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Me: Yes, professor.
He got right back to me on that one.
Colt: Don’t tempt me. I’ll take you right over my knee.
Oh, would he now? Why did that make my clit throb, my jeans suddenly feeling too tight, rubbing and pressing right where I felt so sensitive. The thought of him so big and commanding, taking me over his knee, that should piss me off. Annoy me. I should tell him to get lost.
Instead, it went directly into the vault, the one I accessed late at night in my bed. Lights off, under the covers, I closed my eyes and brought my hand down to touch, remembering how it had felt when he’d stroked me. So sure and dominant, but so responsive at the same time, seeming to sense exactly what I liked, what I needed.
What would it feel like to have him spank me? That’s what he was talking about, wasn’t it? Would he do it over my clothing, giving me a sharp whack onto my ass through my jeans? Or would he want me to strip first, baring myself to him? I couldn’t imagine how vulnerable I’d feel, or how turned on, over his lap, my ass in the air for him to do as he pleased.
Would I like the feel of his palm coming down on my buttocks? I’d never had anything remotely near a spanking, not even as a kid. Wouldn’t it be humiliating? Painful? Then why did it make me so wet and instantly become my favorite private fantasy late at night as I imagined him taking me over his knee, my pussy pressed into his groin, my legs slightly spread, his hand coming down hard on my naked ass.
It made me come every time, shaking and panting and biting my lip so I didn’t cry out too loud. My apartment had thin walls. Somehow I had the feeling that wherever he took me next—if he took me anywhere I tried to remind myself—it would be private enough I could scream his name out loud.
§
Colt: What are you wearing?
He texted me the following day while I was at work.
Me: T-shirt, jeans and an apron.
Like I said, I was no good at this sexting thing. I probably should have said lingerie, but then he would have asked me to describe it and I’d be at a loss.
Colt: Next time I see you lose everything but the apron.
Me: I think I might lose my business license.
Colt: Believe me, it would be great for business. But I don’t mean at the store. I mean just for me.
Aw, damn it! Why did everything he suggest sound so good to me? No matter how filthy, I instantly got turned on by it. He was making me lose my mind. And I certainly seemed to be on his mind a lot. Every few hours he got in touch, letting me know he was thinking of me. And making naughty plans for us.
I was trying to make plans as well, less naughty in nature. Nora and the rest of the environmental activists really sank their teeth into the bone Colt had tossed them.
“Let’s think big!” they declared, researching all sorts of eco-resorts all over the world. Apparently sustainable tourism was a huge growth industry, featuring resorts that claimed to both promote conservation and offer luxurious getaways. There were bungalows nestled into rainforests, yoga classes on pristine beaches, rooms lit only by locally-sourced beeswax candles, and organic cuisine offered in rustic cottages.
Some of the appeal was lost on me, like the supposedly luxury eco-resort that had guests sleeping on hammocks with no indoor plumbing. But one resort in Fiji caught my eye. Golden beaches with white sand and mangroves, a tropical forest with coconut and mango trees. Each party stayed in a private villa along a bay. The only way to reach the resort was via catamaran. I wanted to go.
“We should tell him to build that Fiji resort here!” Nora declared, sharing my enthusiasm.
“Sure, except that doesn’t make any sense.” I agreed with her opinion of the resort, but disagreed with her conclusion. “We have this rocky, foggy coastline. And the whole catamaran thing won’t exactly work.”
“So? He can figure that out.”
The whole group rallied around the idea, even as I protested its ridiculousness. He was giving us what seemed to me like a legitimate opportunity to make an alternate proposal. Why not choose a resort even remotely relevant to our setting?
“Go big or go home,” one of the more strident environmentalists told me.
“It’s a standard negotiating tactic,” another informed me. “Ask for everything. Then maybe you get half of what you want.”
“Or maybe he’ll give up?” another added hopefully.
Fat chance. I had the feeling Colt didn’t exactly back away from challenges. I still thought we should try to come up with a realistic proposal that he might actually have a chance of implementing, rather than tell him to replicate an eco-resort from Fiji along our Southern Oregon coast. But what did I know? I was just the spokesperson. The one who would have to stand up and tell him we wanted something utterly and completely impossible.
For my own store, I had more fun. I treated it like writing a business plan. I didn’t know if Kavanaugh Investors would ultimately have anything to do with making it a reality, but I did agree with his advice. You had to articulate your goal to ever have a chance of achieving it.
