It’d been a little over a month since the funeral, and Claire was being…weird. As in, we hadn’t discussed anything she’d learned on the trip down to Michigan. Not once. She told me she needed time to process, that she wasn’t ready to talk about it. Okay, fine, I kinda get that. So I’ve been giving her space. Our relationship progresses apace; we fuck like teenagers who have just discovered sex, and we still don’t really use the bed. We spend a lot of time together, we talk, we hang out with my brothers and Mara and Dru, and life is good. She’s spending more time here than in Seattle, and I’m starting to think she’s considering moving here full time, but she isn’t quite ready to actually pull the trigger, or isn’t sure how to broach the subject.

I haven’t forgotten her warning, though: a shit-storm is coming. I can feel it. I can see it in her. It’s…inevitable, it seems. I mean, you don’t lose your father and then discover he’s not actually your father within a week and remain totally unaffected by it. And when Claire thinks I’m not paying attention, I see her staring off into the distance, deep in thought. But she never shares.

And the sex…? It’s hot. It’s wild. It’s adventurous. It’s nonstop. We fuck standing up, we fuck against walls and in the shower and on the floor and on our hands and knees, we 69, we finger each other’s assholes, she sucks me off when I least expect it, and I eat her out until she’s quivery from too many orgasms. On the surface, it’s incredible. A dream come true.

Yet…there’s just…there’s something off.

I don’t know. I don’t know how to frame it, how to look at it. Is there something missing? I don’t know. What could be missing? I don’t know, I just don’t know. I get the feeling there’s still so much Claire isn’t telling me. And I don’t know how to get it out of her.

It was two in the afternoon on a Wednesday, and I was sitting at the bar watching sports highlights while Zane repeatedly tossed a long black knife in the air so it flipped several times, caught it by the rope-wrapped handle, and hurled it at the wall behind the bar to sink an inch deep into the wood, which was now heavily pockmarked from Zane’s boredom-killing activity.

“You’re stewing on something,” Zane said, as he retrieved his throwing knife from the wall.

“Yeah, I’m thinking about how you’re completely fucking up that wall.”

He laughed. “It is kind of messed up, isn’t it? Meh, I can replace the boards in about thirty minutes, and you can’t see it unless you’re behind the bar anyway.” He hopped up to sit on the bar next to me. “Talk.”

I sighed, took the knife from him and fidgeted with it. “It’s complicated.”

“You wouldn’t be stewing on it if it was simple.”

“I guess you’re right.” I slid off the bar to stand where Zane had been, and hurled the knife at the wall; it thunked butt-first into the wall and fell to the floor. “You make that look easier than it is.”

Zane retrieved the knife and stood beside me. “You have to keep your wrist locked and throw with your whole arm so you impart proper spin to the blade. Like so.” He demonstrated, and I watched his posture, the way he held the knife, the way his arm moved. “So…what’s the deal?”

I tried again, and this time I got it to stick, but only sort of. “It’s Claire.”

“Problems popping up?”

“Well, sort of. More that problems haven’t popped up. Among other things, her dad died, and she discovered he wasn’t her biological dad. How does that not fuck her up a little? Yet she seems fine.”

“Seems like you’re looking for problems when there aren’t any. Are you having second thoughts about being with her?”

“Hell no. She means the world to me, But, I just have this feeling that…I don’t know, that she’s just suppressing things, and I don’t know how to get her to talk about it without pushing her.”

Zane watched me throw the knife again, and then adjusted my grip slightly, and showed me a slowed-down version of the arm movement. “Stupid question, maybe, but why not just flat out ask? Sometimes you have to push people, I think.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t want to make waves right now. She’s been through a lot, and I want her to be able to figure it out on her own.”

“Well that’s fucking stupid.”

I frowned at him. “Why do you say that?”

He gave me a duh, you’re a stupid-ass glare. “Because you’re her boyfriend, fucknuts. It’s kind of your entire job to help her figure her shit out. That’s why we date people, bro: for help when life gets shitty. Company during the good times, yeah, and for sex, and someone to sleep with at night, and wake up to in the morning. All that shit is nice. But…if you’re not being a source of help when shit get shitty, then what’s the point?”

