The Interview

“Morning.”

A tiny shiver of anticipation run down my spine at his voice. I don’t turn around, instead giving my mind a moment to revel, a moment to pretend this is my everyday reality. Whit greeting me in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to my head as he reaches for the Lucky Charms. Not that he either kisses me or reaches for something as fun as Lucky Charms, but a girl can pretend for a moment or two. Even if said girl isn’t destined for such a future, a fact reinforced when I’d found myself relegated to another bedroom overnight. On the one hand, it feels kind of weird, given I slept with Whit in his bed the night before. Yet on the other hand, why should it be weird. It’s not like we’re even a thing. Maybe I snore, and no one has thought to tell me.

“Good morning.” I lift my head from where it’s pressed against the cooling coffee cup in my hand, turning a brief smile Whit’s way. The rasp of his fingers against the dark scruff on his cheek makes my insides bloom and heat. I shouldn’t feel like this but can’t seem to prevent it.

“You worked out how to use the machine, then.”

“I found a jar of instant,” I say, pressing the cup back to my cheek. “The coffee machine was too intimidating to contemplate.” Surely, a Keurig would be easier. Something with pods?

“Want me to show you how it works?” he asks, pulling the milk from the fridge. “Latte, right?”

“No, thank you.” I kind of jiggle my cup. “This is good.” Too much caffeine gives me fluttery palpitations, which lately makes me feel anxious. Or maybe it just makes my parents feel anxious? The line is so blurred it’s hard to remember who has the problem.

“What about breakfast?” he says, putting the milk back.

I will myself not to blush as my mind slips to yesterday morning’s cake and mango fest. It feels like such a long time ago somehow. Realizing he’s waiting for an answer, I give my head a belated shake. “I’m not hungry yet.”

“You’re sure I can’t tempt you?” he says, jiggling an espresso cup. I don’t deign to answer and barely look up. Not until he begins to busy himself with the machine, his back facing me, when I indulge in a little temptation. He is a study in London grays this morning, though the sun is uncharacteristically bright and shiny this April morning. Shorts that look to have been sweatpants in a previous life hang from his narrow hips, a well-worn gray T-shirt clinging to the architecture of his broad back. His hair is slightly bed mussed, making him look sleep-ruffled and warm and all kinds of sexy.

Sure I can’t tempt you? I play the words in his accent back in my head. I’d jump on his back like a clingy spider monkey if I thought it would do me any good. Why am I so crabby this morning?

“Did you sleep well?” he asks as the coffee grinder powers down as part of his morning coffee ritual.

“Like a baby.” A confused, neglected baby who wondered what she’d done wrong because the difference between Friday and Saturday night was like night and day. Ah, that’s why. Saturday began with such sweet promise, pardon the pun. Then he’d sex’d me so hard in a dressing room of a high-end boutique that not only did the sale associate hear us but probably the patrons of a nearby restaurant, too. Poor Charlotte. She could barely look at us when we emerged from the dressing room. Although Whit did take great joy in pointing out she wasn’t the only one with an avid interest in her shoes. I hope her commission makes up for the awkwardness.

By the time we’d gotten back to the apartment, our messy breakfast had been cleared away and the apartment looked as pristine as a showhouse. Whit had ordered dinner in—a Lebanese mezze plater with enough food to feed half a dozen—and we’d sat cross-legged on the living room floor, eating and talking and laughing. Sharing stories. Though we were careful to avoid the topic of the past, glossing over any cracks in the conversation for fear of invoking Connor.

I miss my brother, and I always will. But I refuse to let him sit like a wall between us. All in all, the evening had been so good. Warm. Fun. Intimate. At least until it was time for bed.

Salty? Moi?

You bet.

“Nice pajamas.”

I hear the smirk in Whit’s voice and angle my gaze his way. I’m not wearing pajamas but one of his T-shirts. I’ve also borrowed a pair of his sweatpants, rolled at the waist and ankle, though he probably can’t see those from this angle. I’d found them in a neatly folded pile in the laundry room last night and thought to borrow them. The pants are maybe a bit unnecessary given the air in this temperature-controlled haven, but I kind of feel like he set the tone when he showed me into a different bedroom last night.

“Thanks for the loaner.”

“Anytime.” He turns back to the machine as I mutter,

“It’s just a temporary measure.”

He turns fully then and leans back against the countertop. His fingers looped around the ridiculously tiny handle on the espresso cup, he watches as I gently pluck the cotton between my thumb and finger.

