“Are you counting?”
“Eight.”
“Frederic, this is ridiculous. Stop playing around.” His brows are drawn together and he’s looking at me from beneath them with all of Hyde’s malevolence, the Phantom’s power, Frollo’s fury. But there’s more to it than that. This isn’t an act. He’s not playing. This is him, and he means it.
“Seven.”
“I’m not getting over your knee,” I snap. “That’s screwed up.”
He stands up and walks toward me. “Six.”
I back away with my hands raised. “Okay, wait a sec. I know I did promise you that I would send my story in, but I didn’t think it was that important to you. Now I know, you’re into your promises. Got it. Super noted.”
“Five.” There’s a predatory gleam in his eye. If this was the savannah I would be a gazelle cut off from the herd.
He’s down to three and I’ve backed into the dining table. He’s not going to do anything unless I say it’s okay. He’s too much of a gentleman, too—
“Two.” He’s right in front of me now, nose to nose, so close I can feel the heat coming off him.
“Frederic—”
“One.” He reaches out and grabs me by the shoulders, turns me bodily round and pushes me down over the table. My hands brace against the wood but then he grabs both of them, pins them behind my back and holds both of them in one of his. Something fizzes through me but I’m too shocked to pay it any mind.
Then he’s pulling up my skirt and my behind is exposed. “Oh, chérie,” he murmurs, running a finger over the fabric of my very small, high-cut panties. “You’ve made this so easy for me.”
My hot cheek is pressed against the cool wood. I struggle, trying to get my hands free but he has them in an iron grip. Is this the same man who so courteously carried my luggage? Who looked genuinely pleased when I agreed to write his biography? I knew he could be considerate one moment and demanding the next, but this is off the charts. His fingers are running over the bare skin of my behind. He’s not groping me, exactly, but there’s something appreciative in the way he’s stroking me. It’s sort of nice, and maybe I’d be enjoying it if I wasn’t so embarrassed about what he intends to do. “Frederic, I didn’t—”
“Did you tell me you were going to send your story in?” he asks.
“Well, yes, but—
“And did you go back on your word?”
“Yes, but—”
He lifts his hand away and brings it down in a loud, stinging smack.
“Ow!” Even though I knew it was coming the feel of him spanking me is shocking, and my head rears up. “What are you doing?”
He pauses, his hand hot against my burning skin. “I’m disciplining you for breaking your word. It’s up to you how much. If I let go of your wrists will you stay where you are?”
Stay where I am, biddable and silent? “You have to be kidding me! I’m not a child or a naughty schoolgirl. You can’t spank me for breaking a promise.”
His hand clamps even more tightly around my wrists and he leans over me as he speaks. “If you’re going to act like a child, I will. You could have been mature and told me that you didn’t think the story was ready, but instead you lied and disobeyed me behind my back. So, are you going to be good?”
“You’re a bully! You’re rotten and mean, and...and...” And why can’t I think of anything but school-yard complaints for how he’s acting?
“I’ll take that as a no.” He straightens, and his hand lifts away and he spanks me again.
It’s more shocking than painful. More chastening than demeaning. It’s also a little ridiculous, having my skirt rucked up around my hips and being spanked, and in between squirming in his grip I start laughing. I can’t control it, almost like it’s a hysterical response. I wonder if he’s going to get mad at me for laughing but he doesn’t say anything.
I realize a few minutes later that he’s let go of my wrists and my face is pillowed in my arms as I squeal. Even though I’m unrestrained I don’t move, half laughing, half yelping w
ith the surprise and sting of each slap. You can move, so why don’t you move? Tug your skirt down and run away. But even as I urge myself to do this, another voice stops me, more silky and insidious than the last. You sort of deserve this, don’t you? Something hot and squirmy settles between my legs, and suddenly I’m anticipating the spanks, not bracing against them.
Finally Frederic stops, one hand resting heavily on my lower back. “Good girl.”
I stay where I am, hiding my face in my arms. I feel strange and hot and my heart is racing lightly. There’s also something vaguely unfinished about the sensations that are pounding through me. I want to ask for something but I don’t know if I dare. I remember what he so angrily declared on the train. Do I tease? Do I roll my eyes at you? Have I ever laughed at you or made you feel silly?