Body Politics (11 page)

She’d assumed his closet was at her disposal, and of course it was. None of his clothing suited him as well as it did her. His shirt skimmed the tops of her thighs when she had stood. Her breasts filled out the starched cotton, her nipples two hard nubs beneath the fabric.

She tore off a piece of bread from her slice and buttered it. He watched her chew as if glued to the final seconds of the Super Bowl. She had the most amazing mouth. Luscious. Soft. Rosy after going down on his cock, which was rigid again. A perpetual state these days.

He cleared his throat. “The Rod and Cane benefit auction is next week. The grant requests have been processed, so I wasn’t able to retract WAN’s name. Are you sure you can’t accept?”

She stuck her left hand out palm up. “A feminist organization.” She flipped up her right. “A men’s society that promotes the physical punishment of women. Gasoline and lit match.” Regret flickered in her eyes. “I’d love to accept the money, but one thing I’ve learned is that reality doesn’t matter as much as perception. Even if donations are given under RCS Enterprises, I can’t risk someone finding out. Dating you is chancy enough.”

“No one knows I’m a member of Rod and Cane.”

“Because?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Because I’d probably lose my job.” He sighed. “I do understand your position.”

“I’ll have to intercept the check when it comes in and return it. I have to admit, I would not have expected Rod and Cane to be as open as it is.”

“That’s a new development.”

“Since the
Sentinel
article?”

“Yep. Security is still pretty tight. Only members of a certain standing are permitted to bring guests to the mansion.”

“So you’re a member of certain standing.” She grinned.

“You could say that.” He smiled. “So does your prohibition against accepting an auction donation prevent you from attending?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a date.”

She expelled a huff of air. “Are you ever going to
ask
me on a date instead of tell me?”

He leaned forward. “You don’t want me to ask you. You like it when I take control.”

“I do not!” She glared at him.

He rose, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her to a standing position. Bracing his foot against the chair seat, he motioned, and she obediently bent over his knee. He administered four swats to her naked behind. She emitted the cutest little squeak with each one.

He allowed her to sit and returned to his place. “I rest my case.”

* * * *

As they cleaned up the dinner dishes, working comfortably and efficiently, they chatted about everything and nothing, proving to Mark the rightness of their relationship and how far Stephanie had progressed. The woman he’d met at Bottom’s Up a few weeks ago would have decked him before he could have delivered more than one swat to her curvy rear. While he’d meted out only one real spanking, punishment didn’t define a domestic discipline relationship but evolved out of it. That he accepted responsibility for leading and she acquiesced to following was the determining factor.

Their connection was deep and intimate, and he was curious to know all about her, how she came to be the person she was. He’d learned she and her husband divorced after his infidelity, but knew little of her early family history.

“Tell me about your father,” he said. It seemed like a good place to start.

“Well,” she said, drying the fragile items that couldn’t go in the dishwasher, “he’s male. Mom says he was tall. And he was married—but not to my mother.”

He filled in the blanks with everything she didn’t say. “So you never knew your father. Never had a relationship with him.”

She shook her head. “No. My mother didn’t know he was married until she got pregnant, and then she discovered he had a wife and a
real
family. He didn’t want another child. He offered my mother money to go away.”

Fuck!

Stephanie continued. “She took it and opened my college fund.”

Mark rubbed his whiskered chin. Her father had abandoned her, the moron asshole in high school used her, and her ex-husband had cheated. He leaned against the spotless counter as she folded the dish towel with creases the military would be proud of and slipped it through the handle on the dishwasher, which doubled as a towel bar. She aligned the ends.

“You haven’t had any good relationships with men, have you?” he asked quietly.

Her head snapped up. “Yes, I have.”

“With whom?”

She wet her lips. “You.”

Her answer stung his eyes. “Ah, kitten,” he managed to say, his voice thick and unfamiliar. He opened his arms, and she walked into them, and he held her against his thumping heart. He buried his face against her neck and breathed in her scent.

“What you do to me,” he said.

“What
you
do to
me
,” she answered.