“I’ll obviously wash this.”

“Weren’t there pajamas in…”

“The whole new wardrobe you paid for?” I probably shouldn’t sound so ungracious. A red-cheeked Charlotte said she’d arrange for delivery of “our purchases” and shortly after we got back last night, a guy from concierge arrived at Whit’s door with one of those brass hotel trolleys. It was laden with bags and boxes branded with the boutiques name, literally spilling with stuff I didn’t try on—or need! I’ll probably be back at Doreen’s later today, and there is literally no space in my tiny closet. But my protests fell on deaf ears. I can’t help but secretly love it. Not only that he’d buy me stuff but that he’d choose it. Such a bossy attitude.

“Who knew shopping could be so much fun.” His words trail off as his eyes move over me heatedly. “Not that I don’t like to see you wearing my clothes.”

Especially when I’m not wearing a bra, I think cynically. With that thought, I put down my cup and fold my arms against the countertop, leaning against them. No one needs to see nipples like doorknobs this early, least of all him.

He probably doesn’t even want to see them, or else why did I sleep alone last night.

“There were pajamas.” One pair I’d chosen. Three pairs I had not. “Along with some seriously slinky nightgowns that I think Charlotte must’ve boxed by mistake.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. They aren’t the kind of things I would’ve chosen for myself.”

“How so?”

“High-end fripperies in silk and lace? That’s not me at all.”

“You forget, I’ve seen your underwear.” After bringing the cup to his lips, he moves his neck with a swallow.

“Yeah.” I squirm slightly in my seat because he’s got me there. He can have me too, right here, right now. I just don’t know how to bridge the gap. “I’m more practically minded when it comes to sleepwear.”

“The way I see it, some clothing is meant to be worn just for the joy of taking off.”

“Sounds like you know what it is to wear a bra.”

“What?” The word bubbles with laughter before he brings his cup to his lips for a leisurely sip.

“The joy of sliding off your bra after a day at work?” I give a blissful sigh before giving in to a smirk. “But I take it that’s not what you meant?”

“Not, but I’m happy to relieve you of your bra anytime.”

“You don’t happen to know how I come to be the owner of so many clothes, do you?” Unable to hold his tiger bright gaze, I fasten my fingers to the rim of my cup, rotating it against the counter.

“You know who’s responsible,” he murmurs as though I’d just asked him to put the trash cans out.

“Can we shoot for why, instead?”

“Can I want to see you in them?” I watch as he pivots from the waist to put his cup down.

“You can want, yeah,” I find myself answering with just a hint of taunt. His expression doesn’t waver; he still looks mildly amused. So I go with the truth over my failed brand of flirting. “But you can’t see me in them this morning.” Because you didn’t want to last night a huffy-sounding voice says from somewhere deep inside. “Can’t wear clothes that haven’t been washed.” I shrug. “Especially not underwear and nightwear.” It’s not sanitary.

“Very sensible.”

“Yeah, sensible is such a turn-on.”

“Oh, you have no idea. Did you sleep in my T-shirt last night?”

I give my head a quick shake, biting my bottom lip against the notion of admitting I slept naked because it seems too obvious a ploy, even if it is the truth. “I found the washing machine last night,” I say, changing the conversation’s direction. “So I’m good to go this morning.”

“Feel free to wear my clothes anytime.”

“You might want to rethink that offer.” Because your clothes smell like you, and I literally want to roll in your scent like a puppy finding a new smell. “Especially as you look like you might be a little short on T-shirts.” Short literally, I think as I gesture to his current outfit. Not only is his T-shirt well worn, but it also looks to have shrunk in the wash. It barely meets the waistband of his shorts, which isn’t—

Heat blossoms deep inside as he slides his palm to the flat of his stomach. He lifts the cotton a touch to revel a fleeting glimpse of dark, fine hair that trails from his navel down. My lips twitch because it’s not called a happy trail for no reason.

“What’s wrong with my T-shirt?” he asks, hooking his thumb into the soft elastic of his shorts. Tendons and muscles flex in his forearm and it makes me want to ask if he does that on purpose, but then I realize the whole motion wasn’t to treat me to a little arm porn but for me to feast my eyes on that tiny strip revealed lower. A dip of muscle and the hint of that V-shaped groove along his hip.

Is it on purpose or am I imagining it?

“It’s too small.” My eyes snap up to his, his expression showing no sign of amusement. Like he didn’t set me up. Like he didn’t just catch me perving.

