He's hunting me. And when he catches me, he's going to break me.
I've been running from the law my whole life.
But Rico is the one man I can't escape.
And I don't know if I want to.
Jasmine Francoise lives to taunt the law. The FBI. Me.
I'll bring her to justice.
She'll scream her confession over my knee and in my bed.
She deserves hard time.
I'll make sure she gets it.
The officer is a pushy one, though. “I’ll take her for you, sir,” he says. “Let me, so you can—”
“I said I’ve got this one,” Rico snaps. The officer stiffens, then nods.
Sir. God, I want to call him sir but in a very, very different way. As we go through the utterly dull process that takes hours and lands my ass in jail, I let my mind wander, reveling in the thrill of my sordid fantasy. Rico, fully clothed as he is now, wearing an impeccable charcoal-gray suit that brings out the blue in his eyes and silver at his temples. Me, stark naked and cuffed, over his lap. He’s lecturing me in that sexy-as-fuck growl, fisting my hair for emphasis. He’s so angry he vibrates with tension but controls his anger like a surgeon, with masterful precision.
“You fucked up, little girl,” he rumbles in my ear, his cock pulsing against my naked belly. “And now you pay.”
I’ve watched enough porn to know what happens next, and fuck if I don’t want to feel the searing smack of his palm on my exposed skin. I want to scream for mercy and have him give me none, until I writhe on his lap in helpless agony, bearing the marks of his palm. My gaze roams over his massive, powerful hands, his broad lap. It’s an hour into processing and he’s taken off his suit coat, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his brows, and when he rolls up his shirt sleeves, I lick my lips.
“You look tired, Ricky,” I purr. The only indication he heard me is the slight tensing of his jaw. “Did you not sleep well last night? Up watching football again?” I tip my head to the side and wait for his reaction. I know that’s exactly what he was doing, because to his detriment he’s as predictable as clockwork. “You really should get to bed early when the Bills are on the West Coast, you know.”
“You,” he says, clicking away on his computer, “have no right admonishing me for reckless behavior.” But there’s a twinkle in his eye and a lift of his brow. He’s amused.
“Ah, quite right ma chérie. Perhaps you ought to be the one scolding?” I lean in and lower my voice. “I dream about that, you know.” It takes considerable effort to keep myself from flushing, because this part is not an act and he’s no longer amused. “Hearing you lecture me before you punish me. Before you take me across your lap and give me the long, hard spanking you know I deserve.”
A desperate longing claws at my chest that’s so sudden it takes me by surprise. I calm my breathing and still my racing heart by watching his reaction. Flared nostrils. A hard swallow. A smack of the delete key because he fumbled at the keyboard. He plays the part well, but he’s affected by the image.
“You deserve far more than a spanking, Miss Francoise,” he says in a low growl meant only for my ears.
I lean in closer. “Is that right, Ricky?” My pulse races. I want to hear him say it. I need him to threaten me. I swallow and pluck up my nerve. “What else do I deserve?”
For a split second it looks like he’s going to play this game with me, when his gaze swings to mine, but then his eyes shutter and he’s once more the staid business man. “Prosecution,” he grumbles. “Jail.” But his parting word gives me an inkling of hope. “Humiliation.”
It’s sordid and twisted, but hell if I don’t want him to strip me down and degrade me. Use me. Make me hurt.
If I gave a shit, I’d admit I probably need psychological help.
But I don’t admit faults. I revel in them.
The room pulses with power and need and sexuality.
“You know, Ricky,” I say, almost sadly. “Just one kiss, and you’d change your mind.”
I bite my lip after I say it. I didn’t mean to. Thankfully he’s gathering up papers and sorting them out and doesn’t look my way. When he draws closer, I can smell him, virility and pride, leather and pine, and my core contracts with need.
“That’s enough now,” he admonishes, grasping my arm in his firm grip once more. “No more talk, young lady.”
“Young lady? Does that make you my daddy?”
He smacks my ass so hard and unexpectedly, my breath whooshes out of my body and I utter an involuntary yelp. Before I recover, his palm slams into my ass a second time, then a third. My pulses races a crazy, erratic beat, my breath hitches, and I’m completely taken off guard by the swift, merciless spanking.
“That’s enough,” he says. “You’re goddamned lucky I’m not your daddy.”
It's just as well Loki Renard became an author because other career paths proved disastrous. She was once thrown out of someone's house for trying to sell them citrus based cleaning product, and her brief brush with corporate life ended when she wrote profiles for her fellow employees likening them to various feral animals then attempted to negotiate the idea of not coming into the office and getting paid anyway. Perhaps if she'd had the dedication to slug herself in the face a la Fight Club, things might have turned out differently.
USA Today Bestselling author Jane has been writing since her early teens, dabbling in short stories and poetry. When she married and began having children, her pen was laid to rest for several years, until the National Novel Writing Challenge (NaNoWriMo) in 2010 awakened in her the desire to write again. That year, she wrote her first novel, and has been writing ever since. With a houseful of children, she finds time to write in the early hours of the morning, squirreled away with a laptop, blanket, and cup of hot coffee. Years ago, she heard the wise advice, “Write the book you want to read,” and has taken it to heart. She sincerely hopes you also enjoy the books she likes to read.