Nola Page 6

  Brandon didn't really know what he was doing. He didn't have a plan. He was just working purely on instinct. He didn't want to spank her right now, although she'd certainly earned it. She looked to unhappy to let him add to it, and he wanted to have the wife he'd known over these short months back. Her acquiescence in bringing him the belt, her downcast eyes and almost frighteningly blank face had put an edge of fear into his heart that he didn't like in the least.

  She seemed to have shut down, and that was the last thing he wanted, and he found it was tugging at his heart much more than he would have ever thought anything could.

  He washed her most thoroughly, but in a completely unhurried manner, as if they had all of the time in the world. He added hot water when it started to chill, and wouldn't let her get away with denying him access to her more interesting areas, although his touch wasn't in the least sexual or demanding in any way.

  In the end, it was the gentlest, most tender exchange they'd ever had, but Nola only found herself that much more confused by his sudden about face. She'd thoroughly expected to end up sore but satisfied before she fell asleep, and it ended up that she was neither. Brandon gathered her up in to an obscenely large, fluffy bath sheet, drying her off as carefully and with as much attention to detail as he had washed her, not leaving any crooks or crevices even the slightest bit damp, using the lavender powder she favored and applying it liberally all over.

  Then, she knew she was dreaming, because he left her for just a second - not even warning her not to move, but trusting she knew what he expected, she supposed - and returned with her last remaining nightgown, the one she'd thought she'd hidden from him, and wore sometimes if she felt poorly during the day when he wasn't around, slipping it over her head, dressing her as if she was a child.

  He lifted her again, carrying her to their bed, and tucked her under the covers, following her under them to hold her tight, and settling down as if he was going to go to sleep.

  "Uh, I'm not getting spanked then?" she asked, tentatively, not really willing to believe it. He'd never gone back on a punishment before.

  "Not tonight, anyway," he answered, kissing her lightly.

  "Oh." Nola fidgeted within his arms, trying to feel sleepy, but not quite achieving it yet. Instead, she fussed with the sheet and comforter, and changed positions, and scratched her nose, and accidentally elbowed him in the ribs.

  "I take it you're not tired?" he asked wryly, his breath warm at her temple.

  "No, I'm tired. I'm just... well... I don't know. You didn't spank me... you're not going to... um...uh... do the other either?"

  It took him a long moment to realize what "the other" was. "You mean make love to you?"

  He knew even in the darkness that her face was bright red. "Yes." Brandon heard her gulp hard, and had to smile.

  "No, I don't think so tonight. I think you need some sleep."

  Nola had thought that she could not have been more surprised at his behavior, until the next day, when he spanked her, but much more mildly than usual.

  Brandon actually took the entire day off to be with her. He'd never done such a thing in his life, much less for his new wife. But his father thought it was a wonderful idea, and sent them up to his cottage in the Hamptons for a long weekend, and he spent the entire time with her. They rode - well, he began to teach her to ride - and walked in the gardens and talked and he taught her how to play chess, but then she taught him how to play Whist, and then the finally hit on playing poker, and drafted several of their neighbors to do just that - penny ante, of course, but it was still a riotously good time.

  Brandon had begun to think that they might have the beginnings of a reasonably good relationship after that weekend. He was still at her every chance he could get - he thought that they had probably christened nearly every bedroom in the forty three room "cottage" - well before the weekend was over. And what was even more interesting to him, though, was the fact that he was finding out that he liked his wife.

  She hadn't spent much time around horses, and yet she didn't seem to be particularly afraid of them or learning how to ride either. In fact, when he'd told her that he was going to teach her to ride the next day, she'd gotten up early and gone down to the kitchen to pester Cook for some apples and carrots, with which she proceeded to bribe his carefully selected horseflesh. And she didn't just want to learn how to ride, she wanted to learn how to care for them, too. Usually, he called down to the stables and had his favorite stallion waiting for him. But he certainly knew how to do anything necessary, including mucking out a stable. When he misbehaved, that was one of his father's favorite punishments for him - sending him down to the stables to spotlessly clean out each and every one of the more than twenty stalls.

  She was a lot like him in that. If she was interested in something, she wanted to know everything about it. Unfortunately, she was dressed in a blue velvet habit, which weren't conducive to bending over and cleaning out hooves. He ended up having the housekeeper alter a pair of his own Levi jeans, which everyone in the family thought were disreputable on him, and would think were scandalous on her. But he didn't care.

  The next day, he showed her the entire routine, let her help him groom their mounts, always watching out for her safety, and then showing her how to put the saddle and bridle on. He used a western saddle himself, since they weren't going to be jumping, so he gave her the one that had been his when he was a child, and it fit just about perfectly. She seemed to enjoy what she was doing, even though when they finally returned to the house, they both pretty much stank of horse and barn.

  So they took a bath. Together.

  He liked introducing her to new things, and this was one of the best as far as Brandon was concerned. The tub in the master bedroom suite at the cottage was easily big enough for the two of them. He'd made sure that it was going to be hot for them when they got there by sending one of the stable hands ahead of them once they were almost done at the barn, to warn the staff to have everything ready for them.

