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  Spanked by the Bad Boy

  Copyright © 2014 by London Saint James

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-759-2

  Cover art by Mina Carter

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

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  www.decadentpublishing.com

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  Spanked by the Bad Boy

  By

  London Saint James

  What’s good about a bad boy? Everything!

  — London Saint James

  Chapter One

  Tiffany Brooks heard the familiar tocato-tocato-tocato sound of a purring motor. She swiveled in her office chair to look out the window and saw him park his custom chopper next to her car on the paved lot of Stoub Engineering.

  Straddling his chrome bike wearing chunky leather-work boots, jeans, and a simple white T-shirt, Declan Cage set her heart to pitter-pat.

  She touched her chest and groused, “You’re not attracted to him, Tiffany.”

  Tucking a piece of sable-brown hair behind her ear, she straightened her shoulders and put on her toothy-white smile.

  “Good morning,” she said when he entered the building.

  “Morning, Ms. Brooks.”

  She observed him coming toward her desk and willed her face to look pleasant, yet restrained. She needed to keep her gaze particularly uninterested in him although the smug politeness she plastered across her features was hard to accomplish. Declan had a swagger that made her want to gawk at him.

  “How are you today?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “And you?”

  “Fabulous.”

  Her response was a blank faced, “I’m sorry. I’m not good with names.”

  He crinkled his brow, and the muscle in his jaw flexed. Yeah. There it was. The look. She’d definitely gotten under his skin.

  “I’m Declan.” He turned slightly to show her his back and gestured over his shoulder toward the logo. The silver skull ring he wore on his thumb gleamed. “From DC Construction,” he said. She couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles bulged beneath the shirt.

  “Oh yes.” She waved her hand about.

  She knew who he was and had immediately recognized him the first time he’d sauntered into the office over a month ago. She’d played it cool then, and she’d play it cool now. Besides, revealing her little secret would be nothing but detrimental. Yet even if it was a dangerous game, she loved bugging the hell out of him with her I’m-bad-with-names thing, especially since she imagined he wasn’t used to a woman forgetting him.

  Continuing with the I’m-a-busy-professional-who’s-not-impressed-by-you farce, she casually glanced at her laptop, flipped the lid closed, then looked back up at him. “How may I help you today?”

  “Matthew called me this morning. He said he left some plans here and I should come by to pick them up.”

  “Plans for the Cherry Hills project, right?”

  Declan smiled, and his dimples made an appearance through the brownish stubble on his face. Tiffany shook her legs beneath her desk a couple of times then stopped the nervous movement, glad he couldn’t see them.

  “Yes,” he said. “For the parking garage.”

  She rolled her chair back and stood, sliding her hands down the sides of her hips, hoping to smooth out any wrinkles in her skirt and secretly wishing to bring attention to her curves. She removed her sweater so the silk and lace tank top hidden beneath could be seen. When she flopped the garment over the back of her chair, she straightened her spine and pressed her ample breasts out.

  “Follow me,” she said, tugging at the hem of her shirt.

  Satisfied she’d given him a fairly good view of her hourglass figure, she glanced up. Declan stood beside her, and even though she wore four-inch heels, he towered above her. His height sort of intimidated her, but her body didn’t seem to impress him.

  Crap.

  He pulled a cell phone from the leather holder hooked to his jeans and stared at the screen. “Sorry,” he said in a bored tone. “I forgot to send a text.” His fingers tapped. He put the phone away in a lackadaisical manner. “Lead on.”

  Unwilling to let his lack of interest faze her, she gave Declan her back and walked. “The plans are in Mr. Stoub’s office.”

  “Super,” he said.

  She sashayed across the room with her chin held high, stopping at the marble counter across from the conference room and pointing toward the fancy coffeemaker. “There’s fresh coffee. Can I get you some?”

  “No. I’m fine. But thanks for offering,” he said.

  “Mm.” She continued toward the office, Declan following her. “Well.…” After walking in, she eyed several elongated white tubes sitting on top of the oversized desk and gestured toward one wingback chair. “Have a seat. It will take me a second or two to find the right drawings.” She walked around the office furniture as Declan sat on the edge of the chair. Picking up one tube, she read the label. “Sawyer,” she said and set it down in too much of a rush. Her hand accidently hit the other containers. They jostled and started to roll. She tried to stop their momentum, but several of the cylinders went over the side and hit the floor. “Geez Louise.” Tiffany sidestepped and bent to get them.

  Declan had already jumped up to help her.

  “Here, let me,” he said, coming to her side and squatting next to her.

  When he reached for the mess, his right arm brushed against the top portion of her left shoulder. She sucked in a breath at the contact and thought her heart would stop from the frisson of energy snapping over her skin. Every part of her body became aware of him. He was potent. And virile. A rough, intoxicating man in his prime.

