“Item five,” he says, dark and dangerous. “Hands on the door. Don’t move them.”
I obey instantly.
The first swat lands. It’s firm, open-palmed, right across the fullest part of my ass. The sting blooms hot and sharp. I yelp.
“That’s for waiting twelve years to come find me,” he says.
Smack.
“That’s for thinking you could just divorce me.”
Smack. Smack. Smack.
He alternates cheeks, steady and measured, never hard enough to really hurt, just enough to light every nerve ending on fire. By number seven, I’m crying and laughing at the same time, pushing back into his hand, begging in breathless little sobs.
Smack.
Eight.
Smack.
Nine.
The tenth is softer, almost tender, and he immediately rubs the heat in with his big palm, soothing and claiming all at once.
“Good girl,” he whispers against my ear. “Staying on the naughty list forever, aren’t you?”
He turns me again, lifts me like I weigh nothing, and my legs wrap around his waist automatically. The door is cold against my hot, stinging skin, and I hiss.
He kisses my face, gentle now, reverent. “Five down, Vixen.”
I bury my face in his neck, breathing him in. “Seven to go,” I mumble against his skin.
He carries me to the couch, settles me in his lap facing him, and holds me while my heartbeat slows and the sting fades into the most delicious ache.
Flynn
I wake up alone in bed for the first time since she arrived. The sheets on her side are still warm, but she’s gone. I smell vanilla and brown sugar before I even open my eyes.
I pull on sweatpants and pad barefoot into the main room. Imogen is at the counter in a flannel and a pairof my thick wool socks that swallow her legs past the knee. Flour dusts one cheek. She’s rolling dough with fierce concentration, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, humming “Jingle Bell Rock” so off-key it’s adorable.
There’s a bowl of emerald-green icing, a bowl of fire-engine red, and a cookie sheet already loaded with perfect little trees, stars, and one very suspicious snowman that looks like it’s flipping me off.
How she managed to do all of this with the food in my cabin amazes me.
I lean against the doorframe and watch her. My chest does that stupid, aching thing it’s been doing since the second she banged on my door with divorce papers.
“Having fun?” I ask.
She jumps, spins, and flings a pinch of flour at my chest. “Don’t sneak up on me! I’m in the zone. Items seven and eight are happening right now, and I’m rewriting them to be wholesome, because I am not wasting good frosting on your abs, no matter how lickable they are.”
“Lickable?” I grin, brushing flour off my bare skin.
“Shut up and get over here. You’re on piping duty.”
I cross the room, drop a kiss on the top of her flour-dusted head, and steal a taste of raw dough off the spoon. She swats my hand hard enough to sting.
“That’s salmonella roulette, mountain man.”
