Spanked by the Bad Boy Read online

  She gazed up at him with large blue eyes. “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.”

  “It didn’t look that way to me.”

  The guy she was with squared his shoulders. “Listen, asshole.” The distinct smell of alcohol rolled from his breath. Obviously, The Suit couldn’t hold his liquor and falsely thought he was some sort of tough guy when he drank. “The lady said everything is fine.”

  “You’ve had one too many,” Declan said. “You should probably go home before you do something you’ll regret.”

  “Who the fuck do you think you are to tell me what to do?” The man stupidly poked his finger into Declan’s chest. “Besides, I won’t have any regrets about beating you like a redheaded stepchild.”

  The dude was a walking cliché. What a douchebag.

  “I haven’t had a beating since I was nine, and I doubt you’re going to change my track record, but you’re more than welcome to try.” He tucked Tiffany behind him in a purely protective move. “I’ll even let you take the first swing.”

  Tiffany tugged the back of his shirt and said, “There’s no need to make a scene.”

  “No scene here, sugar. I’m only giving the guy what he wants.”

  The man in the dark suit took a horrible roundhouse swing. Declan didn’t put any real effort behind his counter move. He ducked to the right. The guy missed, spun around, and stumbled away. He figured Mr. Fancypants had had enough, but no. It took The Suit a second, then he straightened and came toward Declan, all wild-eyed and doing a boogedy-boo, I’m-crazy-scary motion with his arms.

  Declan waited until he came close again then punched the man in the nose. Immediately, the guy’s own blood soiled his silver-white shirt and tie. He staggered back, dazed, before he cupped his hands over his nose. Blood dripped from his fingers, dribbled down his wrist, and trickled over the expensive watch he wore.

  “I think you broke my nose,” he mumbled in a nasal sound from behind his hands.

  Declan’s men had flanked him—feet spread, arms at their sides. He ignored them and nodded. “Yep. It’s broken.”

  “Hey! Hey,” the manager of The Last Inning sputtered, waggling his bony finger at them as he came over. “I’m not having this kind of thing going on in my establishment.”

  The Suit kept his nose covered, but aimed his pinky at Declan. “He started it by—”

  “No,” the manager said. “I don’t want to hear it, and I don’t give a rat’s ass who started what.” He turned to glower at Declan. “Pay your bill then all of you, get out.”

  “This ought to cover it.” Jett handed the manager a hundred.

  He practically ripped the money from Jett’s hand.

  “Fine. Now, go,” he said, shooing them away.

  “No problem. We’re leaving,” Declan said and took Tiffany by the hand. She trailed behind him while they headed for the door then, suddenly, she resisted. He stopped and studied her, unsure what the holdup was. She held her right foot out. His gaze started at the pointed toe of her black shoe, skimmed up her shapely leg, hip, small nipped waist, bountiful breasts, slender neck, nose, and then finally looked into her eyes. “What?”

  “Shoes,” she said in an exasperated tone. “You’re pulling me too hard, and I’m walking too fast on a tile floor. I’m stumbling.”

  He glanced at the spiked heels and shook his head. “I’ll slow down.”

  He slowed their pace but didn’t let go of her until they made their way outside and into the cool night air.

  Standing beneath the covered porch of the sports bar, he observed his workers come out, their expressions serious.

  “What’s going on, DC?” Jett asked.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” He motioned with his hand. “Guys, this is Tiffany Brooks, by the way. Tiffany, that’s Jett, one of my foremen, and over there is Chris. Chris is my concrete guy.”

  “Hi,” she said in a small voice.

  Jett and Chris nodded. “Ma’am,” they said, almost in unison.

  “You guys go on home,” Declan said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Are you sure you don’t need us to stick around?” Jett asked.

  “Naw.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Declan pulled his wallet from his back pocket and plucked a stack of twenties out. “Here, Jett.”

  Jett waved. “You don’t need to pay me back for the bill.”