“I can take it off.” My stomach tenses as he makes to do so, reaching a hand over his shoulder, grabbing the fabric between his shoulder blades. “I will if you will.”

“Funny.” Is he being funny? It’s hard to tell, but that sounded more like teasing, more provocative than jokey. Not that it matters as Whit shrugs, aborting the maneuver, his dark eyes still watching me, seeing through me, anyway.

“There’s no news yet on Doreen’s place.” I find myself filling the gap in our conversation. Or is this banter? The Brits love a bit of bants.

Stop overthinking—you’re being really weird.

Well, he should’ve taken me to bed and then I wouldn’t feel like the ends of a loaf of bread. You know, the bits that get touched but that no one ultimately wants.

“You look like you’re having a very intense conversation with yourself.”

“I was just thinking maybe I should call Aunt Doreen.” My gaze slides to the right where my phone is charging behind him. “I was leaving it for a little while. It’s still early.”

“Does she often stay at Frank’s?”

“No. It’s usually the other way around.”

“That must be fun for you.”

“I have earplugs.”

Whit barks out a laugh and ruffles a hand through his very bed-head hair. Very sexy hair. “You’re probably right. It is a little early to call the morning after the night before.”

“At least one of us is having a good time,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

“I said I hope she’s having a good time.”

“With lover boy Frank?”

“Try Thursday boy Frank.”

“No way,” he says with a chuckle.

“Doreen has a colorful love life. A different man for each day of the week. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I add quickly. Kettle, meet imaginary pot, I guess.

“Hm.” His expression turns thoughtful. “That explains the sour grapes from her friend with the green cardigan yesterday.” I pull a quizzical face, not sure what he’s talking about. “Frank must be quite the boy because green cardi wasn’t impressed that Doreen had gotten her claws into him first.”

“It’s like a soap opera for senior citizens,” I say, propping my chin to my fist.

“Maybe Doreen can lend the other woman her dildol.” He pulls a ridiculously funny face, and I giggle against my better instincts.

“It makes me wonder where Doreen gets the energy from.”

“I thought for a minute you were taking a leaf out of her book. All those dates you’re planning on going on.”

“I didn’t say—”

“London might be a small city, but it’s jam-packed with things to see,” he adds, about as unconcerned as he could be about my so-called dating life. I shouldn’t feel disappointed about his response, yet I do. But feelings don’t have to make sense, and the whole point of this dating misdirection is to protect him. Well, him and me. We’re just two people who have casual sex. And work together. Two people who have casual sex who have a history. I’m probably overthinking things. It’s not like Whit is complaining. I bet he’s had a dozen arrangements like this. So maybe who I’m trying to protect is not him but me.

His hand appears in front of me, and I realize he’s passing over my phone.

“It’s fully charged. I see you decided.”

“Decided—” My attention dips, and I see I have a notification from the dating app I’d downloaded this morning. “Oh.”

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” he says without an ounce of disapproval in his tone. My insides flutter as, instead of moving back, he negligently leans against the end of the island.

“I only just signed up this morning.” My gaze dips, and I find myself stumbling over my explanation.

“What photographs did you use? Hinge has three, right?”

“Just ones from home.” This is disturbing, not to mention uncomfortable. “You’ve used the platform before?

“Let’s see them,” he says, ignoring my question.

What the heck? I shake my head as I absently input my security code. And get it wrong twice.

“You’re all fingers and thumbs this morning.” Now he’s just trying to make me feel worse. The third time’s a charm. I flick open the notification.

“I got a rose?” My voice sounds uncertain, my brow scrunching in a frown. As part of the account process, I had to upload three images of me and pick three prompts to answer. The photographs I loaded weren’t great, and I put the least effort into answering the prompts. Who the hell is trawling for dates on Sunday morning?

“That means someone really likes you.”

“That’s not true.” I glance up into his amused expression. “It’s not—you can’t get to know someone over that tiny amount of information.”

“I’ve known less about women I’ve fucked,” he murmurs so quietly. It still stings. “Let’s see which prompts you chose.” He reaches for my phone.

“No!” I press it to my chest in two-handed protection.

“Why not?” His eyes tighten at the corners.

“Because it’s none of your business. And, by the way, I see you’re already familiar with the interface.” This comes out way more snipe-y than I anticipated, but there’s no denying how I feel, which is annoyed at his blasé attitude. I’m also oddly irritated by the fact he’s been on Hinge.