  He hadn't had many friends in his life. He wasn't the personable type. Most people didn't find him very easy to be around - he was too intense. He was very smart in school, but disliked jumping through the hoops necessary to get himself very good grades. He attended Harvard and graduated, but didn't do very well academically there, either. He was too much of an original, and didn't like to be told what to do under any circumstances.

  Roger was probably the only person on the planet that he could call more than a business acquaintance. His father and his grandfather were more thorns in his side - and if he was feeling very generous mentors - than anything else. It was nice to have someone to talk to.

  As he let his hands roam over her soapy body - with no cloth between his inquisitive fingers and her slick flesh - he wondered what she'd be like in a boardroom, and figured she could be nothing but an asset. He had her tucked in front of him, so that she was sitting in the cradle of his big body, her back to his front as she leaned back. He knew she thought that this was completely opulent and outrageous, and he supposed to a wide eyed recently deflowered virgin, he knew it must seem that way.

  But Brandon was used to getting what he wanted - no matter how different it might seem - and he wanted to bathe with his wife tonight, so that was exactly what he did.

  She was the absolutely perfect size for him. All in all, he thought, as he leaned his head back on the edge of the tub, but kept his hands very busy and full of various parts of her, he had done a pretty good job in picking her as his wife. He knew he had chosen someone who was going to be a challenge, but that was fine with him. He'd rather have someone interesting, with a mind and a will of her own - as long as she realized that his will trumped hers - than a doormat without an original thought of her own.

  And she was absolutely perfect for him physically. She was tiny where he was tall, she was soft and round where he was angled and muscular. His hands naturally drifted up to cup her breasts, massaging them gently, rolling and just slightly pinching her already proud nipples just the way he'd learned she liked, and was rewarded with a squirming woman who sighed and arched and did everything but what she knew would get her into trouble - moving his hands.

  His face was right behind hers, his chin resting on her shoulder. "Feels good, doesn't it?"

  He was treating her so differently from what he had before that Nola was just the slightest bit suspicious of him, as if she expected the other shoe to drop any time now. But he was right. It felt damned good, and that's exactly what she told him.

  He laughed at her language use. She didn't sound like a proper lady, but then he'd married her because that was exactly what she wasn't. A thought struck him, and it was out of his lips before he had a chance to stop it. "Why did you marry me?" He wasn't at all sure that he wanted to hear her answer, but then he couldn't really retract the question once it was out.

  Nola was frankly amazed that he'd asked - as amazed as she could be considering how befuddled she was by the things he was doing with his hands. But she answered him truthfully. He wouldn't buy the idea that she was in love with him, anyway. It was absurd. They'd barely known each other when they got married, and she refused to lie to him, regardless. "I married you because you asked."

  He didn't say anything, but somehow she sensed that he was a mite disappointed, even though he must've recognized the truth of it.

  "And," she continued in a sly drawl, "because you intrigued me."

  He perked up - in several ways - at that remark. "I intrigued you?"

  Nola reconsidered what she'd said a bit. "Okay. You annoyed me. Severely."

  "Oh."

  "You still do, but it's pretty much the same thing. I've never instantly disliked anyone or any thing as much as I disliked you."

  Brandon wasn't at all sure what to make of that, but it had the ring of truth to it. He liked that she wasn't pulling her punches - that she generally hadn't since he'd met her, except under duress in their bed. She hadn't knuckled under to him, and he was glad for that. He had to admit - to himself - that she intrigued him, too. Her originality and the fact that she wasn't afraid to fly in the face of convention drew him like a lodestone, but it was her personality and her intelligence that kept him around, that had him proposing after an indecently short acquaintance.

  His hands came to rest on her flat belly, and he had to wonder if the usual wagging tails might have something to wag about - if she was already pregnant. He found himself looking forward to the idea. He'd already made up his mind that he was going to be a different type of father from how Geoffrey had been with him - very distant, doing the socially accepted thing and leaving him to a succession of stricter nannies to raise. Brandon wanted to know his children. He was nearing forty and it had only been since Nola had come into the house that he'd actually gotten to know his father.

  She'd been so good for him in so many ways... and he knew he hadn't been nearly as good for her - despite the monetary gains her family had reaped. She was thinner than she'd been when she came to him, and that night she'd been so closed and tight - so different from her usual demeanor, that it was a rude wakeup call for him.

  This was the person he'd chosen to link his life to until he died. There was no backing out; there would never be any hint of divorce. He had to make the best of it, regardless of the fact that he'd probably botched it royally and she probably hated his guts by now. He didn't want her to slip away from him, didn't want her to be as miserable as she'd looked.

  He would always spank her - there was no question there. He firmly believed that a husband had a right - no, a duty - to make sure that his wife had no doubt as to who was in charge of the relationship. He had consciously been very harsh with her at first, because he'd wanted to establish that he wasn't going to put up with any sort of rebellion from her.

  But now he had to wonder if that was too much - if he'd tried a bit too hard as he was sometimes wont too do. And the last thing he wanted to do was break her will. It was that strong, stubborn will that had set her apart from the crowd of simpering chits that were thrown at him so regularly, and he didn't want to lose that, just curb it some.

