Done [Running to Love 4] (Siren Publishing Classic) (16 page)

She awoke to the sense of wet warmth at her thighs, and she murmured in protest.

“Shh, baby. I’ll be gentle.” Greg slid the cloth between her legs and washed away the evidence of their passion. He pressed a kiss on her abdomen, right below her navel and then stretched out beside her, gathering her into his arms and pulling her close to him. She could feel the steady cadence of his heartbeat and relaxed against the rise and fall of his chest. He must have taken off the cuffs while she slept, and she could smell the black cherry lotion he had rubbed into the chafe marks. Lacey hoped they would be gone by morning, or she would be digging out some of her winter shirts with the long sleeves to wear to work. Having her man back in her life would be making her rethink her wardrobe choices on a regular basis. She tensed at the thought.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Greg was indeed back in tune with her.

“Are you back for real? You? Because I am, and probably with a few new challenges.”

Greg didn’t prevaricate. “I’m all the way back, Lacey. Never doubt it, and I’m hopefully even better. I told you I’d be waiting, and I meant it. I’ll take you just as you are, although we’ll probably have some adjusting to do. You have reparation to make in any event.”

Lacey’s sated sex barely quivered at his last statement, but she heard the first ones loud and clear. She relaxed again and quit worrying about it. She had come a considerable distance in her own healing over the past couple of months, starting with forgiving Greg as well as herself. She was coming to accept herself and their past relationship as well as being more aware of the need to change and grow as they moved along and not to become complacent. Being with other women who had experienced similar losses, learning from their successes and mistakes, learning more about relationships, two of them much like hers and Greg’s, had been invaluable. She hoped Elizabeth would be all right, and that her husband, Stephen, would get the help he needed, the poor, misguided man. Lacey made herself stay awake until Greg fell asleep, listening to his regularly spaced breaths, basking in their love and treasuring the moment.

She had been getting to the place where she had intended to call Greg and ask him to meet her for coffee. She felt ready to see him again, strong enough to seriously talk with him and not let the calamity of the past nor the chemistry between them influence things too strongly. With the direction of Dr. Massey, Lacey had taken time to think about everything that had taken place, from how she and Greg had connected and developed their relationship, to his breakdown and her reaction to his rejection, and she had begun to process and accept the loss of their child. She had wondered aloud to her therapist if Greg hadn’t been at the hospital that day whether she would have ever told him, ever seen him again. Dr. Massey had posited that once Greg was back on his feet, it was more likely that he would have sought her out, and Lacey hugged that inference to her when she woke in the lonely nights and missed him so badly that it hurt.

When Elizabeth’s husband had made the scene at the group, Lacey had simply reached out to Greg. There had been no weighing the pros and cons. She needed him and had called him, and he had come. The crisis had just moved the timetable up, that was all. He had told her he would wait, and he had. They still had many things to talk about and find their way again, but it felt right and for the first time in a long time, she was content.

* * * *

“Massey. M-a-s-s-e-y.” The therapist’s voice was both low and musical. Max asked her to spell her first name, and then requested her date of birth. He already had her phone numbers and addresses and wondered how much more information he could gather under the guise of getting the events of the night written down. When she had looked at him, following Greg’s assertion that he would take her statement and that of the woman connected to the perp, Max had been mesmerized. He figured it was because she was trained to connect with people, to develop a connection and forge a relationship, much like cops did, albeit for different reasons, but he had felt an immediate connection. She had also smiled at him, something at odds with the seriousness of the situation, and only for a second, but it had definitely been a speaking smile before the professionalism had taken over.

She introduced him to Elizabeth Salter, wife of Stephen Salter, the man now on his way to the psych unit at St. Joe’s hospital, and Max had taken her statement first. It was actually a job for the patrol unit, and Max could have passed the buck, but he wanted to talk to Dr. Massey. Meredith. He had established that Mrs. Salter was attending group therapy following the loss of their little boy in a hit-and-run, and that her husband had been resistant for weeks, intimating that they should handle their personal troubles within the family. Mrs. Salter had seen her husband retreat into grief and become increasingly despondent and verbally abusive, so she had reached out for her own, professional input. He had followed her to group that night and had some kind of breakdown when he was refused admittance after getting as far as the group room door. Dr. Massey had apparently read something in his demeanor and made the decision to bar him. Better safe than sorry. Both women had described Mr. S. as highly agitated.