He sought her mouth and poured out his feelings in his kiss. When he released her, her lips were rosy.

“What I’d
like
to do you,” he joked.

She smiled with her eyes. “Do it.”

He scooped her up in his arms, and she squealed. “Mark, are you crazy? Put me down before you hurt yourself. I’m too heavy for you.”

“Too heavy?” He spun around and leaned closer to the counter. “Grab a spoon, please.”

“Why?” she asked but took one.

“You called me a weakling.”

“No!” She widened her eyes. “I meant—” She broke off as he carried her to the barstools. “What are you doing?” Her voice rose on a high note.

He kicked the chair out from under the bar and sat. “I’ll take that now, thank you.” He pulled the spoon from her grasp, shifted her on his lap, and tipped her over. She shot out her hands to brace against the floor, and his shirt slipped down her body to cover her head. She could kick all she wanted. Her ass was his.

“Mark. No!” She protested, the shirt not muffling the sound an iota. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“How did you mean it?” A forearm against her back prevented escape. He slipped his free hand between her legs and rubbed her sex, fingering the plumpness of her folds, the growing wetness.

She stopped squeaking and squirming and spread her legs wider. He eased two digits into her tight channel, slowly fucked her with them, then massaged her engorged clit with her own moisture. He pulled his hand away, and before she could react, he peppered her ass with the spoon.

She howled and kicked, but he restrained her on his lap, thankful he had a corner condo and the kitchen was on the outside wall. He wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear her yell, but he’d hate even more for her to muffle her sounds. He loved hearing her. He knew she screamed from outrage rather than pain. He was only tapping. Mostly. He gave her a good whack, and she shrieked. He chuckled.

“You’re laughing at me?” She was tangled in the shirt, unable to free herself. “You…you—”

“Careful. Don’t insult the man with the spoon.”

He turned both her cheeks pink, then slid his hand between her legs again.

Dripping. Even more swollen, and her inner lips gaped.

She moaned as he stroked, running his fingers in her cleft. He teased a line from her clit to her pussy, dipped in because he couldn’t help himself, then withdrew and rimmed her rosebud with his thumb. She tensed but didn’t protest.

“Has any man fucked you in the ass? Played with you there?”

“No.”

He’d assumed as much, but her answer filled him with satisfaction. He’d be the first. She’d have to be trained, but that would be part of the fun. “Good. Your ass—all of it—is mine.”

He left it alone for the time being and finger-fucked her sopping cunt. Partly to express how he felt, partly to bait her, he stated, “Your pussy is mine too.”

Her muscled walls contracted around his digits, but she said nothing.

“Aren’t you going to deliver the feminist party line about how your body belongs to you?”

“Not when I’m in this position.”

He laughed. “Smart move.”

He wielded the wooden utensil again and reddened her ass a little more. “This is for striking me with the spoon.”

She flailed her legs. “You’re hitting
me
with it!”

“You had your chance to spank me.” He kissed her pink cheeks several more times, then tossed the spoon onto the counter. He checked her wetness, her arousal, then eased her to her feet and held her until she steadied. Reproach vied with desire in her gaze. She probably had no idea how seductive a combination that was.

“I love how my shirt looks on you. Take it off.”

Lust flashed before she narrowed her eyes to glare at him.

She undid the shirt, and he shucked off his pants. He dug a condom from his wallet and rolled it on. It was almost too late; he’d nearly come as he’d spanked her. He settled on the barstool and patted his lap. “Climb aboard.”

She straddled his thighs and impaled herself. Hot, tight wetness surrounded him. Aching desire arced to raw, sharp pleasure. “Fuck me,” he said.

A footrest traversed all four legs of the stool, and she used it as a base to raise and lower herself. Her moan, a low sound emanating from deep inside, reverberated through him, eliciting a cascade of firing nerves.

He guided her slender, soft hand to her clit. “Stroke yourself.”

“Don’t think…I’m going to…need it. So close,” she said but obeyed. Closing her eyes, she tossed her head and rode him.

He cupped her breasts and sucked a distended nipple while pinching the other. She mewled.