I laughed. “You have such an eloquent way with words, Zane.” I let out a frustrated breath. “But you’re right. There’s gotta be more than just being there through the shitty shit, as you put it.”

“Damn right there does. She needs you to show her the way through, man. I don’t mean that in any kind of sexist, women are meant to depend on men kind of way, just…if she doesn’t know how to sort her shit, it’s your job to help her.”

“I don’t know the way through, though. I don’t what she’s struggling with.”

“Then that’s where you start. Get her to open up.”

“How, though?”

“Fuck, dude, I don’t know, a can opener?” He slapped me on the back. “By talking, dumbass. Only way there is.”

“Oh.”

Zane chuckled. “For a guy who’s supposed to be one of the smart brothers, you sure are a dumbass, sometimes.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah fuck you back, turd-biscuit.”

“Fuck you back harder, floppy cunt waffle.”

Zane chortled. “Dude, that’s a good one! Floppy cunt waffle? Damn, son.”

I laughed with him. “I’ve been saving that one for a special occasion.”

He stared at me expectantly. “So? Go! Go talk to her.”

“Now?”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Um, yeah, now. The longer you wait, the harder it gets.”

“Since when are you wise about this shit?” I asked.

“Since it’s not my relationship we’re talking about. It’s easy to give someone advice about their business, but it’s always a hell of a lot harder to make sense of your own shit.”

“That’s the truth.” I shot him a look as I tossed my bar towel at him. “You got this?”

“Yeah, I think I can handle the zero customers, dick-licker.”

I gave him the finger as I left the bar to go in search of Claire.

It wasn’t hard to find her, though. She was set up on the couch in Mara’s office, which was in the back corner of a marketing firm a few streets up from the bar. Mara had taken over the office manager job Lucian had suggested, and discovered that she loved it. The company was a marketing and branding firm local to the Ketchikan area, and they were expanding quickly, taking on more and more accounts as their reputation grew. There’d been talk of Mara buying in as a partner eventually, but for now, she was managing the office and enjoying it. It was different work from what she’d done in San Francisco and Seattle, apparently, but it was low-key and she really seemed to thrive on it, so Zane was happy because she was happy.

It also walking distance from the converted warehouse Zane was renovating—well, that Zane was lassoing all of us brothers into helping him renovate. Most of the complicated, technical stuff was being done by Bax and Xavier, but the easier stuff like laying tile and slapping up sheetrock the rest of us did on our downtime. It was almost done, and looking pretty damn sweet, honestly. They had a shitload of space, lots of natural light, and enough bedrooms that they could have a dozen kids and not run out of places to put them all.

As expected, Claire was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the thirdhand couch Mara had in her office, laptop open, fingers flying on the keyboard, a giant mug of steaming coffee on the table near her elbow, giant bright red over-the-ear Beats on her head. Mara was at her desk, two monitors set up side-by-side, a pile of file folders in front of her, the one on top open; she too had a big pair of headphones on her head. Neither of them noticed me right away, and I just watched them for a moment. Intermittently, one of them would cackle and glance up and they’d shoot each other a look, and then go back to their computers. I realized they probably had a messaging thread up, so even while they were each working and in their own headspace, they were still talking to each other, trading jokes or dirty memes.

I leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and stared at Claire, just to see how long it would take before she noticed me. Mara’s desk faced the doorway, so she noticed me right away, but I touched my lips with a finger, and she hid a smile while trying to ignore me. It took almost two full minutes before Claire started to shift, getting the slightly uncomfortable feeling of being watched. At first she glanced up at Mara, but she was studiously tapping away at her keyboard, so Claire went back to her work. I continued staring, as quietly as possible, and finally Claire slid her gaze up to the doorway, and when she saw me, she actually jumped.

“Holy shit, Brock, what the fuck?” She slid her headphones down around her neck. “How long have you been standing there?”

I laughed. “Almost five minutes, babe.”