Mrs. Salter didn’t want to press charges, and Dr. Massey probably wouldn’t either, but Max was going to ensure that Mr. S. got some kind of input because he knew those kind of guys tended to strike out against those around the object of their obsession, too. Mrs. S. had been escorted by the patrol to the hospital to meet with the doctors and make some kind of decision about her future, he supposed.

“I’m forty-seven, born January 11
^th
.” Meredith’s lyrical voice interrupted his thoughts, and he realized he had been staring at her. Her fine hazel eyes were lit with amusement. She didn’t have a blonde hair out of place or a wrinkle in her suit, despite the harrowing events of the evening, and she had apparently organized the lines of defense against Mr. S. immediately and efficiently. Max had noticed her choice in footwear and had a sudden, overwhelming urge to see what she wore under that suit, while having her leave those shoes on. He tried to focus. She was nearly fifteen years his senior, but his cock didn’t seem to care. He heard his voice before his brain fully engaged.

“I’ll help you pick up these chairs and get the table set up again, Dr. Massey. Maybe we can grab a coffee while I take your statement. Greg and I were in the middle of dinner when Lacey called.” He felt awkward as soon as he said it. She probably had a Mr. Massey waiting at home for her.

“I’m not presently married,” she said. God, he’d said that last out loud, too. He tried to retrieve the situation and only managed to dig himself in deeper.

“Well, that’s fine then, good, I mean, did you want the coffee or something else?”

That smile appeared and turned the corners of her full mouth up again, and Max’s cock pressed painfully against his zipper. He saw her eyes drift down in that direction and he felt like a randy fool.

“Probably a bit soon for something else, Detective Brewster. But I could use a cup of tea. Coffee would keep me up all night, and I find I need my energy during the day.”

Max knew an invitational response when he heard one, and he grabbed onto it with both hands. “Call me Max, Meredith. Once we get done here, you can drive with me or follow me. Your choice.”

“I am usually the one giving the choices, Max, and that includes whether someone can drop my title and be informal. But I think I’ll make an exception in your case. I live upstairs, so perhaps we can have our tea and conversation here. There is no point in going out this late in the evening.”

Max figured he had been outplayed somehow, but damned if he didn’t like it. He accepted the offer and got busy straightening the room, watching Meredith’s elegant form, out of the corner of his eye, bend and stretch as she picked up the pieces of paper and pens scattered over the floor. Her legs seemed to go on forever, and her skirt tightened suggestively over her rounded rump and hips as she bent over and crouched. Max just bet those full breasts were contained by a sexy scrap of silk and lace, too, as they moved gently with her movements behind the jacket of her suit before his covert gaze.

Lacey felt Greg get back into bed and winced at the chill of his body, although she knew from experience that he would soon warm up. He was naked and had obviously been up for a while. She squinted at the clock and saw she had a couple of hours to sleep before she had to get up for work. She was tempted to roll over and encourage Greg to do a little early morning horizontal dance, but she was tender and still quite replete after the previous night’s multiple orgasms. She shut her eyes and tried to keep her breathing slow and steady, but he knew she was awake. He always knew. His mouth blew warm breath over her temple as he spoke.

“I’ve laid a few things out for you in the bathroom, honey. Off you go. You have five minutes.”

Lacey squirmed to sit up and shoved her hair back. He smiled up at her and reached to stroke first one breast and then the other. Her nipples instantly responded.

“What? It’s just after five, Greg! I’m tired! Let me sleep a little longer, okay?” She smiled back at him winningly, and made to snuggle down again.

“Bathroom, Lacey. Five minutes and counting.”