He thrust, driving upward as she slammed down.

Curving a hand between her spread ass cheeks, he sought her rosebud. It contracted under his light rimming.
No one has touched her here
. He growled with satisfaction, slickened his finger with her moisture, then penetrated her virgin hole.

She cried out and shattered in his arms. Pressure skyrocketed, and he released himself into his woman.

Chapter Nine

“Almost all the original enrollees have signed up for the communication class,” Bethany said.

“I know, plus several new ones, so we’re actually ahead by a couple of clients.” Perched on Mark’s bed and in his robe, Stephanie held her cell to her ear. Instead of a shower, she’d opted for a relaxing soak in his jetted tub and had spent too much time in the bath. Behind schedule, she still had to finish dressing for the Rod and Cane auction.

“Seven couples and two singles. Sixteen is too large a group for a good discussion, but since most of the work will be done through guided dyad dialogues, I think it will be fine.”

“Dyad dialogues?” Stephanie asked drily. “You mean the couples will talk to each other?”

“Yes, but they’ll be coached,” Bethany answered in perfect seriousness.

Stephanie shook her head in amusement. She’d never been as intense as Bethany, she didn’t think, but since Mark, she’d lightened her outlook considerably. Certainly she laughed more, didn’t get so worked up about the small annoyances, and enjoyed life’s pleasures. Definitely the latter.

She looked up as the man responsible entered the bedroom.
Getting late. Have to leave soon
, he mouthed and pointed to his watch. He wore dark slacks, a gray tweed sport coat, and this time, a tie. The auction was a little more formal than the mixer had been. To surprise Mark, she’d purchased a dress, the first one since, well, she couldn’t remember when. High school maybe? It hung in a zippered bag in the bathroom. She would put it on and finish her makeup as soon as she got off the phone.

I know
, she mouthed back.
Two minutes.

Okay
. He left.

“By the way,” Stephanie said to Bethany, “I forgot to return the class printout to you last week. It’s in my left bottom desk drawer.”

“I snagged it. Or rather Evelyn did. She’s the only one who understands your filing system.”

“I don’t have a system.”

“That’s what I understand. Evelyn seemed huffy after searching for the roster.”

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Stephanie chuckled. “But I’m lucky I have such a great team to keep me organized.” She’d chosen her staff well; each one had talents WAN needed. If they had flaws, it was that they tended to be rather intense. As she’d once been. “I feel so fortunate to have you all,” Stephanie said. “You especially, Bethany. We’ve had our philosophical differences, but you’re good—no, great—at what you do.”

“Thank you. I appreciate your saying that. The women are excited to have men in the communication class. If I had it to do over again, I’d deal with it differently.”

“Me too. I let my temper get the better of me.” It was something she needed to work on. “We go back too far to let work come between us.”

“I agree,” Bethany said.

“So, do you have any exciting plans for this weekend?”

“I’m going to a women’s festival. Feminist art, music, and dance. There’s a seminar I’m especially interested in, ‘Connecting with Your Inner Goddess.’”

“Almost sounds like a class we could have at WAN.”

“Doesn’t it? I was hoping to make some connections.”

Even Bethany’s fun time circled back to work. Her entire life revolved around women’s concerns. The way Stephanie’s used to. She hoped her friend could find some balance. “What are you going to do at the festival just for fun?”

“Well, the headline act is a dulcimer player who has been all over the world. I’ve seen her on PBS. She writes her own music.”

“Sounds wonderful. I like dulcimer music. It’s light, but there’s something earthy about it.”

“And I might grab a pizza and a movie on Sunday.”

“We should go to a movie sometime. What are you going to see?” Stephanie asked. She looked up to see Mark watching her, a frown on his face.

“Stephanie, we’re late.” He spoke aloud this time. “We need to leave, and you’re not even dressed yet.”

She held up her index finger and shook her head slightly.

His facial muscles tightened.

Okay, he was a little annoyed, but what could she do? She couldn’t rush Bethany off the phone.
In a minute, please
, she mimed. He left.

Bethany was saying something.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” Stephanie asked.