  Chapter Six

  He'd spanked her yesterday morning for her misbehavior with the Reverend, even though he really didn't want to. She seemed to be coming out of her blue mood, and he hadn't wanted to ruin that, but he also didn't want her to get the idea that she could just ignore his carefully explained rules without any sort of consequence. But it had been a different punishment from the usual. He'd paid much more attention to her responses than his own inherent interest in punishing her, which had been a definite factor in his previous sternness.

  He kept her over his lap - he'd always favored that position because of its intimacy, but then lately he'd taken to using his belt on her, and that wasn't always conducive to being so close to her. He loved using her own hairbrush on her - that was incredibly intimate to him, and he knew she absolutely hated it. She'd had the audacity to try to switch brushes to a much lighter, smaller one when she realized his preference for that implement, but he'd made her produce the older, much bigger and heavier one and then had given her a very severe spanking with it for trying to outwit him.

  Brandon had held her far wrist with his left hand, simply looping his middle and thumb around it, holding loosely, knowing she was essentially reduced to ineffective batting at him and a lot of leg thrashing.

  Unfortunately, her disobedience was so blatant that he really couldn't let her off easy with this one, and the implement he'd chosen reflected that. He held the deceptively small, yet almost indecently lethal rod in his hand. It was like a small cane, only about twelve or so inches long, thin but not really whippy. It didn't bend on the down stroke and it didn't yield when it met flesh.

  It was going to raise some angry ridges on that beautiful bottom of hers.

  She was naked over his lap, yet he was completely dressed. Brandon had always believed that enforced nudity reinforced submission in a most tangible manner.

  He grimaced as he adjusted himself, then finally spoke. He could feel the fine tremor he knew she was trying desperately to suppress, and had to really push himself forward to do this. He was going to have to strike a delicate balance, in more ways than one. "You're being spanked because I had told you not to get into it with the Reverend, and yet that was exactly what you did. I will not have you disobeying me deliberately like that, Nola."

  Keeping his lecture short and sweet, Brandon decided the best thing to do was to get it over with, and with that he delivered twenty very hard blows to her wiggling, squirming bottom. With each successive crack of that small but wicked baton, he saw how it became harder and harder for her to remain still, and, indeed, near the end, it was almost impossible for him to keep her over his lap. He finally had to lower his leg over the backs of her calves and clamp down hard in order to deliver the last five strokes.

  Nola had been beside herself. He'd spanked her before - he'd strapped her before. But this was so unbelievably painful - each stripe she'd earned and he'd applied burned as if he'd laid a line of fire across her bottom instead of some sort of small, completely unforgiving stick. She knew she would never be able to look at a conductor's baton at the same way again at the symphony.

  And, as usual, nothing she did - no kicking, no twisting, no wiggling - gave her any sort of a respite from the almost metronomic fall of that blasted hand and its instrument of pure, unadulterated pain. The only thing that gave her relief was when he threw the thing away from them, so that it literally crashed and split against the far wall, lying there broken.

  Suddenly she was in his arms. He'd never really give her comfort after a spanking - besides in its most basic form. He'd never held her much, they'd never indulged in pillow talk or just lain in each others arms. But this time, it was different. He was different, and his arms felt wonderful around her. He cradled her across his lap rather than over it, and held her tight against him, making sure that her bottom didn't touch the rough fabric of his jeans.

  She hadn't cried until then. She was able to scream and moan and thrash, but Nola hadn't allowed herself to cry. It was a symptom of how she'd been feeling days ago, after she'd earned this spanking, and she'd stood in front of him holding his belt. She hadn't usually been able to suppress the tears, but it had worked this time.

  Until he'd cradled her in his arms. That was her true undoing, and it opened the floodgates much more than he probably bargained for, but he'd held her through the whole storm, rocking just slightly, purely out of instinct.

  Here in the tub with her, now, though, all he could think about was how good her body felt beneath his hands, how well her breasts fit into his palms, and how easily he could reach down between those slender legs.

  His soapy fingers made their way down there to that bubbly thatch and well between it, nudging her legs apart, and bringing his own legs up to bracket hers. He leaned slowly forward, pressing his mouth into that lavender scented mass of hair, whispering, "Slide your legs over mine, Nola. I want to pleasure you."

  She hesitated, and there had been a time when he would have turned her over and swatted her bottom - or much worse - for that, but he was trying to learn a somewhat different way to handle her, hopefully to the benefit of the both of them, so he resisted that impulse and simply lay there, waiting for her to obey him.

  It didn't take her much longer, probably because his thick middle finger had already claimed that hidden territory and had her moaning from its first long, slow rub of that already stiffened bud. He loved the way she looked when she'd finished doing as he'd bidden, lying back against his chest and abdomen, splayed quite obscenely, giving him completely unrestricted access to every luscious inch of her.

  He could feel her shivering, though, and reached for the faucet to add more hot water. Then he asked suddenly as soon as the thought popped into his brain, "Are you afraid?"

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