Brit Flick Sweethearts: A Rom-Com With Spanking (4 page)

“You’re so
patronising, it’s untrue, if you would only actually
listen
to what I’m trying to tell you instead of belittling me…”

Belittle you?
I’ll belittle you alright, you silly, whining, self-important
little madam.”

Her wide eyed
expression was deeply satisfying. For the first time in his life,
Curt broke the rule he lived by. Because he was going to spank
Dahlia’s arse whether she liked it or not.

And he was damn
sure the little prick tease was going to like it.

In one swift
movement he scooped her up and slung her over his knee.

“Get off me!”
she squealed, writhing like a landed fish on his lap. He held her
down, his elbow pressing into the back of her neck and twisting her
arm up into an arm lock. He didn’t do it hard enough to hurt; it
would only hurt if she struggled. He smiled. It was nice to know
that all those years of martial arts training would come in
useful.

With his other
hand he yanked up the long gown so it bunched at her waist,
exposing her plump little arse.

His cock
swelled to full glory in appreciation and he pulled down the flimsy
knickers exposing the fleshy orbs of her buttocks.

He slapped a
cheek and she bucked up her hips in the most adorable way.

“Get off me you
Bastard!”
she said.

“Not until I’ve
taught you to stop being such a self-obsessed little bore.” He
slapped her again and she squealed, the faintest red hand print on
her buttock. “That one was for the time on set when you claimed the
makeup artist was glaring at you in the mirror and you threw a
wobbly.”

Really? I did
that? Ow!”

“And this one
is for the time you refused to film a scene with me because I’d
eaten garlic the night before…and you didn’t even have to kiss
me.”

She gasped and
her buttocks clenched together when he slapped them, dimpling
slightly. Jesus, he was gonna blow in his pants a minute.

“Please
stop.”

“And this one
will be extra hard because you really have to stop taking
drugs.”

“Ow!”

He could hear
the tears in her voice, and as much as he wanted to continue and
even though he had an endless list of reasons for why he wanted to
slap her arse, he stopped.

But not before
he slipped his fingers between the tight cleft of her arse and
wiggled them up to her vagina.

Wet, he thought
smugly. Just as he knew she would be.

She half
groaned, half sobbed when his forefinger entered her, the walls of
her vagina wet, hot and springy around his probing digit.

He jabbed his
finger in and out of her a few times with no real thought for her;
he was just enjoying the way she felt. He pulled out and trailed
his damp fingertip up to her clit.

When he
expertly circled her clit, he noted that she had stopped wriggling.
Or more like,
the way
in which she wriggled had changed. She
was writhing on his lap in obvious arousal so he let her out of the
arm lock and she clawed his thighs in need.

And probably
shame. Good. He wanted to own her, to possess her. He wanted her to
feel powerless beneath him. Not because he was physically
restraining her, but because she needed him like her lungs needed
air.

“Come for me,”
he said softly, cajolingly.

He massaged her
clit with more determination and speed, careful not to be too rough
yet at the same time bringing her to a solid orgasm.

She moaned and
shuddered, thrashing her head from side to side. He watched her
butt cheeks as she came, the way they clenched and their rosy red
hue from the light spanking.

When her body
went slack, he withdrew his hand and pushed her off his lap so that
she tumbled onto her back on the bed in an undignified tangle of
limbs and bunched up dress.

“I’ll call that
taxi now,” he said, turning his back to her and doing his best to
ignore his own raging hard on.

While he had
his back to her and made the call on the hotel’s line, he could
hear her straightening her clothes, then stomp to the door.

“If I never see
you again, Curt Gunner, it will be too soon.”

He didn’t even
bother to turn around and she slammed the door behind her. Well, as
much as you could slam a door in hotel because of the fire
regulation springs; it barely even made a sound as it shut.

Curt felt
uneasy. Dahlia had piqued his interest, which is more than could be
said of any of the women he had met lately. He didn’t understand
why he was so attracted to her. But attracted to her he was, and he
needed
to be around her. He felt this so strongly it
terrified him.