She eyed me. “So. What’s up?” Another long glance at me, and then she sighed. “Wait, let me guess, you want to talk.”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, closed her laptop, set her headphones on top of it, and stood up, following me out of the office with a wave at Mara. Once out on the street, she threaded her fingers into mine and nudged me with her shoulder. “So. ’Sup?”

“You feel like going for a little flight?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

We walked together to the dock where my seaplane was moored. My plan wasn’t new by any stretch of imagination—I sure as hell didn’t have several hundred grand for a brand-new one; mine was a Piper Supercub from the late 1980s, heavily rebuilt by the previous owner, an older airshow pilot I’d gotten to know on my second national airshow tour. He’d sold it to me for a steal, since he’d been retiring and wanted to get rid of pretty much everything he owned so he could retire onto a sailboat with his twenty-years-younger wife. It had a brand-new engine, recently recovered wings and fuselage, a new prop, and some nice updates and upgrades to the mechanicals. It was a wide body, which meant it sat four as opposed to two, which was nice. I didn’t do any cargo hauling, so I didn’t need the cargo space, which was another reason I’d gone with this particular aircraft, since a lot of Supercubs or similar models only sat two to accommodate more cargo.

My aerobatics aircraft, a fifteen-year-old Staudacher, was currently in storage in Juneau, which was sad. I missed aerobatics, missed the rush, the adrenaline, the excitement.

Yes, I owned two planes. The Staudacher had been my first major purchase, and it had set me back almost a hundred and fifty grand, but I’d saved every penny—except for the cost of flying lessons—that I’d ever made working all year long and two jobs over the summers from the time I was fourteen. I’d saved up enough to put over half down, and Dad had cosigned a loan for the rest.

As soon as I took ownership of that bird, I set out to become a stunt pilot. I’d made some contacts with aerobatics pilots at the airport while taking lessons, which is how I’d gotten into it in the first place. I had the talent, and with a lot of aerobatics training I acquired the skills and, before long, I was performing at airshows around the Northwest, and eventually across the country. I’d quickly paid off the remainder of the loan and before long, I had a decent nest egg saved up, which I’d used to buy the Piper so I could fly in and out of Alaska without having to bother with the local airport and the long drive to the bar.

Claire climbed into the copilot’s seat, buckled in and donned the headset while I went through the preflight. In no time, we were airborne and heading north. Unsurprisingly, Claire seemed in no rush to push me to talk. I followed the sound north, keeping an eye out for a likely spot to put down. It was a bright, warm, sunny day, and I had it in mind to anchor offshore somewhere and sit on the float with a fishing pole and talk. Zane had lit a fire under me and I was determined to get to the bottom of things with Claire. As restless and energetic as she was, she enjoyed fishing with me off the floats, and it had become one our favorite ways to kill a few hours on a Saturday afternoon.

After a quiet thirty-minute flight, I set down a few hundred yards away from the shores of the Muffin Islands, a spray of rocky, tree-covered islands near a set of other larger islands north of Ketchikan. It was a fairly remote spot, beautiful, lush, green, and peaceful. I threw out the anchor and let the plane drift backward until I felt the hook bite into the seafloor.

Claire already had the tackle box open and was setting up our poles while I shut down the engine. We rolled up our jeans around our knees and dangled our bare feet in the cool water, lines angled out, bobbers floating, the sun shining, a long warm breeze ruffling our hair.

“This is more than just a fishing trip, right?” Claire asked after a few minutes of silence. “I’m behind on work, but I figured this was important.”

“I can’t help feeling like you’re suppressing something,” I said. “Your dad’s passing, what your mom told you…you don’t just waltz away unaffected from that kind of thing.”

“Maybe I do.” She tugged on her line to set the bobber wiggling on the surface.

“Nope.” I glanced at her, assessing; she wasn’t shut down, but she wasn’t liking this topic, either. “You’re suppressing.”

“So? Why can’t I suppress it?” She shot me an angry look. “Do I have to tell you every little thing I’m thinking and feeling? And if I don’t, it automatically means I’m unhealthy and suppressing? Is that it?”

