take." She cut into her burrito.

  At any other time, this would have been his cue to raise the subject of domestic discipline. But the first part of his relationship discussion hadn't gone over well. He hoped she had some inkling already. To not realize DD was the practiced norm in Corbin's Bend would be like moving into a retirement community and being surprised by the senior citizens.

  He knew his requirements. Marriage-no. Spanking and discipline-yes. Before they progressed, he had to determine what her needs were—or what she would agree to. But how much more could he push it? Too much information too soon could undermine their fragile foundation, which had become shakier in the past hour. He'd handled the marriage discussion with all the finesse of an airport baggage handler. Not what he expected of himself. No wonder she had concerns. At least Abby was calmly eating lunch. She hadn't stormed out or tossed the contents of her water glass in his face. He'd take the absence of a negative as a positive.

  "The shape and form of our relationship is something we need to discuss and negotiate so both of us are fulfilled. I know what I want, but you have to tell me what you need."

  "Do you expect a domestic discipline arrangement?" She cut to the chase, surprising him by her forthrightness and that her expression appeared smooth, unreadable. At a crucial moment, his perceptive abilities failed.

  "Would you be amendable?"

  "What would be involved?"

  "For starters, I would expect you to answer my question before you asked one of your own."

  Abby held her ground. "You didn't answer my original question," she pointed out.

  Fair enough. "Yes, I would like a domestic discipline relationship."

  "I need more details about your expectations before I can answer your question."

  He nodded. "We would talk matters over, like we're doing now, but I will have the final say. I would set some basic rules based on what I believe is best for you. If you break one, you'll be disciplined. It may or may not involve spanking." He scanned her face for a reaction. The absence of outrage, fear or shock reassured him. So far so good.

  She tilted her head. "So because you're the man you get to set the rules?" she asked with more curiosity than heat.

  He shook his head. "No. It has nothing to do with male and female, but because structure would benefit us both. It won't be something I impose on you, but something you have agreed to.

  "Domestic discipline is consensual, and it boils down to what motivates us as individuals, where we fit, what clicks for us. Leading, being the dominant in the relationship, is where I fit. It's natural to me." He looked at Abby. "Cross your arms, please."

  She arched her eyebrows, but laid down her fork and folded her arms. Such a simple, revealing act. A rush of heat warmed him from the inside out.

  "Now, unfold your arms and cross them the other way," he instructed.

  She did as he asked, but paused for a second as if she had to think about it. Then she tucked her left over her right.

  "You may uncross."

  Abby picked up her fork, but peered at him with a question in her eyes.

  "The way you crossed your arms, right over left happened naturally, didn't it? But the other way wasn't as comfortable. That's how I feel in my role as head of household or the leader of a relationship. It's automatic. And for the taken in hand, submission occurs the same way.

  "Like it did with you, by the way. My request had aroused your curiosity, but that didn't deter your obedience."

  Abby rolled her eyes, a spankable offense if they'd been farther along in their relationship. Desire contracted in his gut. Domestic discipline for him could be serious or erotic. He didn't expect a paragon as a playmate, didn't want a woman so perfect she never gave him a reason to spank her.

  Small moments of rebellion, of willfulness, spiced up a relationship.

  "How does folding one's arms when asked differ from handing over the shaker when someone says 'pass the salt.' It's common courtesy." She pursed her lips in doubt.

  He could have pointed out the swiftness and eagerness with which she'd presented her bare bottom to be spanked and talked about how wet she'd gotten, but that wouldn't be gentlemanly. "Why don't we explore the parameters together," he suggested.

  They resumed eating, but Harris could almost see the wheels spinning in Abby's head, churning out questions.

  She'd consumed about half her burrito when she pushed it aside. "So what kind of rules are we talking about?"

  "We would focus on respect, honesty and obedience, as well as safety, but as our relationship matures, as I come to know you better, they'll be based on specifics geared to your personality and needs. I'm not the type to toss out arbitrary edicts. You mentioned common courtesy before, really that's all it is. Manners."

  But he would ensure he challenged her a little. He saw no benefit to craft a rule around something she did anyway. If she curled up in bed by 10 p.m., little would be gained by giving her a curfew.