Yet at the same
time, his male pride prevented him from telling her this. She would
probably laugh in his face and that would be unbearable. No, he
needed to engineer a situation whereby he could be around her day
in, day out, without losing face and looking like a desperate,
needy, love sick
arse.

The more time
he spent with her, then with any luck his ridiculous crush would
fade away.

And he knew
just what he had to do to make this happen. He took out his mobile
phone and dialled the number for his agent.

CHAPTER
THREE

Curt Gunner is
a pig.

That was
Doris’s first thought when she opened her eyes in her hotel bed
after a night of lurid dreams that left her sheened in sweat and
with a wet pussy.

I can’t
believe the bastard actually pulled down my knickers and
spanked
my bare bottom. Oh the humiliation
…

She sat upright
in bed, her hand unconsciously travelling down to cup her breast,
her fingers splaying over the hardened nipple.

What am I
doing?

She got out of
bed and headed for the shower. She had slept naked too, which was
most unlike her. Despite the chilly October weather, she was just
so darn
hot
to the point of feverish.

Maybe I’m
coming down with something.

Yeah, Curt
Gunneritus. Careful, it could be terminal
...

Her mobile
phone rang on the bedside table, making her jump. ‘Dahlia’s agent’
flashed on the screen.

Sighing deeply,
she picked it up. Whatever he was going to tell her, she had a
feeling she wasn’t going to like it.

“Hello,
Jeremy.”

“Doris. Great
news. I’ve just come off the phone with Curt’s agent. Curt has a
massive
project lined up in less than a month. It’s a
British production but we’re talking big budget here. It’s
undoubtedly going to be a hit on the other side of the pond. After
the runaway success of Brick Face, the big boys in America are
on-board too. An American actress was tipped for the lead, but Curt
wants
you
instead. He’s refusing to star if you aren’t his
leading lady.”

“But that’s
career suicide.”

“No darling,
it’s really not. Haven’t you switched on the TV or picked up a
paper? You guys are the hottest couple in Britain right now. Posh
and Becks have nothing on you two.”

Doris groaned
and flung herself back on the bed. She really couldn’t handle this
right now.

“It’s not me he
wants. It’s Dahlia.”

“Precisely.
Which is why you say yes please, thank you very much, and pray to
God that your sister gets out of rehab soon. Come on Doris, Dahlia
is going to be thrilled. If this bit of news doesn’t hasten her
recovery, nothing will.”

As much as it
pained her, Doris knew he was right.

“OK, OK, just
say yes to everything.”

You owe me,
Dahlia.

He proceeded to
tell her about the interviews she and Curt had lined up for today
and she only half listened. A team of people would arrive in an
hour to dress her and do her hair and makeup, and then the car
would come and take her to the first venue, blah, blah, blah, and
all the rest.

Her mind fogged
over just listening to him and she thought with a pang of her nice,
quiet life back in her little village in Cornwall.

Oh dear.
This is going to be a
really
long day.

She wasn’t
wrong. First off was an interview with a glossy fashion magazine.
The interview was to be conducted in a room at The Ritz. Apparently
lots of celebrity interviews had taken place in this room and Doris
had to stifle a yawn when Jeremy informed her of this. Mindless
celebrity gossip bored her to tears, which is why she had never
even read the magazine she was about to be interviewed by. Not
unless she counted picking one up in the waiting room of a doctor’s
surgery out of sheer boredom and the desire not to make eye contact
with the person sat opposite her.

When Jeremy
opened the door of the interview room, Curt was already sitting
there waiting for her, his long legs encased in the dark suit pants
stretched casually out before him.

“Good Morning,
Dahlia. I trust you slept well.”

“Just fine,
thank you,” she replied primly.

She didn’t
remove her dark glasses for she was frightened of what her eyes
might betray.

“I’ll leave you
kids to it,” Jeremy said. “I’ll be waiting outside for you when
you’re done. You have at least quarter of an hour before the first
lot arrive. Have a coffee, relax, I’ll see you later darling.”

