Page 9 of Dallas
The only time I let my hair down, literally and figuratively, is when I’m alone in this small apartment in the evenings. “I’m fine,” I tell him.
He rounds me to sit on my couch. It’s so old that he sinks down, but he says nothing. He points toward the only door leading off this main room. “Arianna, go change,” he orders.
Instead of obeying his command, I step toward the armchair across from him, smooth the back of my skirt, and lower to sitting. I’m rigid and ramrod straight. I feel defiant, and I’m curious to know what he will do about it.
When he stares at me intensely, I squeeze my legs together. Darn him. My panties are wet. It’s not fair that he can make me horny with just one look.
“I’m trying to be patient, Arianna, because I know you’re still wrapping your head around what’s happening between us. But I also know you need a firm hand, and you’re testing me.”
I gasp. My damn nipples pebble. He can probably see them through my blouse and bra. I know he can because his gaze slides down to my chest, lingers for a moment, and then roams back up.
He leans forward and sets his elbows on his knees. “I bet you spent most of the day wondering what it will be like when I spank your naughty bottom.” He lifts a brow.
My entire body shivers as I stare at him, but I’m not cold. I hate that he’s right, and I squirm in my seat at the thought even now. No one has ever in my life threatened to spank me, and if they had, I would have run from the building. But there’s something about the thought of Dallas’s palm on my ass that makes me curious.
Not curious enough to experience it today, though. I’m not ready for something like that. My brain is scrambled.
“Have you thought about my palm on your naked bottom, Arianna?”
I swallow and nod. “Yes, Sir.” The words flow off my tongue as if I were born to submit to this man. The only reason I know anything about submission is because I’m well read. I’m not prepared to experience what he’s suggesting.
“Is that what you want me to do right now? Spank you?”
I shake my head.
He leans back casually again and lifts one brow.
Damn, he’s intense. So dominant that I’m about to come in my panties.
He rubs his chin slowly as his brow lifts higher. He’s challenging me. He’s dominating me hard and subtly.
I finally relent with a deep sigh as I stand. But when I pass him, he reaches out and clasps my wrist. He waits for me to meet his gaze before he says, “Eye rolling will land you over my knee just as fast as disobedience and lying.”
Did I roll my eyes? I swallow hard. I should slap him. Why am I turned on? “Yes, Sir,” I murmur.
He finally releases me.
I hurry into the small bedroom and close the door, leaning against it for several long seconds, trying to catch my breath as though I’ve just run a mile in under five minutes. I’m so flustered.
When I realize I can’t stand here forever, I hurry to my closet. I quickly kick off my pumps, strip out of my skirt, and hang it up before rushing toward my bathroom while unbuttoning my blouse. Lord knows how long he will wait before he barges into my room. I want to be dressed when that happens.
I glance at myself in the mirror and gasp. My cheeks are bright red. My eyes are dilated. Sheesh. I drop my blouse into the hamper and remove my pantyhose next.
I’m wearing a white lace bra-and-panty set. I may present as demure and conservative on the outside, but I don’t skimp on lingerie. It’s my private indulgence. At least my panties and bras allow me to feel sexy.
Dashing back toward my closet, I ponder what the hell to put on, finally ending up choosing a white cotton tank-top dress. It’s nothing exciting, but it’s also not something I would wear out of my apartment. It’s comfortable and private. Too revealing and form-fitting. Youthful. Granted, I am young, but I don’t present that way. I prefer to look stuffy and unapproachable. Weird is my goal.
It doesn’t work, apparently, because like Dallas suggested, most of the single men in town come to the library to flirt with me. Weird isn’t something they care much about. All they see is a single woman of marriageable age. It’s honestly difficult to know if I’m even attractive.
As soon as I step back into the living room, I think better of my choice of clothing. Suddenly, I feel too exposed. But I’m stuck when Dallas turns his head toward me. It’s too late to retreat to the safety of my bedroom.
I take two slow steps toward him and then pause.
Dallas’s eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. When he rises to standing, fully facing me, I step back and run into the wall next to my bedroom door.
Yeah, this was a bad choice of clothing. He looks like he’s going to pounce on me. I look down, trying to avoid his gaze. I’m barefoot. Why didn’t I at least put on sandals?
For a long moment, neither of us says a word. Finally, Dallas speaks. “I would ask if you wear that out of the house, but I know the answer is no. It doesn’t fit your librarian look.”