  “I do,” said Declan. Jett reluctantly took the money. “Go on home, and get some rest.” He shoved his wallet into the pocket he’d pulled it from.

  Once his workers left, he gave Tiffany his undivided attention. “I want you to tell me why the man you were with was shaking you, maraca style?”

  “He was upset because I didn’t want to go to his condo for a nightcap.”

  “So he put his hands on you?”

  Tiffany shrugged and mumbled under her breath, “The guys who wear suits aren’t much better than the ones who don’t.”

  Part of him wanted to delve into her every-man-is-a-dickhead mindset, but when she rubbed at her exposed arms, he found himself asking, “Are you cold?”

  “A little.”

  “I have a sweatshirt in my work truck.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come on.”

  Tiffany walked beside him. They zigzagged around some vehicles. When they stopped, one of her thin brows rose. “This is your work truck?”

  He patted the bumper of the lime-green, souped-up monster truck and grinned. “She’s a beauty. Isn’t she?”

  “She’s something alright.”

  He opened the door, stepped up on the side runner, and reached in. A couple of seconds later, he was out of the vehicle, feet on the ground, gripping a hoodie.

  “Put this on,” he said, handing the garment to her.

  Tiffany took the sweatshirt and held it in front of her with a blank expression. “This is far too large.”

  “Who cares?”

  She blinked, rapidly. “But I’ll be swallowed up in this.”

  “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, put it on. It will keep you warm.”

  “Um….”

  “I know it’s not the most gorgeous sweatshirt in the world, but it’s clean, and I don’t have cooties or anything.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Here,” she said, handing him her purse. He took hold of the thin strap. “Cooties.” She made a derisive noise and unenthusiastically slipped the sweatshirt over her head. “I haven’t heard someone use the word ‘cooties’ in years.” When she let it loose, the material of the dark-red hoodie went to her knees. The sleeves were so long he couldn’t see her hands and the V-neck where the drawstrings were, slouched. She held up her arms, airplane style. “You’re a giant.”

  “Maybe you’re small?” he said, hanging her purse on his side view mirror.

  She giggled, and the sound struck him—a blow to the gut. He’d never heard her laugh before. She was always so aloof, even frigid at times.

  “You’re good,” she commented.

  She worked at rolling the sleeves.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every woman wants to hear she’s dainty and not a cow. It’s great for our self-esteem.”

  Declan chortled. “Ah…I see.”

  He glanced around the parking lot, attempting to spot the ridiculously little, eco-friendly car she drove, but he didn’t see the white-and-black tuna can on wheels.

  “Did you come in your vehicle?” he asked.

  She shook her head, still rolling one sleeve. “I came with Braxton.”

  Declan exhaled loudly. “The Suit’s name is Braxton?”

  “Yeah.”

  “God.” He stroked his stubble-covered jaw with his fingers. “Let me guess. Fancypants is a banker.”

  Tiffany popped her head up. Eyes rounded. “How did you know?”

  Declan scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I figured you went for those brainy, pret
ty-boy types.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Why do you say that?”

  “You ex-prom queens usually do.”

  She stiffened, and he supposed the reaction to be an extraordinary feat since he wouldn’t have thought she could be any more rigid in her stance.

  “I wasn’t a prom queen.”

  He watched her shift her weight from her right foot to her left and brush her fingers along the creamy, smooth expanse of her throat. She was a horrible liar. “Sure you were.” Her eyes narrowed to slits. “What?” he asked.

  “You act like it’s a bad thing to.…”

  “To?”

  “To want to do better for yourself.”

  He chuckled. “Going out with the asshole in the suit is doing better for yourself?”

  Tiffany sniffed. Piqued. “There’s nothing wrong with trying to find someone classy.”

  “Baby, the guy who’s bleeding all over himself inside there.…” He tilted his head toward the building. “Let’s say he was far from classy. Cheesy, maybe.”

  Her eyes flashed. He imagined lightning bolts hurling at him.

  “I’m not sure I’m fond of your attitude,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t enjoy yours either.”

