If he didn't cut it out, he was going to hear another string of words he didn't want to, and then she'd be in even worse hot water. In a deliberately syrupy tone, Elodie craned her head back and batted her eyelashes in his direction. "Golly gee whiz, Clay, I think you're coming through loud and clear. I'll never let another cuss word pass my lips, I promise!" She even had the audacity to reach over and cross her heart, or as close to her heart as she could get with his big arm in the way.
Her blatant insincerity had him smiling. He'd turned her loose, and she'd scooted as far away from him as she physically could without stepping outside the house.
Now, the view of the chintz upholstery on the sofa was a bit too up close and personal for her tastes—and the future comfort of her butt. He had her pants and panties down in a split second, and Elodie had to reflect that he was getting too darned good at that, too. That familiar, hard arm was across the small of her back, and an instant later, that first God-awful explosion of searing pain ripped into that tender flesh. "Stop it! What are you doing?" She didn't want to be spanked. She was mad at him, and she wanted to stay mad. If he spanked her, she'd end up crying and feeling sorry and apologizing to him and, as far as she was concerned, she had done nothing that warranted an apology!
But, after the first few swats, even though they weren't the worst she'd had by now, the tears started to flow against her will. It wasn't the spanking, it was his words.
"I know I make more money than you do. And I'm not going to apologize for it. But what I have has always been yours. Even when I was your brother-in-law, I would have given you anything you needed, but I know you would never have asked. If there's anything that April's death brought home to me, more than anything else, it's that life is to be enjoyed, and that's what the money lets me—lets us—do. It's nothing more than that, and I won't let it become a bone of contention between us when all it is, is a tool that can make our lives better. And I fully intend to enjoy every single day that we have together—whether we go out to a five-hundred dollar dinner, or eat pizza in front of the TV. I like spending time with you, and I want us to pack as much into our time together as we can."
He finished his speech—throughout which he'd been smacking her briskly and smartly—by delivering a round of very hard, distinct slaps up and down what he sometimes referred to as her "playing field".
Despite the fact that she'd gotten quite a few spankings from him over the past few months, Elodie didn't think it would ever be something she'd get used to. That was partly because of the varied positions, but also because the pain was always such a surprise. Intellectually, she thought she should be able—as an adult—to just brush it off. How badly could it hurt, really? But it was easier to say that from a distance, when she was home alone in bed instead of draped over him with his hand resting possessively on her hot, well-seared butt.
What was worse, as far as she was concerned, was that what he'd said had made a lot of sense. She hated to be wrong. And since she was going to give in to him—because she preferred to be able to sit down sometime within the next week or so—she was going to feel guilty about spending his money.
That was just the way she was made.
But it was certainly nice of him to say those things. Elodie wouldn't have thought that he would be as forthcoming about his feelings. It was nice to hear a strong, capable man speaking like that about what he'd learned from his wife's death, and Elodie was flattered that he wanted to be with her. But that didn't negate the fact that their standards of living were woefully different, and she would always feel as if she was behind the eight ball financially with him.
"So I'm not going to hear anything more from you about who's paying for what, right?" Clay kept her in place, playing with a stray curl, wrapping and unwrapping it around his index finger.
Elodie was still sniffling, but she managed to say, "Yes, all right."
To her complete surprise, he didn't help her off him so that she could straighten her clothes. Instead, he turned her towards him so that she was pressed against him, cradling her in his arms and bending down to kiss her, and it literally made her toes curl. He always used just the right pressure, and was never ever a sloppy kisser. There was nothing she hated worse—or had hated when she'd had a life—than to feel like she needed to reach for a napkin when the kiss was over. Clay was perfection in every way... although she might be slightly prejudiced.
She should have been protesting the fact that she was half naked in his arms, but no words came to her head—none at all. Her mind and vision were filled with him; every breath brought the spicy, masculine scent of him into her body, bathing her with him from the inside out.