Her eyes narrowed. She’d picked up the skillet to move it back on the burner, and set it back down on the stove with more force than intended. She jumped at the noise. Darting a glance his way, she saw his eyes were twinkling.
Slowly, she turned to face him. "You said that to tease me."
He did that more often now at the store. Kept her smiling, sometimes even getting her to tease him back, though it still startled her when she did it, like discovering a room in her house she hadn’t even known was there.
"She'd actually be good in the store,” Rory pointed out. “I wasn’t teasing about that.”
"No. The pretty part."
"Yeah. On that I was maybe teasing you.” He cocked his head. “It got you riled. A riled woman has a special light to her. My dad used to say that to my mom when she was getting worked up. It usually made her smile. Unless his timing was off, in which case she might swing a skillet like that at his head."
"Hmph." She moved to the sink, lifted the bottle of dish liquid.
"Don't—”
But she’d already pivoted and squirted it, a strong blue stream that hit him mid-chest and could penetrate his shirt like cold fingers.
She’d done it so quickly, her impulsiveness hit her a beat after the fact, giving her a surge of near-terror and an inexplicable burst of laughter, captured somewhere under her breastbone. He put his hands on his push rims.
“Give me that bottle.”
She scampered in front of the table as he pursued, but she had to be quick. His current chair was designed for optimal maneuverability. She remembered the day he’d been working on it in the back shop of the store, how he’d explained it to her. He’d had the casters drawn to the inside of the main wheels, which made the chair less stable, but gave it a smaller width and minimal turning radius. Just like an experienced bike rider didn’t need training wheels or a heavier frame, instead preferring a stripped-down sports bike, an advanced wheelchair user like himself didn’t need the additional stability.
However, a small space was a small space, and it worked against him. It worked against her, too. She’d slipped by him into her bedroom, and that was where she made her mistake, because now he blocked the door. The only way out was the window.
He gave her an amused look as she eyed it. “Really?”
She shrugged, but realized he’d done it. He’d really made her feel better. The school stuff was still there, but he was right. It was just a bump in the road, not a major thing. And he’d said he’d go with her.
If he went with her, she could do it. Maybe she should be ashamed about that. Or maybe she could trust him when he said that it was nothing to be ashamed of at all.
Her bed was between them. She was considering her next move, which might be dashing over the top of it if he tried to come around, but then he took a different tactic. One she had a really hard time resisting, especially when the smile on his face gave way to something else. Something quiet and considering. Intent.
“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand.
When he used that tone, other things happened to her. Everything inside became still, and her thoughts and movements aligned, focused on what he was telling her. That was happening more and more, too, when she was around him.
Now she came out from behind the bed. Instead of taking her hand, he closed a hand around her wrist, above the bracelet.
“I should spank you,” he said quietly. “What do you think of that?”
She suspected he’d intended it to come out teasing, a joke. But her reaction wasn’t that way at all. That stillness expanded, even as her heart thudded a little more powerfully and her fingers curved over his on her wrist. Her breath was short and quick in her throat.
She’d never been spanked. She’d only seen it shown on TV, a parent doing it to prove they cared about a child by offering discipline, structure, love.
She also remembered the stories about him and his sister Les routinely wrestling as kids. Mostly it had been one-sided, him wrestling her to the ground when the mood took him. He’d said Les was a scrappy and dirty fighter, so once he had her down, he’d slap her ass, giving her a spanking like his parents, just to make her madder.
Thinking about those two things together gave Daralyn an odd mix of feelings, emotional and physical. Her fingers had tightened further over his, and his gaze had gone heated. It moved from her fingers, up to her parted lips.
“I think you like the idea,” he said. “I know I do.”
She couldn’t speak, but she couldn’t look away, and when he put pressure on his grip, his eyes on hers telling her what he wanted, she accepted his will. She lowered her gaze and nodded, just the slightest of movements.
After he locked his brakes, he brought her down over his lap. Slowly. She could sense he was watching her carefully, hardwired to determine if she had any negative feelings about it. She knew he cared about her, wouldn’t want to hurt her. She felt nothing but a desire for him to hold her like this, do what he’d threatened so playfully. But her response to it wasn’t playful. It wasn’t bad, either.
Only Rory could do take her from tears to an impulsive playfulness to something she couldn’t describe, but most everyone would think she couldn’t handle.
Her ponytail tumbled forward over her shoulder. He put one hand in the center of her back, below her shoulder blades. Her bra strap was under her shirt, under his palm, an intimacy that increased her awareness of his touch. She thought about him unhooking it, getting it out of the way so her breasts would press against his thighs. He had some sensation toward the top of them. She’d heard him mention that and wondered if he would feel her nipples against his skin as intensely as she felt the pressure of his legs now, through the thin shirt she wore.
He loosened the band around her ponytail, letting her hair fall free over her shoulders. As she curled her fingers over his push rim, her other hand dropped to his shin to latch onto his jeans. Her hold constricted when he stroked through her hair. As she inhaled, she could smell the fragrant dishwashing liquid on his shirt front, mixed with his warm male scent.
She had a full-length mirror in here. Les and his mother had added it to the room. By adjusting the chair a few inches, he could now see her fully, how she was stroking his shin, the little movements of her fingers. He made a noise of pleasure and approval, so she didn’t stop. She rested her cheek on his leg.
“So how many swats does squirting me earn?”
The question, issued in a tone of dry humor, summoned a small smile, then a little giggle when he tickled her sides, making her squirm. She went still again as he dug his fingers deeper into her hair.
“I’ve thought about brushing this,” he said, low. “I’d have you kneel at my feet while I do it. Maybe with you wearing nothing but a robe.”
He’d never talked to her like that, and her mind ran wild with the possibilities, even as her body flattened under the petting. He’d turned his attention to the hand on her back, and what was below it. He molded his palm over her buttocks, traced the middle seam of her jeans, separating the cheeks. It didn’t do that when she was standing, her body too thin and the jeans too loose.
There was a quiver going through her, little shivers of the flesh. He was treating her like a woman.
He lifted his hand and gave her a firm smack at the widest part of her backside, sweeping upward. If she’d been naked, the impact would have made the cheeks wobble.