Page 7 of Dean's Delinquent

“I have integrity!” she finally cries out.

“Integrity? If you had integrity, you’d do a better job at considering others before splashing such an inflammatory article about without a care. I swear,” I mutter under my breath. “It was so much easier back in the older days of Loftry.”

“Why,” she sneers. “Because then you could control me like you’re trying to control the press?”

“No, Miss Hartwell,” I bite out as calmly as I can. “It’s because back when Loftry was first founded, the Dean had the final say, and his word was law. If anyone so much as tried to fight back or argue, there were consequences.”

“Censorship, you mean.” Her voice drips with disdain as she sneers at me.

“Allow me to give you a small history lesson, Miss Hartwell.” I begin, leaning over the desk to look her straight in the eyes. “Back when Loftry was first founded, did you know what they did to recalcitrant students who would not fall in line? No? Allow me to elucidate it for you. They would receive the cane across their backsides. Thankfully, we have evolved past such archaic methods of discipline. But you tempt me, Miss Hartwell. You tempt me very much.”

“Tempt you? Really? So cane me then,” she snaps out, crossing her arms as she oozes rebelliousness. “If that’s what will settle this between us, go ahead. Do your worst. See if I care.”

“Oh,” I growl out, rising to my full height. “Miss Hartwell. Do not goad me. You will not like the result.”

ChapterThree

Dean Anderson

Just like a bratty teenager, she rolls her eyes. “Do not goad me,” she mocks. “How bad can it be?”

“I’m assuming you’ve never had a spanking before?”

With a smirk, she tosses her hair. “Me? I’m a perfect angel. I’ve never been spanked. There’s never been a need.”

“Right. Daddy’s perfect little princess.”

“Exactly. Which is why I don’t think you have it in you to actually do this. Deep down, you know I’m right, and this is censorship.”

“You’re trying my patience, Miss Hartwell.”

“Pity. What I’m trying to do is see if you’re actually being serious or if you’re all talk. But then, if I was a dean, I certainly wouldn’t go around caning students for standing up for what’s right.”

“You know what?” I counter. “I think you’re trying to make me do something so you can make another inflammatory article. Only now, it will be about me and my heavy-handed ways, so you can try to get me fired. I think not. Nice try, Miss Hartwell, but you will not be successful. Many have tried to undermine me before, and it’s been met with a most disastrous end.

Her eyes blaze as she leans over my desk and lifts her ass high in the air. “It’s not about that,” she hisses. “It’s about integrity,” she asserts again.

“Integrity, is it? And that’s why you’re practically humping my desk, begging for me to discipline you?” The moment the words slip from my lips, I regret them.

What I regret most of all, however, is the way her pupils dilate just a touch as her breath comes in short pants. As soon as I blink, she’s back to normal. Did I merely imagine it? Wishful thinking from an insane man?

“Please,” she scoffs. “As if you can get me to feel anything sexual. I will not be swayed by you. I am here to defend my piece. And if that means I have to face your wrath, then so be it.”

“And you’re absolutely sure? Because once I start, I will not finish until my point is thoroughly made.”

She rises and tosses her hair back, a quick smile on her face. “I went to private institutions my whole life, Mr. Anderson. I’m not a stranger to corporal punishment. Granted, it was never applied to me, but I’ve seen things and heard stories. If it allows me to put the news out there in a fashion of my choosing, then I’ll undergo whatever archaic method makes you happiest.”

Fascinating. Every word that comes out of her mouth is yet one more conundrum I wish to solve. “Very well.” Leaning over to the intercom, I buzz Shelaine in so that I have a witness to her agreeing to this.

“Shelaine, you bear witness to the fact that Miss Hartwell is subjecting herself to corporal punishment based on her actions with the paper. Do you still agree to do this?”

With a haughty toss of her head, she gives Shelaine a dazzling smile. “A point of correction and contention. I am not subjecting myself out of some need to atone. I have done nothing wrong. I am submitting myself to this archaic form of punishment as a means of protest to his censoring of the free press. I want that submitted to the record.”

This time, I can’t resist the eye roll. “Such dramatics, Miss Hartwell. There is no tribunal. This is no record. This is an agreement between you and me. Shelaine merely bears witness to your agreement in case you wish to make this something it’s not.”

“Whatever,” she mutters. “Let’s just get this over with so I can get back to the news desk.”

“Very well.” Striding over to my armoire, I ease it open and allow my gaze to touch on all the implements.

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