Page 21 of Her Bad Boy

She had to go on tiptoes to do so, feeling herself stretched out quite helplessly before him as her fingers wrapped tightly around the slender limb.

That was when he stepped behind her, and she tensed in preparation to receive a smack, but it didn't come. Not then, at least.

Instead, he squatted down, running his hands slowly, possessively over her feet and ankles, up the fronts and backs of her delicate calves to her slender thighs, the dress rising as he and did, taking it up and over her hips as she felt the calluses on his fingertips rasp across the tender flesh of her lower belly, although he did not touch her where she thought he might but continued upwards, until his hands circumvented breasts that were already bare beneath the dress, to reach behind her and stroke the sensitive flesh of her back, encouraging the material to ride as far up under her arms as it could, where it would be held there, she knew, by its tightness, and the firm angles of her breasts.

Allie was almost—but not quite—completely exposed, and that was somehow worse than if he'd taken the dress off her completely, for some reason. All of her most tender parts were cruelly subjected to the cold, damp air, a slight shiver running through her that caused her nipples to tighten painfully.

"I know you're cold," he said, managing to modulate his voice to be both menacing and neutral. "But shortly, parts of you are going to become very hot." Then he pressed himself up against her from behind, warning against her cheek, "You can feel free to twist and struggle and weep and beg and even scream, little miss. There's no one but me out here to hear you. But I would advise you that, whatever you do… Do. Not. Let. Go."

Then she heard it. The distinct jangle of his belt buckle. And he was wearing jeans today, so it would be the wider, thicker one than what he wore with dress pants. It was of a stiffer, rougher leather that she knew from previous—very unhappy—experience had a particularly nasty bite.

And, within a very short time, she had again become downright uncomfortably familiar with it.

As sure as he was that they were probably completely alone, Lucas didn't want to take any chances, so he didn't linger over her punishment. What she got, instead of his usual more drawn out efforts, was about twenty-five harsh, fiery strokes in about five terrifying minutes of utter agony before he slid the implement back through the loops and rebuckled it, leaving her there—sobbing abjectly, still on display, hanging from fingers that longed to uncurl themselves but didn't dare—while he did that and gathered her shoes, putting them back on her and running his hands over her swollen, decimated backside, patting it condescendingly before he pulled her dress down, although only to the beginning swell of her behind, saying, almost casually, "You can let go now."

She was, as he had suspected she might be, unable to support herself at first, her legs tired from having been stretched so long, but he was right there next to her to hold her up and make sure that she didn't fall.

Allie was still weeping copiously, but he was not offering any comfort. "Head back to the car."

As much as she didn't want to contradict him in any way, Allie nonetheless gasped, "But—" her hands moving to point out how exposed she still was.

"If—and only if—we hear or see someone coming, you may pull your dress down. Otherwise, it remains where it is."

She didn't even suspect that he had an ulterior motive beyond humiliating and embarrassing her, although another came to light when he apparently considered that she was walking too slowly, and she received a loud smack to encourage her to go faster, which made her keen loudly at the further insult to her already well seared flesh.

Her hands almost reached behind her to rub some of the pain away, but she stopped herself just in time. He wouldn't do that himself, so she wasn't allowed to, either.

"Get a move on, Allie. I don't want you to catch a chill."

She couldn't decide if it was a good thing that they didn't encounter anyone on the way back and he wouldn't allow her to pull her dress the rest of the way down, even when he was holding the door open for her to get into the car.

"No, leave it up," he said. "I like the idea of your angry, red, leather kissed ass resting on even more leather, although this is much smoother than I would prefer."

But on the way around the back of the car, he had an evil stroke of genius and popped it open, producing a blanket that he folded into a size that would just cover her seat before he got behind the wheel.

"Lift up," he ordered, and she obeyed, watching him tuck it beneath her. Once he had it spread out to his liking, he said, "Okay, you can sit back down."

Allie complied, but began to regret it almost immediately as her bottom and some of her most tender areas were forced to sit on material that felt like sandpaper and made those awfully sensitive spots itch horribly.

And, of course, she knew without being told that she wasn't allowed to alleviate her own misery in any way.

"That's my grandfather's old Army blanket from World War II your beautiful little behind is resting on. It's made of pure wool. It'll warm the crap out of you, if you can stand having it next to your skin."

When they got back on the main route, she was already fidgeting terribly, still weeping and whimpering. He gave her a tissue, glancing over at her and noticing that she was keeping her legs tightly closed.

"Spread your legs, Allie."

That set off another, louder round of waterworks. "But, Sir—"

His foot left off the accelerator and he glanced over at her, his expression stern. "Do I need to pull over again, Allie?"

As she wept and sniffled, he watched her part her legs—but just a little.

"Until I say to stop," he countermanded her intention to undermine his method of disciplining her.

"Y-yes, Sir."

There was a knee against the cup holder and a knee against her door before he allowed her to stop.

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