  She put one hand on her hip. “No one said you had to like me, my attitude, or come swooping in to rescue me, now did they?”

  She was a spitfire. He was partial to her brand of sass, and since his cock stirred beneath his pants, the ole boy was, too.

  “I suppose not,” he said and shifted to lean one shoulder against his truck. “You’re going to need a ride home.”

  She glared at her arm, going back to her job of rolling up the other sleeve with vigor. “I’ll call a cab.”

  The thought of her sitting in the back of a dingy rent-a-ride with some cabby dude eyeing her from the rearview mirror bugged him.

  “No. No way. I’ll take you home,” he said.

  “I don’t require your assistance.”

  “You may not require it, but you have it all the same.”

  Her face softened a bit. She’d finally finished messing with the sleeves. Declan could see her hands, but now she had clumps of fabric bunching around the crook of both arms. She must have decided to leave them be because she glanced up at him.

  “I don’t want to put you out, Declan.”

  “I won’t be.”

  He smiled.

  “Why are you smiling that way?”

  “How am I smiling?”

  “All se—” She paused and clamped her lips together. They made a thin line before she spoke again. “I suppose you have a pleased-with-yourself kind of smile.”

  “If you must know, I’m smiling because I got a Declan out of you, so I’m thinking we should stop by a convenience store on the way to take you home.”

  “Why?”

  “So far today, I’ve heard Mr. Cage twice and now Declan. I figure it’s my lucky day, and I need to buy a lottery ticket.”

  To his surprise, Tiffany Brooks busted out into a chortle so hard she snorted. She swatted at his arm.

  “Stop,” she said in a sexy voice. He wanted to scoop her up and kiss her so hard she felt it in her toes.

  “What exactly am I suppose to stop?”

  “Making me laugh.”

  He looked at her and studied the way the shadow from his truck fell across her face and how the parking light backlit the sweet lines of her feminine profile. He wanted to lick her jaw up to her ear, suck on the lobe, nibble…. “I’ve taken your request under advisement and have decided to ignore it,” he said.

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yep. It’s good to laugh, and you should more often.” He made a face by crossing his eyes, pushing up the tip of his nose with a finger, and sticking out his tongue. She snorted again. He stopped the silliness. “I really enjoy the little sound you make.” He had every intention of making her laugh more, then writhe in pleasure and scream out his name; only after the night she’d had, he’d need to wait on the writhing and screaming part.

  “I don’t. The noise resembles one of those dogs with the smashed up faces.”

  “A bulldog?” he asked.

  She chuckled and briefly put her hand over her mouth. “No. The little snuffle dog who sounds like he’s having an asthma attack.”

  “A Pekinese?”

  She pointed at him with her index finger as if they were playing a game of charades, and he had gotten the correct answer. “Yeah.”

  Man, she’s even sexier when she plucks that cob out of her ass and loosens up.

  “Trust me, Ms. Brooks. Nothing about you, not even your little snort, comes close to reminding me of a dog.”

  She looked at him, her eyes sparkling, polished jewels, her petite body less rigid. Her face—happy.

  How would she look after he’d pleasured her? The image of her lying next to him in his bed seared into his brain. Her lips swollen and moist. Her hair messy. Her cheeks flushed pink. It was then he knew he’d do anything to make the picture he’d framed inside his head into an actuality.

  Chapter Three

  “Home is where the heart is,” Tiffany scoffed and meticulously placed her purse on the table by the entry door, stopping to stare at something that caught her eye.

  Instead of the TV remote being on the coffee table, it was next to her purse. How strange. She glanced over at the table where the device should be and cocked her head. She tried to remember if she’d been scatterbrained enough to do something so out of character. She had learned long ago, the hard way, not to leave things lying about. Ever. But then she thought about Braxton coming inside to pick her up for their date and figured he’d moved the remote without her noticing.