Hypocritical? Absolutely. But I didn’t say it made sense.

“Come on, Mimi. I’ll show you my prompts, if you like?”

“You’re still on there?” Oh my. That was a little shrill.

“Nope,” he says so, so amused. “Not for ages, but it’s easy enough to reinstall the app.”

“There’s no need for that,” I mutter mulishly as I pull my phone away from my chest. Just a hint of threat is all it takes. “I let you look, but you’re not allowed to laugh.”

“Why would I laugh?” he asks, still loving this exchange as I input my phone’s security codes which, thankfully, only takes me one attempt this time. I hand it over and my stomach somersaults with nervousness.

“I’m looking for,” Whit begins, reading aloud the first prompt I’ve chosen. “Someone who loves our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and is down to show me what London has to offer.” His attention slides to me, his mouth turned down.

“What? What’s wrong with that?”

“I didn’t know you were religious.”

“I’m not particularly. I just thought it might set the right tone.”

“Because every man wants to corrupt a good girl?” he grates out.

It’s my turn to pull a face. “No!” Unless they do, because how would I know? “Wait, is that really true?”

“I’m sorry to break it to you, but men don’t operate from one massive hive mind.”

“I know that.” Because it wouldn’t need to be massive to support the majority of them. “Look, I used the religious line because the tone I wanted to set was I’m not interested in any funny business. You know, not DTF.”

“What’s DTF?” Whit gives a tiny, confused shake of his head as he stares down at me.

“It’s an acronym.”

“Yes, but for what?”

“You know.”

“If I did, would I be asking?”

“It means down to… fudge. But the other word.”

“I don’t know what the other word is,” he says. But then his mouth quirks and it makes me want to hit him. “I’m just pulling your fudging leg.”

“Well, be careful. That leg has a donkey’s kick.”

“Good,” he says, leaning his forearm down against the island countertop. “Because the God-fearing, good girl Christian angle could go both ways. It might send the right signal to some, but to others, it might make you more of a challenge.”

“Urgh!” I drop my head back like my neck is a flexible joint. “This is hard!”

“Let’s look at the rose sender’s prompts,” he says, swiping my phone out of my hand.

“Hey!”

“Greg?” He glances up from the screen, brows riding high on his head.

“What’s wrong with Greg?”

“What’s right with him?”

“You can’t object to a name.”

“I think you’ll find I can object to whatever the fuck I like.”

“Let me see.” I reach out when Whit twists his upper body, holding my phone out of reach.

“Ah-ah!” he mouths as though talking to a toddler. “Now, where were we?” Still holding the phone over my head, he taps the screen and begins to read the first prompt. “‘Something about me that surprises people is… I’m still single.’” Whit’s phone-holding arm drops, along with his expression. “What a complete twat.”

“You don’t think that’s cute?”

“I’m beginning to think you’re the kind of person who, when faced with a red flag, just sprinkles glitter on it.”

“I am not!”

“For God’s sake, it’s borderline narcissistic,” he says, rubbing his hand down his face. I just love how he does that. Big hands, big… never mind.

“Let’s hope it was him trying too hard and he redeems himself with the second.” He lifts the phone, his lips twisting a second later. “Dear, oh dear. Greg is worry.”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad.” Can it?

“Prompt number two says, ‘dating me is like… taking a mouthful of water and finding out it’s actually vodka. Surprise!’ Anal,” he adds in a low murmur.

“What? It does not say… say that!” I make to grab my phone when he holds it out of my reach again.

“If Greg is the kind of bloke to give you vodka when you ask for water, he’s definitely not going to think twice about trying to shove his dick up your arse with an ‘oops, wrong hole!’”

“Ew, Whit!” Does that even happen? “Just give me that back.” I stretch out my arms as I stand on the stool’s foot bar, but I’m nowhere near high enough to reach.

“Keep your knickers on.” His eyes flick down. “Ah, I forgot. You haven’t got any on.”

“I’m hardly naked,” I protest. “I borrowed your sweats!”

He grins like the devil, and his eyes drop. “Doesn’t look like they’re going to stay on very long.”

I glance down and realize how low the waistband has sagged. “Dammit.” I grab it in one hand, and with the other, I make a hand gesture like I’m in a Lucy Lui action movie. Bring it. Only more like a whiny, “Just give it to me.”

“What’s it worth to you?” Devilment flits across his face.

