Beneath The Skin(77)

I swat his bare ass. He jerks, his eyes stretching wide.

“Did I say you could speak?”

He blinks. “No.”

I smack his ass again, harder. He hisses in lieu of shouting out, then clamps his teeth down on his fist.

“A bad boy needs a spanking. You’re a bad boy, aren’t you?”

Still biting his knuckles, he only turns his face ever slightly, his hilariously alarmed eyes slowly meeting mine. He doesn’t say anything.

He’s a fast learner.

I suppress a laugh, biting my lip in the process. This is so much fun. I raise my hand, then bring it down quickly, but don’t spank him. He flinches, expecting the sting, then turns around when the spank doesn’t come, his face wrinkled in a mixture of confusion and alarm.

I allow my fingers to gently caress his ass, exploring it from cheek to cheek. There’s something about Brant’s cocky demeanor that makes having any sort of power over him that much more sexy. There’s nothing quite like putting a hot man in his place.

Especially when that place is at the end of his own bed with his pants down.

“Did you get all your bags?” calls a voice in the hallway.

Brant is off the bed as fast as if the sheets just transformed into the Jabberwocky. His pants are pulled up the second his mother emerges at the doorway, a glass of tea in either hand.

“Thank you,” I say without missing a beat, crossing the room and taking the glass from her. After an innocent sip, I lift my eyebrows. “Tasty. Thank you.”

“It’s just the store brand,” mutters Mrs. Rudawski as she passes by me to hand the other glass to Brant, who takes it too quickly, nearly spilling it in the exchange, then proceeds to chug it. She spends precisely two seconds staring at him and pondering life’s intricacies before returning her attention to me. “Your bags are all in, Penelope?”

“I only brought the one,” I say with a shrug, clutching my glass with both hands.

“Elliot is making chicken primavera. Is that alright for dinner?”

“Sounds great.”

“Ooh, are those contacts? Your eyes are out of this world, girl.” Mrs. Rudawski chuckles, studying my face with the wonder of a child stargazing in an open country field for the first time. “As green as garnets.”

“Garnets aren’t green,” Brant interjects through half a mouthful of tea.

“Some are. Tsavorite garnets, like the one in your grandma’s ring,” his mother returns, her eyes not leaving mine, still curious. Then finally her gaze pulls away. “Take your time and relax, get settled in. I know you have your thing tomorrow night, but tonight you’re all ours. We aren’t doing much, but if you want to join us in the living room after dinner, Elliot and I were going to start a new series on Netflix.”

“Sounds great, Mrs. Rudawski.”

“Kristin,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never really been a fan of all those formalities.”

“Clayton is,” Brant throws in with a smirk. “The fucker still calls her Mrs. Rudawski.”

I jerk at the curse word, surprised by it. From the way that Mrs. Rudawski—er, Kristin—doesn’t even flinch, I take it his family has no qualms about language.

“Well, you know,” Kristin quips back, returning Brant’s same exact smirk. He has his mother’s mouth. “He practically grew up here, what with all the times he’d run out of that mess of a house he lived in. Forgive me, Penelope. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Clayton at all or think I sound like a total bitch, speaking of his family that way. They’re just good for nothing, and it’s a wonder that a boy as good as him came from a family like that. He’s basically my adopted son.”

“He’s a great guy,” I agree, not really knowing too much about him beyond what Brant’s told me or what little I’ve seen being around him.

“Mrs. Rudawski,” she murmurs thoughtfully, looking away with a chuckle. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.” She lifts her chin, breaking from her thoughts. “Are you close with your family?”

I open my mouth, but the automatic response of “Yes, totally!” finds itself utterly lodged in my throat. I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to tell the truth.

Kristin seems to sense that. “You know, my mom and I haven’t talked in six years. Ugh.” She rolls her eyes and bats at the air as if to fend off a mosquito. “I won’t drag you through the mud of that story. No family’s perfect, that’s for sure. Anyway. Enjoy your time here, Penelope. I need to feed the dogs before they feed on us.” She gives a wiggle of her fingers, then slips out of the room.