  Assured she knew the answer to how the remote had been misplaced, she picked it up and put it back where it belonged before she tore the borrowed sweatshirt over her head and returned to her thoughts of Declan Cage, both present and past. As she thought of him and the way he’d once taken her, heat infused her cheeks. She thought about his hands. The way his arm had wrapped around her waist to lift her up. The feel of him. He’d obviously added some sexy ink to his arm since their encounter and had cut his hair, but he was still the most delectable man she’d ever seen, maybe even more so. Of course, he didn’t remember the first time they’d actually met, which was a blessing or a curse, depending on her mood. But if she were to be rational, why should he remember? Her face had been obscured by the Mardi Gras mask she’d worn to the Halloween bash, and her hair had been a different color then.

  She heaved a sigh. She’d gone to the infamous party with the one and only college friend she had acquired during her brief foray into higher education. The party and hooking up had been part of her effort to forget about Simon, her ex. She wasn’t above using a man’s body to forget about another man.

  Tiffany knew that the whole hunger for acceptance from the wrong type of man–she’d aptly named it the “bad boy syndrome”–was some twisted version of a my-daddy-never-loved-me complex, and it was sick. She understood where all her warped sensibilities stemmed from, and in retrospect, she didn’t need the expensive shrink she’d seen once or twice to tell her Simon Milligan, the man who was mad, bad, and old enough to be her dad, had become the pseudo replacement for the ill-tempered father who had never loved her. And neither had Simon—not that that should have been a shock. Simon had cheated on her while they were together then suddenly tossed her aside. She’d become yesterday’s garbage the moment his ex decided to bat her lashes his way again.

  Twisting the little knob, she turned off the table lamp and refused to think about her hot-headed, abusive, drunken so-called dad or Simon, but the thing was, characteristics about Declan reminded her of both of them, and the resemblance couldn’t be a good thing.

  Tiffany recalled Declan had been working his way up to an epic level of sloshed the night of the Halloween party. And, similar to Simon, he was totally rough around the edges.

  However, he had
come to her rescue tonight, taken her home, walked her to her door, made sure she was safe inside, and then left. He hadn’t tried to hit on her or weasel his way in, and the fact he hadn’t put the moves on her was perplexing.

  Even so, he’s still a rough guy, and he did smash Braxton’s nose, she reminded herself, but unless he was extremely good at faking, he possibly had a heart hidden beneath the tough guy façade. Having one made him different. Didn’t it?

  Pondering the night, she lumbered into her bedroom and sat on the side of her bed. She placed the red hoodie over the lounger, kicked off her spiked heels, and stripped out of her blouse, intent on a nice, hot, long, until-her-fingertips-pruned-up bubble bath.

  “Braxton,” she muttered through gritted teeth, glowering at the distinct finger marks marring her upper arms that reflected back at her in the mirror. “So much for a better class of men.”

  Declan was right when he called Braxton cheesy, even if it pained her to admit it. The guy was cheesy. There was nothing interesting or intriguing about him unless someone found bad blonde jokes and innuendoes about his sexual prowess while he threw back imported beer after imported beer fascinating. He was braggadocious and clearly not interested in knowing anything at all about her.

  Tiffany rubbed at her temples and considered taking some Tylenol. Her date with the banker had been horrible. During his blathering, she’d imagined a Me, Myself, and I sign noosed around his neck instead of the fancy tie he wore. He’d yammered on about his new condo and how he had scored the place at such a good deal due to his superior negotiating skills. He’d boasted of the hot tub he’d had installed. His shiny BMW. The damn Rolex he wore.

  The whole evening had been a trip to Snoozeville until she was ready to go and his inner asshole had come out to play.

  “The night’s still young,” he’d said. “Why don’t I take you to my place for a nightcap or perhaps a dip in the hot tub?”

  She’d wanted nothing more than to be on her couch, watching a chick flick.

  “I have to work in the morning. I need to go home,” she’d said.

  “I’ll make it worth your while. A little wine. A back rub. And if you’re a really good girl,” he’d waggled his bushy brown eyebrows, “I’ll make your kitty purr.”