I drop back to the stool, suddenly defeated.

“What’s wrong?”

“I give up.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, putting my phone down next to him. “You never give up.”

He’s thinking about the fake Mimi, not the real one. The real Mimi gave up and let her parents rule her life. It was probably a good thing that she did because she’s really making a mess of things.

“Mimi, come on. What is it?”

My chin jerks up, and I do this weird pfft sound, disputing his perceptiveness. “I was just thinking I have no idea where I’ll put all my new clothes,” I say, plucking the first topic out of my head. “I mean, I am grateful, but I only have a tiny room and no closet space to speak of.”

“You can leave them here. Some of them. Most? Whatever you like. You’ll be here often enough to wear them.”

“I will?”

“You were the one who demanded the full experience. Unless you’ve changed your mind and think Greg is a better choice.”

I hate that he’s being so blasé. “No, I don’t think that.”

There the real Mimi goes again, making a mess and complicating things when the man just gave her a very reasonable out. An out from danger, from her feelings.

“Good.” He leans his hip deeper against the counter as those tiger eyes slide over me. “Though I’m not sure there’s enough time left before you leave to do all the things I want to do to you.”

“That makes last night a waste, then.” The words escape my mouth without my say so.

“Last night?” Doubt flashes across his brow, lightening almost immediately, his mouth hooking up in one corner as though tugged by a string. “Well, it’s taken you a while, but at least you’ve said what you mean.”

“I always say what I mean,” I retort like the liar pants I am.

“Last night.” He sighs and rubs his right hands up and down the back of his head. “I suppose I was giving you space. Trying not to come on too strong.”

“You might’ve said.”

“You might’ve said you were unhappy,” he says, looking the opposite of that state. “You were the one who said you wanted to date other men. Maybe my sensitive little feelings were tweaked.” He reaches out and pinches my nose gently.

This is so strange. How have we gone from growly denials and sex that feels like he’s trying to imprint on me—or at least imprint the shape and sensation of his penis in me—to this? To flippancy. But before I have a chance to pull away in protest, his thumb slips to my bottom lip.

“I thought you would’ve understood.” His eyes turn golden as he lowers his head, meeting mine. “You have a standing invitation to my bedroom.”

“I didn’t want to presume,” I whisper, breathing in the scent of him.

“Oh, Mimi.” His thumb drifts away, his lips brushing mine. “I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true,” I say, twisting my mouth from under his.

He pulls back with an amused chuckle. “You know, if I looked up unsubtle in a dictionary, I’m sure I’d see your picture there—”

“Is that supposed to be flattering? I say, speaking louder and over the top of him. “Is that how you woo women?”

“You’ve been the absolute opposite of subtle since you whirled yourself into my life. Happy or not, horny or not, I assumed you’d be sure to tell me where you were on those scales. Whenever you were on those scales.”

“How about cuddly?” I ask a little aggressively. “Am I allowed to demand affection?” Maybe I’m trying to frighten him off.

“Why the fuck not?” he says, leaning his weight onto his hip. “Have I missed something?”

“No.” I tilt my chin, my reply prickly. “I’m just checking.”

“Are you feeling cuddly right now?” His expression? It says quite clearly; you know you want me—want it. I mean, you know you want a hug. And dammit, I do.

“I might be,” I answer, slightly mollified.

“Bring it in.” He straightens, curling his finger in a come-hither motion.

I duck my head to hide my smile, knot my hand in the waistband of his pants and hop down from my stool. My happiness is easier to hide as he wraps his arms around me. My insides turn to goo at the low “hmmm” he makes as I bury my nose in his T-shirt.

“Are you sniffing me?”

“You have a very vivid imagination, Leif Whittington.”

“That’s true. However, you’ll have a very red bottom if we have to undergo anything like this again. His finger slides between us, lifting my chin to reveal my I’d like to see you try it, buster, face. “If you’re unhappy, you say so.”

“I’m pretty unhappy about being threatened.” My hands fasten around his forearm.

“It’s not a threat.”

“Oh, so it’s a promise? You promise you’ll spank me?” A derisive noise shoots from the back of my throat as I push his arm away.

“I promise you won’t always feel this way about it.”

“Ah!” The sound is short and sharp. “Right.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

“See, you’re still making it sound like you think there’s a spanking in my future.”

He grins though tries to rub it away, but it’s too stubborn. “If I’m honest, I’m counting on it.”

“Lord knows why.”

