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Chapter 4
DARREN
Past
“Stop picking at your stitches,” I tell her during our flight back to San Francisco. We sit in leather seats in a suite similar to the one we traveled in with Amy and JD to Thailand.
“The stitches feel so weird,” she complains. “It’s hard to imagine they’ll actually disintegrate. What if they don’t?”
“They will. And if they don’t, you see a doctor and have them taken out.”
“Okay,” she says, still fingering her lip.
I grab her hand and lower it to her lap. “What did I say?”
“That a doctor will take them out if they don’t disintegrate.”
“Before that.”
“To stop picking at them.”
“What did I say would happen if you don’t leave your stitches alone?”
She appears to comb her memory, then shakes her head. “What?”
“I said your ass was going to pay for it.”
She blushes. “Oh, right.”
I reach over and unbuckle her seat belt. “Time to pay up.”
The color drains from her cheeks just as quickly. “What?”
“I’m going to pull you over my lap, flip up your dress, and give you a spanking.”
“A…what?”
“Spanking.”
“Now?”
“Of course now.”
“You’re not serious. The staff come by like every five minutes to check on us.”
She’s exaggerating, but the flight attendants do come by often.
“So?” I respond.
Bridget blinks several times. “So you wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Her lower lip drops because she believes me. “Don’t you have any sense of—of decorum?”
“Sense of what now?”
“At least close the door for privacy.”
