back, he recalled her in high school. Cheerleading, but also driving over to Kerrville to volunteer at the hospital. And part of the group that went to the elementary schools to read to the little kids. Even now, the thing with her stepfather—she was spirited, enthusiastic, but almost ridiculously eager to please.
Service sub . Or rather . . . a person who liked service. Liked to have a job to do, to feel she was helping somebody. Maybe even liked to lose herself in that a little. He could use that. Put her to work—using the fact that she was an old high school friend to excuse his presumption to the other guests, if necessary. She would feel useful, he would get some free work out of it, and if it wasn’t entirely ethical on his part . . . well, she would never know he was kind of getting off on it, would she? And if she didn’t like it, she could always leave. Nothing skeezy about that. As a bonus, sending her on little errands around the place would also get her out of his sight for chunks of time. Depending, of course, on the errands.
If circumstances were different, he would send her out to cut her own switch. Then have her bring it to him, present it, present herself. He could almost see the brilliant ladder of marks he would leave with a slender wand of oak, almost feel the resistance of her creamy skin as he slapped the wood in a careful, symmetrical pattern. It was tricky not to break the skin with a switch, and splinters were a concern, so he’d have to resist the follow-through. Although maybe, just at the end, right across the sweetest curve of her beautiful ass, he’d let it fly. Make her fly. Cut through the surface and let her know she’d paid in full for whatever she’d done. And then he’d fuck her until he couldn’t see straight.
The disgruntled ache in his groin reminded him this train of thought was going nowhere helpful. Well, maybe he wasn’t ten kinds of fool after all. He was mostly only one: the kind who thought with his dick.
Sighing, he pushed off with his feet, setting the swing in motion again, and tried to think about the ranch’s profit-and-loss statements instead of Mindy Valek’s ass.
* * *
“You and me, Moose. You and me.”
The spider didn’t answer. He seemed content to hang in his web, scarcely moving. There were already some rips and suspiciously lumpy spots in the gossamer, so she assumed Moose had fed for the evening. She really didn’t want to sleep with him in the cabin, but since the alternative seemed to be heading to the main house for assistance . . .
“You just stay on your side, dude. Invisible wall, right here.” She gestured, knowing it was pointless, but still too much a child of the media to completely rule out that the spider might somehow understand. Moose might come to cartoon life in the night, to croon supportive lullabies. Or weave her a magical garment. Who was she, in her heart of hearts, to deny the power of these fantasies?
On the other hand, it was a Texas spider—a big, fat, small-town good ol’ boy—so more likely it would come to life spouting misogyny and burping up a Shiner. She didn’t want to be in that cartoon. But she’d chance it rather than risk running into Logan again.
Mindy’s stomach growled, reminding her of the dinner she’d skipped. Stupid . Stubborn, because she did plan to stay the week. But stupid, because she knew all it would lead to was hopeless fantasizing.
Logan. Those stern, steely eyes. The leather around her wrist, his hands strong and irresistible as he secured her to the shelf bracket. Shivering, Mindy raised a hand to her face, touching the stubble burn by her lower lip and sighing—then covering her mouth as though silencing herself could somehow stifle the imagery in her brain. Or the memory of the smells—the leather, the saddle soap, the hay and sweet oats, the eau de Logan she could still detect on her own T-shirt.
Possibly that part was in her own head. There was no way his scent could
Service sub . Or rather . . . a person who liked service. Liked to have a job to do, to feel she was helping somebody. Maybe even liked to lose herself in that a little. He could use that. Put her to work—using the fact that she was an old high school friend to excuse his presumption to the other guests, if necessary. She would feel useful, he would get some free work out of it, and if it wasn’t entirely ethical on his part . . . well, she would never know he was kind of getting off on it, would she? And if she didn’t like it, she could always leave. Nothing skeezy about that. As a bonus, sending her on little errands around the place would also get her out of his sight for chunks of time. Depending, of course, on the errands.
If circumstances were different, he would send her out to cut her own switch. Then have her bring it to him, present it, present herself. He could almost see the brilliant ladder of marks he would leave with a slender wand of oak, almost feel the resistance of her creamy skin as he slapped the wood in a careful, symmetrical pattern. It was tricky not to break the skin with a switch, and splinters were a concern, so he’d have to resist the follow-through. Although maybe, just at the end, right across the sweetest curve of her beautiful ass, he’d let it fly. Make her fly. Cut through the surface and let her know she’d paid in full for whatever she’d done. And then he’d fuck her until he couldn’t see straight.
The disgruntled ache in his groin reminded him this train of thought was going nowhere helpful. Well, maybe he wasn’t ten kinds of fool after all. He was mostly only one: the kind who thought with his dick.
Sighing, he pushed off with his feet, setting the swing in motion again, and tried to think about the ranch’s profit-and-loss statements instead of Mindy Valek’s ass.
* * *
“You and me, Moose. You and me.”
The spider didn’t answer. He seemed content to hang in his web, scarcely moving. There were already some rips and suspiciously lumpy spots in the gossamer, so she assumed Moose had fed for the evening. She really didn’t want to sleep with him in the cabin, but since the alternative seemed to be heading to the main house for assistance . . .
“You just stay on your side, dude. Invisible wall, right here.” She gestured, knowing it was pointless, but still too much a child of the media to completely rule out that the spider might somehow understand. Moose might come to cartoon life in the night, to croon supportive lullabies. Or weave her a magical garment. Who was she, in her heart of hearts, to deny the power of these fantasies?
On the other hand, it was a Texas spider—a big, fat, small-town good ol’ boy—so more likely it would come to life spouting misogyny and burping up a Shiner. She didn’t want to be in that cartoon. But she’d chance it rather than risk running into Logan again.
Mindy’s stomach growled, reminding her of the dinner she’d skipped. Stupid . Stubborn, because she did plan to stay the week. But stupid, because she knew all it would lead to was hopeless fantasizing.
Logan. Those stern, steely eyes. The leather around her wrist, his hands strong and irresistible as he secured her to the shelf bracket. Shivering, Mindy raised a hand to her face, touching the stubble burn by her lower lip and sighing—then covering her mouth as though silencing herself could somehow stifle the imagery in her brain. Or the memory of the smells—the leather, the saddle soap, the hay and sweet oats, the eau de Logan she could still detect on her own T-shirt.
Possibly that part was in her own head. There was no way his scent could
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