cold?”
Eric’s eyebrows shot up. Maybe he had been expecting more than chitchat. “Uh, yes, I believe most meteorologists would use that scientific term—cold.” He smiled.
“Yep, cold.” Courtney pointed a finger in the air. “And windy, quite windy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Help me out here, Senator.”
“Okay, let’s see, it’s also been icy.”
Well, this was silly.
He was obviously following her lead, and it wasn’t getting her anywhere. She reached for her purse, and without fanfare, extracted the riding crop.
If she thought his eyebrows shop up before, now they escaped into his hairline. He rubbed his forehead briefly, and when he looked back at Courtney, his poker face gave nothing away. Was he excited about the object she offered? If so, he was certainly playing it close to the chest. He cleared his throat. “Looks like an early twentieth century design, probably out of the Man o’ War era. He won the Belmont Stakes in 1919.”
TMI.
“I don’t know anything about that. The fellow at the tack shop extolled the virtues of this crop’s flexibility. He said the leather was triple cured, so that it did its job in urging the horse forward but didn’t impart a lasting sting.” Courtney could feel Eric’s eyes on her, but she was too nervous to meet his gaze. She rifled around the bottom of her purse, as though the crop had lost a screw.
“Let me see it.” Eric reached for the crop.
Courtney handed it to him, strap first.
Eric reached back to her hand for the crop’s handle. “First thing you should know, try to minimize contact with the actual crop. Body oils will deteriorate the leather, so always hand the crop to someone like you would offer a knife, handle first.”
Courtney squeaked out an, “Okay, then what?”
“Then you’re going to want to cover your palm with a piece of fabric. I’ll use this linen cocktail napkin.” He tucked the ends of the napkin between his fingers to keep it securely in place. “The fabric not only keeps body oils off the crop, but it adds a layer of protection.”
“Like horsehair?” Courtney asked.
“Not as protective as horsehair, but at least not leather on bare skin.” He looked at her from under his eyelashes as he smacked the crop on his palm.
Surely, he saw her shiver. “I hadn’t thought about the logistics. I assumed a thong would be the clothing of choice.”
• • •
“A thong?”
All right, Miss Sexpot, two can play this game.
“What else have you ‘assumed’?”
“Well,” Courtney inched closer to him on the couch, “I figured there might be some conversation about how the thong wearer—shall I call her the thongee?—had been a bad girl.” Courtney winked at him. He couldn’t recall her ever winking before.
“Go on.” Eric draped an arm over the back of the sofa, just inches from Courtney’s shoulder.
“You see, the thongee knew she’d been pressing the limits of someone’s patience.”
Eric slapped the crop in his palm, again. “You know, this could really hurt.”
Courtney licked her lips. She took several sips of bourbon, and then said, “I can only imagine how much it would sting … and titillate.”
“Tell me more.” Eric inched closer and began massaging Courtney’s shoulder. She moaned, and he moved his hand to the back of her neck, kneading her scalp with his fingers.
“I figured they’d both be so turned on that after a few stings from the crop, he’d ease the thong out of the way and enter her from behind.”
Eric tipped up his glass, finishing his drink. His breathing was ragged. He wanted to take one of Courtney’s feet and pull it toward him so she’d be flat on the couch. Fortuitous for her that she wore pants because if she were in a skirt, he’d have her without further preamble. He didn’t want to hit her with a riding crop, but he sure as hell wanted to make love to her. And damn if she wasn’t ready. Eric ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to devour her, and when he
Eric’s eyebrows shot up. Maybe he had been expecting more than chitchat. “Uh, yes, I believe most meteorologists would use that scientific term—cold.” He smiled.
“Yep, cold.” Courtney pointed a finger in the air. “And windy, quite windy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Help me out here, Senator.”
“Okay, let’s see, it’s also been icy.”
Well, this was silly.
He was obviously following her lead, and it wasn’t getting her anywhere. She reached for her purse, and without fanfare, extracted the riding crop.
If she thought his eyebrows shop up before, now they escaped into his hairline. He rubbed his forehead briefly, and when he looked back at Courtney, his poker face gave nothing away. Was he excited about the object she offered? If so, he was certainly playing it close to the chest. He cleared his throat. “Looks like an early twentieth century design, probably out of the Man o’ War era. He won the Belmont Stakes in 1919.”
TMI.
“I don’t know anything about that. The fellow at the tack shop extolled the virtues of this crop’s flexibility. He said the leather was triple cured, so that it did its job in urging the horse forward but didn’t impart a lasting sting.” Courtney could feel Eric’s eyes on her, but she was too nervous to meet his gaze. She rifled around the bottom of her purse, as though the crop had lost a screw.
“Let me see it.” Eric reached for the crop.
Courtney handed it to him, strap first.
Eric reached back to her hand for the crop’s handle. “First thing you should know, try to minimize contact with the actual crop. Body oils will deteriorate the leather, so always hand the crop to someone like you would offer a knife, handle first.”
Courtney squeaked out an, “Okay, then what?”
“Then you’re going to want to cover your palm with a piece of fabric. I’ll use this linen cocktail napkin.” He tucked the ends of the napkin between his fingers to keep it securely in place. “The fabric not only keeps body oils off the crop, but it adds a layer of protection.”
“Like horsehair?” Courtney asked.
“Not as protective as horsehair, but at least not leather on bare skin.” He looked at her from under his eyelashes as he smacked the crop on his palm.
Surely, he saw her shiver. “I hadn’t thought about the logistics. I assumed a thong would be the clothing of choice.”
• • •
“A thong?”
All right, Miss Sexpot, two can play this game.
“What else have you ‘assumed’?”
“Well,” Courtney inched closer to him on the couch, “I figured there might be some conversation about how the thong wearer—shall I call her the thongee?—had been a bad girl.” Courtney winked at him. He couldn’t recall her ever winking before.
“Go on.” Eric draped an arm over the back of the sofa, just inches from Courtney’s shoulder.
“You see, the thongee knew she’d been pressing the limits of someone’s patience.”
Eric slapped the crop in his palm, again. “You know, this could really hurt.”
Courtney licked her lips. She took several sips of bourbon, and then said, “I can only imagine how much it would sting … and titillate.”
“Tell me more.” Eric inched closer and began massaging Courtney’s shoulder. She moaned, and he moved his hand to the back of her neck, kneading her scalp with his fingers.
“I figured they’d both be so turned on that after a few stings from the crop, he’d ease the thong out of the way and enter her from behind.”
Eric tipped up his glass, finishing his drink. His breathing was ragged. He wanted to take one of Courtney’s feet and pull it toward him so she’d be flat on the couch. Fortuitous for her that she wore pants because if she were in a skirt, he’d have her without further preamble. He didn’t want to hit her with a riding crop, but he sure as hell wanted to make love to her. And damn if she wasn’t ready. Eric ran a hand through his hair. He wanted to devour her, and when he
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