His expression? So so smug. “Because, while I like it when people do as they’re told, I also secretly like it sometimes when they don’t.”

“People?”

“You.”

“You want to spank me?” My tone is lower than I’d anticipated, but I put that down to his expression. No way I like the sound of being spanked.

“I want to possess you for a little while. Hear your gasp as you anticipate the contact. Make you moan when you push back onto my fingers, demanding more.”

Heat and light shoot though me, my insides as hot and as wild as a summer storm. “Sorry, I can’t see that happening.” My voice sounds wavery. I’m not lying. I can’t see it, but I can feel it viscerally.

“You’ll come around.”

“Wanna bet?” I demand, jutting out my chin. This is so confusing. Do I want to fight him or do I want him to make me.

“It would be unfair of me to take advantage of you when you’re obviously so… het up.”

“Who’s het up? And who says spanking is taking advantage. Unless you win, fair and square.”

“It’s more like giving.”

I make another pfft sound. “Still sounds like you don’t want to lay odds. In fact, it sounds to me like someone’s a itty bit chicken.” I make chicken wings with my elbows.

“Are you… clucking?” he says, trying not to be amused.

“If the feathers fit.”

“Fine, have it your way. I’ll take your bet.”

“I bet you a cool one hundred you won’t ever get to spank me. Not without my permission.”

“I’d give you a much cooler thousand right here and right now just to try it.”

I don’t know which is the bigger shock. The money he’s offering or the fact that I’m thinking about it—not even for the money but because he’s so sure about it. So sure about me.

“No.” I rib my lips together. Meanwhile, Whit begins to make his own impersonation of a chicken. Or a cock.

I begin to turn, not for any other reason than I think I might want him to make me. “I don’t like being manipulated.”

“Is that why your cheeks are pink?”

“I think I should leave—” I half turn to deliver my edict but the next sound out of my mouth is an inhaled gasp as Whit catches my hand, spinning me into him. His thick thigh presses between mine, and his hand connects with my ass lightning fast. His arm slides around me, and he grabs a handful of my ass, then presses my body tightly to his.

“According to the Metropolitan Police’s Twitter account, you’re not going home anytime soon.” His head dips, his lips a whisper from my ear. “There’s still an unexploded bomb in a nearby garden. Nowhere to run, little fly. Nowhere to hide.

I heard bomb, and my insides bloom, probably because his hands have slipped down the back of his sweatpants, his palm now kneading my bare ass. “Are you ready to earn that cool five thousand?”

“You said one.”

“I’ll pay you ten times that.”

“Not for money,” I whisper. “Think of something more fun.”

“Fun for which of us?”

“You’re really weird.”

“No, gorgeous, I’m hard.” His hand covers mine, sliding it between us to where his sweatpants already leave little to the imagination.

“Commando,” I whisper, rubbing my palm against the head.

“Great minds think alike.”

Before he’s finished speaking, I find myself twirled and bent over the island. The marble is cool under my palms, Whit’s hands hot on the cheeks of my ass, sliding the loose sweatpants down before his hands drag liquid fire up the back of my legs.

“This arse.” He spreads his fingers wide as though to maximize the contact. “This arse was made to be fucked by me.” I guess I must squeak as he adds, “Yes, fucked, Amelia. I’ll worship this arse when you give it to me.”

 It feels entirely natural to stretch out beneath him as I elongate my spine like a housecat. “That wasn’t what I meant by fun.” And that sounded way sultrier than I was aiming for. It earns me a dark chuckle and a foot between mine that slides my feet farther apart.

“Have you ever been taken like that, Amelia?” His words sound like they were dragged over gravel.

“That’s not something I’ve ever given,” I retort. My breath halts as I feel him lift the hem of his T-shirt with both hands, folding it delicately to my lower back. I’m impressed how unaffected I sound as he slides his fingertips along the crease of my right butt cheek.

“It’s not something you can rush.” My whole body is jarred as his hand slips between my legs. “Even if you are wet just thinking about it.”

“And you’re hard at the thought of it. Which of us is the bigger deviant?”

“Do we have to be deviants? So judge-y, judge-y, judge-y!”

I swear I feel the whoosh of air before his palm lands on my right cheek. I make a noise that’s not exactly a complaint, the low ungh much nearer to an encouragement.

“All right?” His palm slides over the sharp sting, the path agonizingly deliberate.