  Refusing to be reduced to a quivering weakling, she reminded herself he was only a man, akin to any other, and turned to see his face. “Thank you.”

  He met her gaze. “Anytime.”

  Those eyes. The color of the sea. Deep, blue-green, and fathomless.

  W
ho was she trying to kid? Declan Cage wasn’t just any man. She looked away and focused on something else.

  Tiffany fixed her attention on the clutter she’d created, but she was still watching him—staring at his large hands while he gathered up the blueprint holders. She licked her lips and pictured those hands on her body, fondling her.

  “I think this is what you’re here for,” she said and tugged one tube out of his grip. “Cherry Hills.” She turned the container around so the label faced him. He nodded. “I’ll trade you.” She switched her lone cylinder with his three, tucking one up against her side before she straightened and went to the desk. “I’ve tried to get Mr. Stoub to put these plans away and not keep them out like this.”

  Carefully, Tiffany placed each blueprint tube alongside the others and watched to make sure she wasn’t going to have any runaways. When she was satisfied they were going to stay in place, she glanced up.

  Declan had already taken the plans out and unrolled them, eyeing the specs where he stood.

  “This is exactly what I need,” he said.

  “Great.”

  He slightly turned the large parchment. The cords in his tanned forearms worked, jumping beneath the light smattering of crisp, sun-bronzed hair. His biceps flexed. She focused on the tattoo. The tatt wandered up his right arm and kept going—the end hidden beneath the material of his T-shirt. She made a fist, trying to stop the itch to trace the colorful artwork imprinted on him, and studied the width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest instead. Compelled, her gaze lowered to his jeans. Oh, my. The denim was worn white in all the right places.

  Visions of Declan pressing his big hand between her shoulder blades and bending her over the desk flitted through her mind.

  Her fingers splayed across the rich cherrywood beneath her palms when she glanced over her shoulder to see him, his face lethally serious, condom package between his teeth, lifting her skirt. He tore her silk panties off with one hand while unbuttoning his fly with the other. When his cock was free, he ripped the square package open, slipped the latex over his rock-hard dick, threw the wrapper to the floor, held onto her hips, and took her hard from behind.

  Her brow knitted. Something was off about the image in her head. Different. The tattoo. There hadn’t been a tattoo winding up his muscular arm.

  “You know,” Declan said, bringing her attention to the fore. “It’s almost lunchtime, and I was going to grab a bite at the Mexican restaurant around the corner. Want to go?”

  “Uh.” She blinked. “I can’t.”

  Declan gave her a steely eyed glare. “You can’t, or you don’t want to have lunch with me?”

  “I already have lunch plans, so I can’t. But—”

  “But what?”

  She might have screwed up her life with bad decisions and piss-poor judgment. However, there was one thing she didn’t do.

  “I don’t get involved with clients, subcontractors, or anyone in any way associated with this firm,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Involved?” He chuckled. “I wasn’t suggesting we have a nooner, only a few tacos and polite conversation.”

  Her cheeks burned hot, and she wondered if she had somehow given herself away. “Nooner?”

  “Yeah. A nooner is—”

  “I know exactly what a nooner is, Mr. Cage. I don’t require an explanation.” She put her hands on her hips. “I merely thought it was an inappropriate comment to make, given our current surroundings.”

  Declan rolled up the blueprints and slid them back into their tube. “Aw, sugar. If I’d known inappropriate comments would get you to finally remember my name, I would have made more of them a whole lot sooner.” He winked. “Have a great day, Ms. Brooks.”

  Tiffany gaped, watching him walk out of her boss’s office in long-legged strides, upset with herself for being a whole lot of turned on. She both despised and loved the gruffness of his voice. His sexy scowl. The way he called her “sugar.” His smug confidence and how it seemed to seep from every pore. While all those things and more attracted her to him, she wasn’t going to let herself become obsessed. She was putting her size-five foot down. The man was a rough guy who drove a two-wheeled death machine, for Pete’s sake. He probably guzzled beer, belched loudly, lived in a hovel apartment with empty pizza boxes scattered around, and had a closet filled with those dang jeans he looked so good in.

  No. She stomped. Neither those worn Levi’s nor how well he wore them should matter to her. It couldn’t matter. She wouldn’t let him matter. She was in control. Wasn’t she?

  “I am,” she said out loud, hoping to convince herself.

  But, the truth was, the fever had returned with a vengeance and was lapping at her flesh. Those fiery serpent tongues had been the catalysts to a wild, unbridled event in the dimly lit study of a fancy Denver home a couple of years ago.

  Fevers don’t last.

