Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist (4 page)

“No.”

“Then what the Hell, Smith?”

He grinned. “I just wondered what you'd do. I should have started the bidding higher.”

“No. And don't ever ask me to do something in exchange for money. Never again.”

“Ooh, sensitive?”

“I'm serious. Don't do that. I've been paid to be here, and paid for the cell phone, and I don't want anything else, except the tiniest bit of respect. Please show me that courtesy, or I'm out that door, and I won't feel sorry for you and your sad-author routine.”

He looked grumpy, like a kid who'd been grounded.

I started gathering the dishes.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What? I didn't quite hear what you said.” I put down the stack of dishes at the end of the table and waited.

“I'm sorry,” he repeated.

I smiled. “Ah, I just never tire of hearing that phrase from a man.”

He did an exaggerated eyeroll.

“Put on something sexy for tonight,” he said. “I want everyone to see my hot lady stepping off the back of my bike.”

“Sure,” I said, tossing my hair in a nonchalant manner. He'd called me his hot lady, and it gave me these feelings—
these warm feelings
—for Smith Fucking Wittingham.

The “motorbike” was one of those four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles.

“You drive,” Smith said.

“But I'm wearing a dress.”

He laughed. “Don't be such a girl and hop on. Spread your legs wide and straddle all that power.” He slid back on the padded seat and patted the area in front of him.

I could see the outline of a bulge in his tight-fitting jeans—a bulge that was growing.

I said, “You just want me in front so you can press your
man-happy
into my ass.”

“Hike up that dress and hop on, hot stuff.”

I circled the vehicle, raised one leg and awkwardly got on the seat in front of him. Smith immediately cuddled into me from behind, both hands up on my breasts.

He pressed his face into the back of my neck. “My man-happy is very happy.” Indeed, it was tumescent and pressing into the upper part of my buttocks.

“You're going to dry-hump me all the way into town, aren't you?”

He nibbled on my shoulder. “The bumpy trail will do most of the work.” He squeezed my breasts and breathed hot, moist air on my neck.

I giggled, the excitement tickling between my thighs and up my back where he was touching me. I said, “Let's go back to the cabin … for a few minutes or so. Then we'll go into town.”

He flicked the back of my earlobe with his tongue. “Why don't you just turn around? We can do it right here, on the bike.”

I considered turning around, but I'd just done my hair and my makeup, and Smith would only mess it all up. Sex could wait. I was looking adorable in one of my new dresses and a pair of strappy sandals, and as much as I wanted Smith inside me, I was also keen to get away from the cabin.

“Or just lean forward more,” he said, his hands off my breasts and scooping under my buttocks. “So I can get it in your ass.”

“Yeah, that settles it,” I said, turning the key to start the ignition.

The ATV trembled to life, vibrating deliciously between my legs. The feeling wasn't as strong as a vibrator, but coupled with Smith's hands on my body and mouth on my ear, the sensation was not entirely unpleasant.

He showed me how to work the brake and the throttle, and we were off, bouncing down the trail.

Driving that thing made me feel like a little kid on her first bicycle. I had an enormous grin on my face for most of the drive, and when we arrived in the little town, I was disappointed the journey was already over.

We parked the quad behind a gas station, in front of a fence with a metal sign reading
Reserved for SW.

“You're quite the VIP,” I said, whipping out my compact so I could check my lipstick and hair.

Smith stood quietly by for a moment, then said, “You look radiant. That dress, that shade of blue that's nearly purple—it brings out your eyes in the most remarkable way.”

I squirmed from the flattery. “So, where is this shindig happening?”

He cocked his head and pointed one finger in the air.

There was music, and it wasn't coming from the speakers mounted to the gas station.

“That's the band,” he said.

“And they are … that way?” I pointed in what seemed to be the direction the music was coming from.

“M'lady,” he said, offering me his elbow.

We started walking, and it was the right direction after all, because the music kept getting louder.

“So, what's the cover story?” I asked. “Am I your niece who doesn't speak English? Or are we sticking closer to the truth? They say the best lies are ninety-nine percent truth.”

“Good idea. Let's tell people you're my girlfriend.”