She huffed and struggled off the mattress to make her way there. She froze in the doorway as she took in the four items on the vanity, each with their own handwritten number attached. He had used her favorite floral sticky notes to indicate the number of strikes. Well, shit. She used the toilet while her eyes roamed over them. There was a rubber spatula, the one with the wide, flat surface. Beside it was her leather fly swatter, the little holes like tiny eyes and seeming to wink at her with malice. A wooden, twelve-inch ruler and a long wooden spoon completed the selection. Greg had meant it when he referenced reparation, and Lacey knew she had racked up a few during the time he had stayed with her after the miscarriage. It didn’t mean she had to accept them though.

She reflected briefly on her thoughts and epiphanies over the past couple of months. She wanted her old relationship back with Greg for certain. She also expected him to step up to the plate and deal with adversity by including her and letting her help him if he couldn’t manage it, valuing her input. There were things to discuss and communicate over the next while, and Lacey had no doubt that they would do so. She picked up the fly swatter, even though the thirty swats she would receive seemed a trifle exorbitant. But she also had to sit at her desk all day today and she knew from experience that the other implements, while coded with only ten to twenty swats, would leave her far more tender. At the last minute, she quickly brushed her teeth and then washed her face and ran the cloth between her legs, the soft nap cooling her swollen labia.

Greg was looking somewhat dark by the time she returned to the bedroom. “You’ve earned an additional ten for making me wait, Lacey.”

Lacey opened her mouth to protest but closed it on the first syllable. She offered him the fly swatter, and he took it gently from her grasp. There were two pillows piled in the middle of the bed and she wordlessly lay over them, her hips and ass elevated and vulnerable.

“Spread your legs, Lacey, you know the drill.”

She instantly complied, and the soft cotton of the thread count rubbed suggestively against the top of her cleft. She twitched and Greg caught the movement.

“If you get yourself off, I’ll make you wish you hadn’t, honey.”

Lacey’s sex flooded, and she resigned herself to a sore bottom and a day of aching need. It would make tonight all the more memorable, and Greg would suffer, too, but she found she wanted it now, like a little kid who needed immediate gratification. The drift of the leather swatter over the curve of her buttocks reminded her of what was to come. Greg warmed her up with the first ten, making them easy to count and easier to avoid flinching away and rubbing against the pillows. The next ten stung and heated her skin and prickled into deeper arousal and Lacey began to drift on sensation, nearly forgetting to count them out. Greg laid the next several blows in no discernible pattern from the top of her ass to the middle of her thighs, and the slap echoed in her ears as she ground herself back into the pillows after arching into each swat. She suddenly climaxed and panted into the sheet, nearly putting her fingernails through the fabric as she clutched it. Greg was going to make good on his threat, but it had been so worth it. She had missed this. Missed the fine line between pain and extreme pleasure at the hands of her man. Greg gave her a minute to enjoy the aftermath and then spoke, his voice deep and rasping. They had often played fantasy games, but this was just Greg and Lacey.

“Get over onto your back. You have lost considerable self-control, Lacey. I’m not pleased.”

Lacey rolled over immediately. Greg loomed over her, his face a mask of desire, his cock pulsing and wet. He put his knees on either side of her shoulders then reached down to shove his fingers through her hair, dragging her face up and shoving his erection against her mouth. Lacey opened wide, and he pushed inside, hard, to the back of her throat. She gasped against the invasion, and he stilled above her. When she relaxed, he began to fuck her mouth, slipping and sliding, rubbing against her palate. Her saliva pooled and ran from the corner of her lips and down her chin and the rub of his erection against her mouth made little sucking sounds. Her jaw began to ache, and Greg worked harder and faster and then pulled out to come over her face and chest, pulling strongly at himself to get the last drop to mark her. He leaned back and looked at her with deep satisfaction, and Lacey let her tongue slip out to gather a taste of his ejaculate. She was rewarded with another possessive stare and a twitch of his cock. She lay there, a sticky mess, and felt quite replete until she realized Greg had picked up that damn fly swatter again. He ran it over her cum-dappled breasts and gave her a smile that took her breath. It hitched and came out on a little sob of passion that choked off when he tapped her nipples.