Page 18 of Taming Her

He set his uniform shirt beside his stab vest then took off his socks. Barefoot, he walked to the island and pulled open a large drawer.

For a moment he studied the contents, then selected an implement.

As he withdrew it, Ava saw it was a flat black plastic spatula, the sort for flipping eggs.

She swallowed. There was something edgy about the way he was walking toward her holding it.

“The trouble is, Ava,” he said, sliding his hand into the dip of her waist, then letting his touch drop to her hemline. “You never had any discipline growing up.”

“What?”

“Dearest Daddy, he sent you to boarding school, college, but never actually kept you in check, just checks.” He rucked the lower section of her dress upward.

She wriggled, but moving was hard when she was so stretched. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you in hand, it’s about time someone did.”

“No, I…” Again she tried to free herself but it was no good.

“Don’t fight this, you’ll only make it harder on yourself.”

She stared at his heavy eyebrows, stern eyes, and the flare of his nostrils. The man was bloody serious. Whatever he was about to do, he was determined to do it.

Her dress dragged over her buttocks, exposing them. She wore a thin purple thong. “Griff!”

“And I don’t mind if you cry out,” he said, “my neighbors are a good distance away.”

“Why would I cry out, I… ouch!”

A searing pain had landed over her right buttock. The spatula connecting with her flesh… hard.

She danced on her toes, heat spreading over her skin. “You fucking bastard. You good for nothing twat, I hope you rot in hell for that, Griff Dix, I really do, I… oh!”

He’d slapped her again, on the other buttock. Pain flashed in a white-hot explosion. The spatula was damn wicked for such an innocuous-looking object.

“Bloody hell! You’re a right piece of work, an asshole in the biggest sense. I’ll get you for this… ah!”

He’d done it again. Both cheeks in fast succession. Hard thwacks that shifted the air a split second before the connection.

“What the heck are you doing, you moron? You big fucking oaf. I’ll see you hang… argh! Ouch! Ouch!” She was dancing on her toes, twisting this way and that to get away from the spanks raining down on her poor buttocks.

“Keep hurling abuse at me and you’ll keep being punished.”

She clamped her lips together and closed her eyes. The indignity of having her dress hiked up and her bottom smacked was almost too much to bear—and by Griff Dix of all people.

“Bastard!” She twisted her head. “Fucking bastard.”

“You will learn to behave.” His jaw was tight, his eyes narrow. “If it’s the last damn thing I do.”

He set his hand on her belly, and his thick leg in front of hers held her still.

She tried to get away, but it was to no avail. Tucking her bottom in was no help either. She was his target and he took aim. Over and over again.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

The spatula flew fast and wicked against her bottom. The heat was intense. It went up her back, down her legs, and buzzed in her clit.

She threw her head back and groaned. Lights flashed behind her eyelids—the pain a wild and bright sensation holding her body hostage.

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