Page 61 of Plum's Priest Daddy

His posture changed then from someone who was waiting for her to walk into his arms so he could hug her, to a tall, broad-shouldered man who looked like he was willing and able to drag her back to the rectory by her hair and then spank her backside for forcing him to behave like a brute.

“I don’t appreciate your language or your tone, young lady.”

Yes.

Her blood simmered in anticipation of blowing herself out, of releasing all the pent up anxiety and grief in a torrent of flailing limbs, tears, and hurled insults. She’d been given permission to lose her shit and she would be taking full advantage.

Plum did stand then, wincing when she put too much weight on her ankle, and then crossed her arms defiantly.

“Yeah? Well I don’t appreciate you trying to control me. I don’t give a royal rat’s ass if you approve of my behavior or my vocabulary, you stuffed shirt, glue-sniffing, yard-stick-up-your-ass crayon chewer.”

Before she could formulate another insult, she found herself over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and a very firm smack landing on her up-turned ass.

“Hey!” she yelled.

“Keep it down. There are people trying to sleep and I don’t think you want to wake them to see you being hauled across the street like a sack of disobedient, foul-mouthed potatoes.”

“Potatoes don’t have mouths,” she muttered, and got another spank for her trouble.

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