  She shook her head. She wouldn’t give into the condition that made her crazy and do stupid things. This would pass. She had no intention of veering away from her plan. She’d promised herself to find and date a better class of men. She needed to break bad habits. Make better choices. Stop being so impetuous. She was looking for sophistication. Someone more upscale. Respectable. A lawyer, doctor, or investment banker would do, and she’d thrown out the bait, hooking one.

  Her first casual date with Braxton Worth was happening later, but comparing the two, Braxton and Declan, there was no contest in the appeal department. With his penetrating eyes and hard body, Declan won, hands down. No matter though. She knew better than to daydream about him. Dreaming only led to trouble, and trouble was something she didn’t need.

  The bike stirred to life outside. When it revved, the madness seeped in. She closed her eyes and strummed her fingertips along the side of her neck, longing for that feeling of freedom. She imagined pressing her breasts against Declan’s muscular back, knees against his hips, as the bulky bike’s vibration shimmied up her frame, the wind brushing across her skin deliciously when they took to the open road.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. She went to the window and peeked out through the mini blinds in time to see him pull out of the parking lot and turn onto Oakdale Street.

  Tiffany worked her bottom lip over with her teeth, troubled. Despite the storm of confusion going on inside her body, Declan Cage sorely tempted her to give into the ailment once more, jump on the back of his chopper, and go for one heck of a ride.

  Chapter Two

  Declan’s morning consisted of arguing with a subcontractor—nothing new. Then talking to Matthew Stoub’s personal assistant. Again, nothing new, except she had become a woman he couldn’t get out of his mind. He’d been collaborating with Matthew on a large commercial construction project for the last month, yet no matter how many times he chatted with Matthew’s assistant, she acted as if it was her first time meeting him. Today hadn’t been any different than the other times he had spoken with her, but something about the continuing game she played, along with her topaz-blue eyes, fascinated him.

  After a late-afternoon safety meeting, he strode to his field office, unable to stop his mind from wandering. He pictured Tiffany’s pixie features and the way her nose turned up slightly at the end. Her perfect, creamy skin. The way she filled out her clothes. The sway of her hips when she walked. Her sexy legs highlighted by short skirts and the fuck-me heels she wore. And the thought of those long, glossy-red manicured fingernails scraping their way up his back whetted his appetite for the pleasure/pain of passion scratches….

  At the strike of five, relief washed over him. He didn’t want to have his mind preoccupied with thoughts of a woman, a fucking gorgeous one or not, so he was joining a couple of his employees to spend the evening watching the first football game of the season at The Last Inning after work. The sports bar was always a good hangout, mainly because he had an addiction only their spicy wings and blue-cheese dipping sauce, served up with a side of hot chili-cheese fries, could satisfy.

>   “Damn, DC. Can you eat your weight in those things or what?” Jett, his foreman, asked, pointing to the green plastic basket overflowing with chicken bones.

  “I probably can,” said Declan. He glanced up at the TV mounted on the wall before he jumped out of his seat, chair legs skittering across the floor in protest, and yelled, “You stupid son of a bitch! Can’t you catch a ball?”

  “I tell you, they pay these guys too much,” Jett chimed in.

  Declan grabbed the back of his chair, tugging it closer to the table, and nodded before he retook his seat. “You’re right, Jett.”

  “I think somebody around here owes me twenty bucks,” said Chris Myer, Declan’s concrete guy. He smiled and put his hand out. “The Titans scored the first touchdown, so pay up.”

  “You suck,” Declan said to Chris. He reached for the skull chain securing his wallet to his back pocket and yanked on the links. Once his billfold was in hand, he riffled through, tugged a twenty out, and handed the money over. “Beers are on you now.”

  “Hey,” Chris whined.

  Declan eyed him and put his wallet away. “I’m only kidding.”

  Chris gave a goofy grin before he pocketed the crisp bill.

  When a commotion broke out somewhere not too far behind Declan’s table, he twisted in his chair to see what was going on. His brow crinkled.

  “I’ll be back,” he said without looking at his employees.

  Declan stood and made a beeline for the hallway leading to the restrooms, stopping when he came to a guy in a suit and a woman he recognized.

  “Is there a problem here?” he asked.

  The woman spun around to see him, shock and perhaps a little fear written all over her features. “Mr. Cage?”

  “I see we’ve made progress, Ms. Brooks. You’ve remembered my name twice today.”

  “There’s no problem, buddy,” the man said, puffing his chest out, reminiscent of a peacock. “You need to go back to your table and mind your own damn business.”

  “The lady is my business.” He hooked his fingers around Tiffany’s elbow and maneuvered her beside him. “Are you all right? Is this guy bothering you?”