I described in intricate detail the store of my dreams, from customer flow to energy use, right down to the type and placement of each and every appliance, countertop and light fixture. I’d had some time in my current store to plan it out.
Because Colt was right. My current store left a lot to be desired. Attached as I was to it, the roof leaked. The lights occasionally flickered like a haunted house. My oven was way too temperamental. You didn’t want an oven that ran hot and cold. You wanted one that performed with scientific precision. Maybe change wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
§
Wednesday, I declined a night out with Hannah and friends at Roy’s bar. Hannah nearly wrung my neck. She arrived at my apartment looking like the Pink Ladies from Grease had gone to a rodeo, with rhinestone cowboy boots, jeans, a satin jacket plus a pink scarf tied around her neck.
“Don’t lie around mooning over some dude,” she admonished me.
“I’m not mooning!” I didn’t even really know what that phrase meant, but I knew it sounded pathetic. I didn’t mean to be pathetic. I just wanted to take a bath and curl up with a good book instead of have beer spilled all over me by drunk guys at Roy’s.
“You’re too good for us now?” Hannah squinted at me. “Holding out for a private plane and a Michigan-rated restaurant in San Francisco?”
“Michelin-rated,” I corrected her, and instantly regretted it.
“I see how it is.” She shook her head and left to drive herself to the bar. I watched her go feeling a twinge of “maybe I should have” but mostly feeling a deep sense of relief. My sister was out. I had the place to myself. I’d soak in a nice scented bath, slip into my softest pair of pajamas and read the wonderfully smutty book I’d one-clicked earlier that day. Pair it with a glass of wine and you were talking about one fantastic evening.
Easing into the warm-bordering-on-hot bathwater, I wondered about Hannah’s teasing. I wasn’t trying to be pretentious. Mr. Colton Kavanaugh aside, I’d always been a dreamer. Who would ever choose to own their own business with all the headaches and high risk if they weren’t? Sometimes my pie-in-the-sky dreams of making pastries in Paris were all that got me through my busy days.
I didn’t talk that much about it with my friends in Redwood Bay. It wasn’t that I was trying to hide anything, or that I thought I was better than them. I just knew Hannah wasn’t secretly dreaming of attending fashion week in person as she covered the event for Vogue. She was content with right here, right now. But, I had to admit, I felt restless. And Colt only made me feel more so.
In the warm, caressing water I slid a hand along my curves, remembering how feminine he’d made me feel. When he’d touched me I’d actually loved my body, the large breasts I’d always cursed. He’d made me feel like a work of art.
Sighing, enjoying the mixed sensation of relaxed arousal, I toweled off, snuggled into my pajamas and nestled in bed with my Kindle. #joy.
r /> The book was a quick read, just the kind of light entertainment I enjoyed after a busy day. I liked my alpha males and their commanding ways, and typically I tore through a book like this. But tonight I kept getting distracted. I felt a little hot and pushed down the covers, pulled off my pajama pants. My bedroom window was open a crack and a light breeze blew in, fluttering the curtains, stroking my skin. I kept shifting, unable to get comfortable, agitated.
The hero in the book had broad shoulders, just like Colt, and the woman liked digging her nails into his back. I’d like to do that, clawing at him as he took me. My nipples stood out, demanding attention and lazily I gave them a few strokes while I read. I reached the scene where he got her alone and they finally got it on, hot and heavy, his huge cock plunging into her deep.
The book down, my finger slipping under my panties, I gave myself over to the fantasy, so real I could almost feel Colt kissing me, sucking my breasts, spreading my legs open. Right at my entrance, his cock would feel so big, and then, I pressed against my clit, breathing hard, imagining how good it would feel when—
My phone made a blip announcing a text message. I reached for it and checked.
Colt: Are you up?
It was about one a.m. in New York, but only ten in Oregon.
Me: Yes
Colt: What are you up to?
Me: Not much
Definitely not touching myself thinking of you.
Colt: Were you thinking about me?
Um, yes, and how amazing it would feel if you slid your huge cock deep into me. But I didn’t write that.
Me: You’re so arrogant.
Colt: I’ll take that as a yes.
Me: I would expect nothing less from you.
Colt: Were you touching yourself and thinking about me?
I groaned. He was so dirty. And he made me want to be absolutely filthy. But I had no experience sexting.
Colt: Because I’d like it if you did.
My pussy throbbed in response. We’ve been invited to a party, it called out to me. Let’s go! Hesitant, my fingers paused on the screen.
My phone rang.