“And that we met while donating kidneys to orphans in need?”

He laughed. “We met at an art class, and you were the nude model.”

“That's weird. You know, I actually did model for some drawing classes.”

He didn't say anything, just smiled.

I pulled my hand off his arm. “Wait. Are you playing me for a reaction again? Did you actually know about my nude modeling?”

“Maybe.”

“But it wasn't on my resume, and I certainly didn't tell the employment agency.”

We rounded the corner, and two steps later, we were in the midst of a crowd of people gathering in the park. The scent of hot dogs grilling and sweet cotton candy hung in the air. Children squealed and ran everywhere, and someone handed us a sheet of temporary tattoos.

I stopped walking and grabbed Smith's hand. “Seriously. About the art modeling. Are you playing me?”

“I'm a lucky guesser,” he said.

“What about my hair, then? You didn't answer my question before. How did you know I've never worn my hair short?”

He stepped in close, moving his hands up to my cheeks. He kissed me. Amidst a park full of kids and clowns and ponies and face-painting, Smith Wittingham kissed me.

He pulled away and gathered my hair in one hand, pulling it in front of one shoulder. Stroking my hair, he said, “Your freckles. You have them everywhere the sun shines down on you. Like here.” He touched my forehead above my eyebrows. “Here.” He touched the tip of my nose, the edge of my upper lip, my shoulders, and my clavicle. “You have some freckles on your back, but very few right here.” He palmed the back of my neck and then my upper back. “Because this area's always been covered by your long, beautiful, red hair.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Seems obvious now that you explain it.”

“Most things do.”

“Do you have a redhead fetish?”

He wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me in tight. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “I have a Tori fetish, but I confess I do love that the carpet matches the drapes.”

I giggled and tried to pull away. “Why are men always so obsessed with redheads and the color of their carpet?”

He gripped me tighter and kissed my neck. “Because it looks like a heart. Like a special valentine, just for your lover. A welcome mat.”

“If I didn't go in for regular waxings, it wouldn't be quite so adorable. Less of a welcome mat and more like wall-to-wall carpeting.”

“I'm sure your little ginger minge would look just as tasty with curls coming out of the sides of your underwear.”

“Ew!” I pushed him away. “Now you're just being pervy for the sake of being pervy.”

He raised one eyebrow. “There are other reasons to be pervy?”

“So, you're not denying it?”

“I'm not pervy. I'm open-minded and adventurous and … curious.”

We were walking again, stepping up to a row of tents that smelled of deep-fried batter. We'd had dinner and dessert not long ago, but that smell was irresistible.

Once we were in line for tiny doughnuts, Smith whispered in my ear, “Tell me the most wicked thing you've ever done.”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“I saw those blue eyes of yours flicker when I asked. You have something in mind. I'll tell you something if you tell me yours.”

I pressed my lips together and groaned. Oh, who was I kidding? I couldn't resist Smith.

I said, “You know those little rubber duckies for the bath tub? The yellow ones?”

He smiled and nodded. “Go on.”

I shook my head while rubbing my forehead. I tried to think of a lie, but the other things were much worse than the truth, so I stood up on my tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “I was a teenager, not a little kid. Anyway, I was in the tub one day, totally bored, and I stuck the duckie's head in my butt. Like, right in.”

“Beak first?”

“I believe ducks have
bills
, not beaks.”

“Oh, of course.” He nodded. “Interesting.”

It was our turn at the counter, and we ordered an assortment of tiny doughnuts with all the toppings.

As we walked away with our hot container of greasy dough, Smith held up the cinnamon-sugar doughnut and poked his finger through it suggestively. “Remind you of anything?” he said. “Quack, quack.”

I smacked him on the arm. “When someone confides in you, you're not allowed to use the information to tease them. Besides, it's your turn to tell me a secret.”

“Did you enjoy the sensation of the plastic toy in your ass?”

I gave him a hard stare. “It was a miniature duckie, not the full-sized one. Barely bigger than the tip of my thumb. Your turn. Secret time.”

“When I was fifteen, I would go up on the roof of my house and jerk off.”