I nod, too… something to speak. Puzzled, is what I am. Embarrassed? Turned on? It didn’t hurt, but I am standing in his kitchen, naked from the waist down. Not to mention bent over with my ass in the air. That’s not sexy, is it? I lie—I lie, and I moan as he pushes two fingers slickly inside me.

“Oh! I hear the evidence of my enjoyment, feel it in the slippery twist of his wrist. Hear it in my mewls and sighs as he thrust them inside me this way and that, working me into a wet frenzy. “Whit. Oh God, that feels—”

“Just think, we could’ve been doing this last night if you’d been honest.” His fingers curl and stroke, reaching that point inside me that turns my mind to mush and makes my thighs twitch. “You understand that now, don’t you?” he says darkly, his fingers beckoning me on.

I make a noise in response. I hope it sounds like a yes. God, yes.

“Use your mouth for something other than back talk, Amelia. Tell me you understand that if you want me to fuck you, you just have to ask.”

I make an inarticulate protest as his fingers slide wetly away, my body twisting to turn when he presses his palm low on my back.

“What’s more fun than a spanking?” His words are almost pondering as he touches my ass like it belongs to him.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Is it more fun pretending you won’t be into it.” His hand comes down again. Flesh meets flesh a little more thuddy this time. Less of a sting. I cry out all the same, but the noise is somehow different. “Forcing my hand?” he almost crows. Then thwack! Again. And again.

It’s not pain I feel, not exactly—he isn’t hurting me, it’s more like a delivery of sensation. Solid thwacks interspersed with light strokes. Teasing taps. A squeeze of my flesh followed by a dirty compliment.

“Look how wet this makes you.” A brush. A promise. The sight of his fingers, silky with my arousal.

“Stop talking.”

“I don’t think I will. In fact, I have an idea.” His hand strokes as though painting art on a canvas. “I’ll send you out on your little dates with my cum dripping between your legs, and I’ll—”

It’s almost as though I hear the sound of his hand moving through the air the second before it impacts.

“Oh!”

“Spank you for deserting me you get home.”

Another thud. Another sharp sting. The experience feels like a release because, with each strike, I feel somehow unburdened. Lighter, maybe? My mind is certainly free of noise and chatter. Free to just feel. There’s no rhyme, no reason, no agenda. Just Whit and me and, sweet, sweet relief.

“Such a lovely pink color,” he says with an admiring stroke over each curve.

My cheeks smart. Both sets of them. I’m not crying, am I? My eyes are wet, yet I feel warm and fuzzy. My chest heaves a little, my breath rapid and shallow as though I’ve been running.

“This was worth more than five thousand.”

“We’re finished?” I sound a little panicked as I turn my head over my shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine.

“That’s up to you. What is it you want, Amelia? Use your words, beautiful.”

I want more sensation. More pleasure than pain. I want this to be a prelude more than anything, but I can’t find the words. How do you form words for something you can’t comprehend? Instead, I fall back on what I know works for us as I turn and press my aching breasts against the marble. Lowering my head, I stretch my arms out in front of me like a supplicant. Or someone who’d just offered herself on a platter as I whisper, “Please, Daddy. I need you.”

“What do you need? Be more specific.”

“I need you to fuck me.”

“That wasn’t hard now, was it?”

“It had better be—oh!” I stretch under him like a cat as he presses the head of his cock against me. In one long thrust, he’s inside me, hot and thick.

“That hard enough for you?” His dark words curl around my ear, his body pressed to mine. He slides the hair from my face and the tears from my cheek. He doesn’t need my answer. It’s in my whimper as he slides back, leaving me empty, and it’s in my cry as he thrusts into me once again.

“Yes, oh God!” I push back against him as a lightning storm of need burns to life inside me.

“Fuck!”

He fills me again and again, his hand curled around my shoulder to keep me in place as he gives and gives. As my body received. My pleasure registers somewhere outside of me, sounds that are hardly feminine, rough sighs and sharp gasps, whispered encouragements that overlay Whit’s masculine grunts.

And then it happens—I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am because there is no soft buildup, just a burst dam of sensation that fractures through me as my fingers scrabble against the counter as though it could keep me from falling.

It doesn’t.

“Fuck, yes. That’s it,” Whit growls, his body pressed tight and undulating against mine. “Who gets to fuck you, Amelia? Who is it that fucks you so well?”

“Y-you!” I whimper as this liquid, hot climax drowns me.

I’m aware of nothing else but the soft grunt of his own release against my neck.