Page 10 of Passionate Defense

“No,” she cried. “I’m so close.” Her breath came out in little pants as did her plea. “Please, don’t stop.”

“You’re being punished. You may come afterward, when I’m deep inside you, not before.”

Then she couldn’t breathe at all as a flurry of fiery swats rained down on her. He alternated sides and spread the fire from the upper crests of her cheeks to the tops of her thighs. Although it burned and tingled, she found it oddly arousing, too. The warmth he created invaded other places nearby, and the force of each swat, aided by her rocking back to meet his hand, nudged her forward so her pussy bumped against his hard thigh.

It felt good—so damn good—she disobeyed his “not before” decree and came. Moaning loudly, she writhed over his lap as her clit pulsed, her empty pussy tightening in rhythmic contractions. All the while her mind reeled in disbelief that an orgasm from a spanking was possible.

When her cries of pleasure subsided into shaky, stuttering gasps, Ethan flipped her upright and cradled her in his lap. As he wrapped her up tight, he rocked her gently, while she tried in vain to contain the tears that had sprung to her eyes. From somewhere long hidden, they rose unbidden to the surface, and she cried, not from pain but from months, no years of suppressed emotion.

“That’s it. Let it out. I’m here for you—always.”

Loud body-racking sobs came next as she burrowed into his chest, letting go of all the tension and stress she’d kept bottled up. She did not know how long she carried on, weeping ceaselessly against him, but she soaked his shirt through to the skin by the time she regained some semblance of calm.

She also became aware he had moved them onto the bed, where they now lay with him still fully clothed and her blazing ass naked. This only increased her vulnerability, but she felt the flicker of desire reignite inside her. She had to be working too hard because that was nuts, right?

Much too emotional to deliberate all that was wrong with her mental health, Lanie focused on what felt right. She snuggled against him with her face buried in his neck, her head pillowed on his biceps, as he stroked her hair gently.

“As catharses go, that was Vesuvius, and a long time in coming.”

“How did you know?” came her muffled question.

“I didn’t. It was an educated guess.”

“Weren’t you worried I’d get mad and storm out, or at the very least haul off and slug you?”

“For you, it was a risk I was willing to take.” With a seamless motion, he rolled onto his back, positioning her on top of him, their bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces.

She propped her forearms on his broad chest and gazed down at the man she loved. At forty-one, her handsome husband was older by six years. He was smart, confident and like her, also a lawyer. A renowned trial lawyer, to be precise. But after years of private practice, he was now a professor at the prestigious Boston College Law School. He taught legal ethics—an oxymoron if she’d ever heard one—and upper-level seminars on law and justice.

He didn’t look like any professor she’d ever had. Tall, well-built, and so sexy, many of his eager young law students flirted with and drooled over him. A few of the more aggressive young women had propositioned him. He’d turned them down firmly, telling Lanie about every incident, because ever since they’d met, he’d had eyes only for her.

In the aftermath of a spanking and a torrent of tears, she stared into his intense gaze and wondered what he must think. Feeling suddenly shy and more than a little embarrassed, she quickly averted her gaze.

“Don’t go there, Lanie. What happens between us in our bedroom, in our kitchen, garage, or backyard for that matter is nothing to be self-conscious about.” He slid her up his chest, maneuvering her easily with his strength until their mouths were nearly touching. “The way you internalize your emotions had me concerned for your health. It’s not uncommon for confident, professional women. Especially those in a male-dominated field who constantly have to prove they deserve to be there. I did some research on my theory and discussed it with a colleague.”

Horrified, her head reared back so she could see his face. “You talked to someone at the college about me? Ethan, I’ll die.”

“I spoke with a psychologist about your need to lock down your emotions. Well, not you specifically. But if he suspects it was about you, he’ll be discreet. He said type A personalities such as yours need a physical outlet for their energy and suppressed emotions, or they tend to explode. Sometimes that explosion comes as venting their pent-up frustrations on those around them, at work, on the street in a fit of road rage, or getting nasty with their family or spouse. If that doesn’t occur, it often manifests in health problems: hypertension, migraines, heart attacks, or stroke, to name a few. We talked about the more mainstream outlets, which you have tried unsuccessfully. He mentioned something else, out of the ordinary, and I thought it was worth a shot.”

Although still unnerved that someone he worked with would know intimate details about her, and their relationship, his unconventional new method intrigued her, and she blurted out, “Sex and spanking?”

“Not in that order, but yes.” Her brows arched high in surprise before he continued. “And not merely missionary sex, either. He said the catalyst, whatever it was, had to be fiery enough to get you to scream, yell, or cry, giving in to the emotion you’ve been holding back.”

“Since when have you ever been a one-act missionary man?” She squirmed at the memory of his hard hand descending on her soft bottom. “What just happened was fiery all right.”

He chuckled, his hands moving from her back to curl around her still-tingling backside. “I threw in the dominance and submission to test another theory. Quite effective, wouldn’t you say? Although it seems we will have to work on following the rules. You came before I said you could.”

A gruntedhumphwas her noncommittal response. What could she say? He’d made her do all those things—screaming and crying, not to mention begging, and especially coming—by applying the flat of his hand to her ass. Her imagination ran wild with what he could command her to do if he ever got around to taking off his clothes.

“Although he stopped short of making actual treatment recommendations for a patient, sight unseen, he said he’s had success with this approach with others for the same underlying problem.”

“What problem is that, exactly? Being a control freak?”

“I don’t like that term; it’s overly critical. I would say perfectionistic qualities and the need to overcome vulnerabilities through strict regulation of surrounding events.”

Lanie barely contained a snort of laughter. “That’s what I said, Professor. Control freak, I was just more succinct.”

“Mind the sass, baby.”

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