“That's it?” I blew air out of my lips. “That's pretty normal for a teenage boy.”

“Oh, there was nothing normal about it. I would jerk off into the chimney, and I'd always sing, in my head, 'Santa Claus is coming.'”

I laughed so hard, chunks of doughnut flew from my mouth. Smith handed me some bottled water, but I couldn't swallow, because of the laughter, and soon the water came flying out of my mouth as well.

Finally, when I'd pulled myself together, I said, “You just made that up. I should have known. Ask a writer for a secret, and he'll tell you a doozie.”

He shook his head. “I could never make up anything as strange as the truth.”

“Good, because if you're lying, I'm going to spank you.”

His eyes widened, then crinkled around the sides with a big smile. “Let's go find a quiet place behind a tree.”

A woman—Cassie—approached us then, saying, “You made it!”

Smith shoved the box of doughnuts into my hands without looking at me, and gave Cassie a hug. A moment later, we were being led over to the spot she'd staked out near the band stage, complete with a picnic blanket spread across the lawn.

My heart jumped as I spotted her brother Callum, looking just as hunky as I'd remembered, all black tousled hair and blue eyes.

I took a seat next to him and checked out his stack of books. To my surprise, one of the paperbacks was a
Smith Dunham
detective novel.

Callum said to Smith, “Would you mind signing one for me? I know it's dorky, and you probably get tired of people asking ...”

Smith took the book proudly and produced a pen from his pocket. “Of course I don't get tired of it! That's for authors much older and crankier than me.” He winked at Callum. “Why do you think I always carry a pen?”

The band started up again, putting a damper on conversation.

Smith took a seat on the blanket, cross-legged, next to me.

He complained about his jeans being too tight, but I assured him they looked so good, a little suffering on his part was worth it for me. I squeezed his leg and eyed the bulge behind his zipper, looking forward to getting him out of the jeans.

Callum was hunky as well, but Smith was with me, and he was being so sweet, asking me every ten minutes if I had enough bug-repellant lotion on me, or if I needed more water.

All around us, people were laughing and drinking. So many teenagers were making out on blankets, you could practically smell the raging hormones in the air.

Callum kept staring at us, like the silent make-out police. Whenever Smith moved a hand onto my thigh, or squeezed my calf, Callum's eyes went to the hand, his expression serious.

I was watching Callum watching us, but Smith interpreted the situation differently. He leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Stop looking at that young buck next to you, or I'm going to get jealous.”

Callum stood to go get us some wine, and, just to goad Smith, I took a leisurely stare at Callum's muscular butt.

I turned back to Smith and very innocently said, “I'm just enjoying the lovely Vermont view. I'm a tourist. Here to enjoy.”

With Callum gone, we had some privacy, as Cassie was talking to some other pretty girls at a nearby blanket.

Smith's hands darted up under the hem of my blue dress, and he pinched the flesh of my pussy between his thumb and forefingers. I inhaled sharply, surprised by his boldness, though in the crowd of people and the noise of the live band, nobody was paying attention.

He licked his lips and made eye contact with me as he swirled his thumb over top of my panties. I hadn't been aroused, but my body turned on rapidly, heat radiating from my pussy to my belly, my eyes fluttering with pleasure as he stoked those nerves, kindling the fire.

“Smith,” I said.

He cocked his ear my way. “I didn't hear the magic word.”

“Please.”

He grinned and kept rubbing me, giving me wicked pulses of pleasure. He leaned in and kissed me, thrusting his tongue in between my lips.

I moaned into his mouth, my pulse throbbing in my neck. I had to push him away before someone saw, but I didn't want to. I couldn't even ask him to stop, because I didn't want him to.

He pulled away from my lips and brought his mouth to my ear. “Wait until it gets dark,” he said, his voice low and throaty. “And I get these panties off.”

I caught myself moving my pelvis, rocking against him, and I pushed his hand away, embarrassed.

“That's enough,” I said.

“For now.”

I adjusted the hem of my dress and pulled my knees together, adjusting my position.

“You're so naughty,” I said to Smith.

He beamed, looking just as proud as when he'd been asked for his autograph.