  "What if I don't need discipline?"

  "Do you know anyone who doesn't?"

  She conceded his point with a shake of her head, but then asked, "What about you?"

  "Good question. By accepting responsibility, I grow in my leadership." He grinned. "Think of it as OJT—on the job training."

  "What if you tell me to do something, and I think you're wrong?"

  "I will always listen to you, Abby, but as I said, I will have the final say."

  "What about my safeword?"

  "If you reach your limit, use it. But otherwise, I'll expect you to respect the roles we've agreed upon. You have a good head on your shoulders, and I don't expect you will earn many punishment spankings, but when you do, they won't be fun, and you shouldn't expect them to be."

  Matelassé, matelassé! MATELASSÉ!

  Would he chase her if she threw down her napkin and sprinted from restaurant? Abby couldn't remember the last time she felt this nervous—or excited. All the talk of discipline, rules, spanking had soaked her panties. She'd always considered herself to be a bit prissy and full of starch, but her insides had melted into a puddle of submissive goo.

  She didn't fear Harris or his rules or his discipline, but her response. He'd hit the nail on the head about fitting into the right role in the relationship. Could she have been searching for that kind of guidance all along? No one had accepted Uncle Joe and Aunt Quincy's lifestyle with the ease she had. While her aunt and uncle never practiced it openly—she'd never overhead the slaps and thwacks of a hardcore spanking—but she had spied Uncle Joe deliver a love pat to Aunt Quincy's well-padded behind. Hadn't there been a hint of envy, of longing to be on the receiving end of such affection from the man in her life?

  Hadn't she loved visiting not just them, but the community of Corbin's Bend?

  Harris appeared impassive, but she'd caught the gleam in his eye. He wanted to spank her as much as she craved to be spanked by him.

  Still, she hesitated. He had made it plain punishment would be no walk in the park, and that scared her a little. But wet panties did not lie. The concept of punishment excited her. A man who set standards and stood by them? No small matter, and sexy as hell.

&nb
sp; He'd vetoed marriage. He'd been so opposed, it had thrown her. One could not control what the heart craved. Still, she'd gotten the message loud and clear, thank you, sir.

  Would he expect her to call him sir? Why did that prospect cause excited flutters?

  She wet her lips nervously as Harris leaned forward. "Whatever is causing your cheeks to blush invites me to lay you over my knee right here and spank your bottom until the color matches."

  She gasped in shock, but a thrill shot through her to even fantasize about engaging in such a public spectacle. He was joking wasn't he? She peeked at his face. The man gave nothing away. She was not as adept as he at reading emotions—nor at hiding her own.

  What would be the harm in trying DD? She had an escape hatch—whatever she and Harris did would be temporary. She wasn't locked into a relationship with him. What did she have to lose? Adventures in discipline. She could approach it as a game.

  Remove my panties? Yes, sir. Thwack! Oh sir, I've been so naughty.

  If he became overbearing or she didn't like him bossing her around, she'd walk away.

  Abby took a breath. "I would like to give domestic discipline a try."

  Chapter 7

  One month later

  Without crossing her eyes, Abby couldn't see the coin, but imagined she could smell the copper as she pressed the penny to the wall with her nose. She did detect the faint odor of paint since Harris's home was one of the newer buildings. Stronger still was the scent of arousal. Interesting how dread and trepidation mixed together could create lust.

  Her first punishment was about to occur. Abby shivered with anticipation. No longer a spanking novice, she and Harris had played quite bit, and she'd even gotten to where she could read his expression sometimes, could recognize a particular glint in his eye that meant her panties would soon puddle around her ankles and she'd be bottom up over his lap—or crouched on the spanking bench. But those times had been for fun.

  This would be different.

  Such a little thing, a shush. She and Harris had enjoyed a quiet evening. With jazz drifting over his sound system, they had curled up on his sofa with their reading material. Harris with a news magazine, she with a spicy romance novel. He'd interrupted her twice with comments about an article. She was getting to the good part in her book—the sex scene—when Harris made another remark. Another interruption.