Rocky Mountain Ride (Rocky Mountain Bride Series Book 7) by Lee Savino Page A

her in his arms and tell her it would be all right. But that would offend her. Francesca needed the kiss of the lash, a touch of the belt, and then she would know she was loved.
    When she bent over and raised her dress to present herself, he nearly spent himself at the mouthwatering sight. She wore her favorite striped skirt, now bunched around her hips. Her black stockings encased slim brown legs ending in the blissful curve of her bottom. A feast for the eyes, quivering and ready for him to turn it ripe red.
    All his.
    His sentimental thoughts gave him pause. She wasn’t his. She was a woman he was helping, probably would idealize until she began to bore him, and then he could ride off into the sunset and move on, Francesca a happy memory.
    The thought was painful. He’d never considered he’d miss her.
    The sound of Francesca’s harsh breathing brought him back. He had to attend to the matter at hand: her pert bottom thrust out.
    He listened to the little catches in her breath, the whimpers that escaped, the way her weight shifted. For a minute, he amused himself by catching her off guard; when she shifted right, he smacked her right cheek, then straight on, then caught her sit spots with the flat of his hand, driving her up on her toes. He rained a torrent of blows, sharp and unrelenting, then slowed and smacked her in rhythm—top quadrant right, top left, then bottom right and left.
    Her bottom took on a nice pink glow, and he pinched it. She squealed and almost let her skirts fall.
    “None of that now.” He took a moment to tuck up her layers and study her. She’d scrunched up her face but hadn’t started to cry. He felt he was going rather easy on her, given the state of his cock and the frustration he had to work out.
    “This is for disrespecting me in the market,” he told her, and smacked one sit spot over and over, ten, twenty times, until she was breathing hard, clenching her cheeks and pressing into the table.
    “And now the other,” he said cheerfully, and repeated the torture until pleased with the result: two hot spots on her bottom. She’d think twice before sassing him when she was sitting down for dinner.
    He wanted her good and warm before he applied the belt.
    After a few minutes, he took a break to give her some water.
    “Had enough?” he asked, knowing his mocking would make her grit her teeth.
    She shook her head, and he went behind her, squeezing her cheeks. He knew the massage would dull the pain. But it would make her drip, and, for a woman like Francesca, fighting for control, her arousal at his hands was punishment in and of itself.
    Her sweet musk filled the apothecary.
    “A few more minutes should do. Then we move on to stage two.” He almost laughed at her sharp intake of breath.
    She didn’t say anything, though. She still had her pride. And he hadn’t brought her to the brink, not by a long shot. The longer he drew the punishment out, though, the less she’d feel it—the pain would float away, leaving her warm and sated and malleable. He couldn’t wait to see her like that again. The last time, she’d cried and confessed her deepest feelings, and let him help her all the way home.
    After soothing her bottom, it was time to smack it again, he enjoyed the way the fleshy globes bounced under his palm. She made little noises, but seemed to be taking the pain well, whereas it was pure torture for him. He took out his sexual frustration on her bum, spanking it until it was flushed and warm.
    “How does it feel, Francesca?”
    “It hurts.”
    She wasn’t crying though, not yet.
    She would need that release.
    He spent a few happy minutes squeezing her bottom, taking the sting away. The massage would torment her more than the harshest beating.
    Sure enough, she begged, “please, sir, just get it over with.”
    He chuckled. “Stand and go to the corner, nose to the wall, keep your skirts lifted high.”
    She made a noise half between protest and a sob, but obeyed. Her eyes