He flattened the now-empty box. “I enjoyed Bridget Jones, the book more than the movie. I have three sisters, each of whom I absolutely respect and adore, and I enjoy the feminine perspective on love and romance.”
“Well, aren't you just the perfect man? How many girlfriends do you have?”
He chuckled and walked back out through the mudroom to the front door. “Nice to meet you, Tori,” he said.
I followed those cute calves of his and waved goodbye from the doorway.
Callum rode away on the most adorable little motorbike, not much bigger than a scooter. Instead of making him look less attractive, though, the funny bike actually made him look even more handsome.
After he'd disappeared, down the trail into town, I came back inside, a sigh on my lips.
Smith Wittingham emerged from my bedroom. He was still wearing my nightshirt and nothing else, his frank and beans waggling. He gave me a dirty look and started up the stairs.
I called up after him, “I'm so glad you convinced me to stay here in Vermont!”
“Woman!” he commanded. “You have ten minutes to wipe the slobber off your face before we get back to work. I have a new idea for a chapter.”
“Does Sheri hook up with a sexy delivery boy? Maybe a threesome with those two plus Detective Dunham?”
He turned, halfway up the stairs, and scowled my way. “You're not half as funny as you think you are.”
“You remind me of someone. All belligerent, with just a shirt on and your bare ass hanging out. Who is it? Oh, right. Donald Duck.”
He grabbed the shirt at the hem and ripped it in half, tearing it off his body.
“That was my favorite shirt!” I yelled.
“Do I still look like Donald Duck?”
“Yes.” A smile crept across my face.
Smith was not as amused. He tossed the torn shirt at me and stomped up the stairs. “Nine and a half minutes!” he yelled.
Our second writing session of the day got off to a rocky start.
He paced behind me for ten minutes, not saying a word. He'd gotten dressed, in a crisply-pressed dress shirt and a pair of khaki trousers. The man almost looked respectable, but I knew better.
I got so bored waiting for him to dictate something, I pulled up the computer menu and looked for a game to play. Even solitaire would have been welcome, and I hated that game.
“No!” he said. “I'm ready to start.”
I pulled up the document again and waited. And waited.
Finally, I said, “Are you punishing me?”
“Not everything's about you.”
“Do you have writer's block? I thought you said you had a new idea for a chapter.”
“Don't quote me to myself. I have an excellent memory.”
I turned around in my chair. “Your tone could be more pleasant.”
“Like your tone, with the delivery boy? You were practically sucking his dick, in my kitchen.”
I put my chin on my hand. “That was nothing but a little friendly banter. There's absolutely no comparison between that … and my world-champion-quality dick-sucking.”
“Hmm.” His face softened a little, the tip of his nose becoming less pointy as he stopped frowning. He ran his hand through his ash-blond hair, ruffling it up and re-feathering the longish sides.
I felt an awakening between my legs. Now that Smith Wittingham was dressed again, looking like a respectable author, I wanted to get his clothes off. Flirting with the delivery boy had made me feel alive, sexy. I wanted to be touched.
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let's get a thousand words typed. That'll buy you … one minute of dick-sucking. Two thousand, and you start getting bonus items.”
His gold-brown eyes brightened and he stood up straighter.
“Two thousand words buys a spanking!”
“Deal,” I said, and we shook on it.
What followed was the fastest typing I'd done yet. The chapter wasn't bad, either, except the part where a delivery boy showed up at Sheri's mansion and whipped out his micro-penis.
I stopped typing and commented, “Subtle.”
We checked the words and found we'd surpassed the two-thousand-word goal.
“Go get the hairbrush,” he said.
I ran down to my room and got the flat-paddled brush, then came into the room, whacking it against my palm.
“Trousers off,” I said.
He gave me a sidelong look. “Let's do the spanking first.”
I smacked the brush into my palm again. “Exactly. Get your trousers off, you naughty boy.”
His eyes went wide, and he stammered unintelligibly.
I took a seat on the edge of the king-sized bed that was inside the office bedroom. Patting my knees, I said, “Come and lie across here.”
“But I thought ...”
“We never specified who would be the spankee. I'm in a spanking mood. Why don't you indulge me, for once?”