Jeremy shut the
door behind himself, leaving her alone with the one person that she
was as drawn to as she was repelled by in equal measure. The
smallish room, like everything else about this hotel, screamed
opulence. It was decorated in the style of an old fashioned,
gentleman’s smoking parlour; all leather wing back chairs, dark
wood, and bookshelves she was just
dying
to poke through,
but was too self-conscious to do it.

“Since when did
your agent start trailing after you like a dog?”

“Since I
started to make him very, very rich.”

Curt let a
harsh little laugh.

“Indeed. What’s
with the dark glasses, Dahlia?”

“I’m a film
star now, aren’t I?” she said, perching on the edge of the ornate
chaise lounge opposite him.

“You went out
partying after you left my room, more like. Did you take too many
drugs and are you frightened the interviewers will see how dilated
your pupils still are?”

Whatever. Let
him think that, seeing as he’s so keen to think the worst of
me.

Not you,
she reminded herself.
Your sister
.

But even so. He
was still a judgemental, insufferable,
pig
.

“So what if I
did Curt Gunner?”

With some
satisfaction she a pulse twitch in the firm set of his jaw. But she
knew she had to strike the balance right. She didn’t want to burn
her bridges with him completely, she did still want him to want to
work with her again. But a romantic entanglement with him was out
of the question and she had to make that clear.

Romantically
entangled? You’re having a laugh aren’t you? Mr Gunner is incapable
of romantic
…

“I don’t like
the thought of you abusing yourself like that. Ever heard of the
word no? All that shit you’re stuffing up your nose will kill you.
I suppose that everything you were telling me last night about how
you’re a different woman now was all lies then.”

“That wasn’t
what I…”
was trying to tell you,
she was going to finish,
but didn’t.

That ship had
sailed. There was
no way
she was going to tell him the truth
after last night. Besides, Jeremy had insisted she tell
no
one
of what she was doing,
especially
not now that there
was another brilliant film role for Dahlia in the pipeline.

“Not that my
personal life is any of your business, but I no longer take
drugs.”

Was that relief
she saw flit across his face? She felt an involuntary wave of
affection for him for actually
caring
for her health. Or
Dahlia’s health, that is.

“Good. I will
hold you to that Dahlia Dean. I abhor drugs. And you know what I’m
capable of if you’re being a bad girl and lying to me.”

Oh she did, and
she blushed hot at the memory at him spanking her.

“I would like
us to have a purely professional relationship, Curt,” she said in a
cold voice to counteract the unbidden heat of sexual arousal.

“A professional
relationship,” he repeated, his pale blue eyes glittering. “Within
the parameters of our
professional relationship,
you do
realise that I will still pull down your knickers, put you across
my knee and spank your delightful little bottom whenever I
please?”

She gasped at
the sheer insolence of the man. An unwelcome, but all too familiar
wet heat instantly ignited in earnest between her legs.

Bastard
...

Although in
that moment it was more the treacherous betrayal of her own body
that irked her the most.

“You will do no
such thing, Curt. I really feel that if you and I are going to work
on another film together then the boundaries have to be clear
between us, as from now. You have to respect my space.”

“Your space. Do
you want this film role or not, Dahlia Dean?”

“Yes,” she said
breathily, thinking how much
her sister
would want the damn
film role.

“Then you are
in no position to tell me what gives. If we weren’t to be
conducting interviews in a matter of minutes, I would absolutely
spank your pretty little bottom again.”

“No, you would
not. Because I would scream blue murder.”

“The only thing
you would be screaming is my name when I make you come over and
over until you go cross eyed.”

“You are so
offensive.”

“And you, my
dear girl, are gagging for it.”

Doris felt her
colour rise. She was about to tell him that no, she most certainly
was not ‘gagging for it,’ when there was a knock on the door. It
must have been a rhetorical knock, for the door immediately burst
open and a very young man appeared in the room.