“Claire, I’m just worried. You lost your father, and you learned your parents had been lying to you your whole life.”

“And I’m supposed to be moping around crying, now? I’m supposed to sit on some therapist’s couch and spout all my weepy emotions because Daddy didn’t love me?”

I sighed. “I mean, well…yeah, kind of.”

“That’s not me, Brock, and if you don’t understand that about me by now, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

“I have been paying attention, which is why I’m even doing this. I don’t want to push you any more than you want to be pushed, but I know you’re feeling things you’re not letting out and, I’m sorry babe, but that’s not healthy. If you don’t want to talk to me—”

“I’m not seeing a therapist, Brock, so don’t even finish that statement.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Then talk to me.”

“And say what?” She tugged her pole upward again. “I mean, for real, what is it you want me to say? ‘Oh, I’m so sad, I’m so confused, I don’t know who I am.’” The last sentence was delivered with such intense sarcasm it fairly cut the air like a razor. “Fuck that. I’m dealing, okay?”

“I just—”

“I know, I know. You just care,” she said, interrupting me again. “You want to help. I’m grateful, Brock, I really am. But I’m fine.”

Her bobber dipped, bounced, and then sank under the water, and she stood up on the float, angled the tip of her pole upward and cranked the reel, pulling in a giant fish. I scooped it up in the net, worked the hook loose, put it on a stringer, and she cast her line out again.

“Nice catch, babe. That thing has to be damn near a foot long.”

She grinned at me. “I’m winning…again.”

I rolled my eyes at her in fake annoyance, because that was an inside joke between us: she always caught more fish than I did, for whatever reason. It was fucking annoying, but also kind of funny, because she’d never been fishing until I took her out a week or two after we first met.

She’d hated it at first, but once she learned to settle in and enjoy the peace and just hang out with me and talk, she started to get into it. And then she’d caught her first fish, a four-pound monster, and she’d been…hooked—fishing puns for the win. And now, whenever we went out, no matter how many fish I caught, she always caught more than me.

“If Brennan was still alive—” I started.

“NOPE!” she shouted over me. “Not going there, Brock. Don’t care. He’s dead, Dad’s dead, and I don’t really give much of a fuck about either of them.”

“Claire—”

“Wanna know how I’m dealing, Brock? I’m gonna chuck it in the fuck it bucket and move on.”

“Come on, Claire.” I sighed. “You’re being stubborn.”

And again, her bobber sank and she hauled in another fish. Bigger than the last one, too. This time she unhooked it and ran it onto the stringer, while I watched in a not-so-fake annoyance.

“What the fuck is your secret? Seriously.”

She rubbed at the crotch of her jeans. “Pussy magic.”

I stared at her. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means I have a pussy, so I’m just better at everything than you.” She stuck her tongue out at me. “Girls rule, boys drool.”

“Wow. That’s mature.”

She snickered. “You’re just getting pissy because you know it’s true.”

“I’m getting pissy because you’re being ridiculous.”

“And if I wasn’t ridiculous, you wouldn’t be even half so attracted to me.”

I laughed. “I can’t argue with that, actually.”

“That’s right. See, Brock? I’m winning!”

I snorted, shaking my head. “You’re something else, Claire Collins.”

“Let’s play a game,” she suggested, jerking the tip of her pole upward a few times.

“Okay…”

“I bet I’ll catch another fish before you get your first. And if I do, you’re not allowed to ask me how I’m feeling, or what’s wrong, or why I’m not emoting about my dad, or any of that bullshit. You just forget it.”

“And if I catch a fish before you do?”

“I’ll see a therapist. And I’ll blow you on the flight back.”

“That seems lopsided.”

“Deal or no deal?” She held my gaze, her eyebrow quirked.

I sighed. “Fine. Deal.”

She held out one hand for me to shake. “For real. No asking.”

“Fine, I agree,” I said, shaking her hand.

As soon as I let go of her hand, she started cackling triumphantly. “SUCKER!” she shouted, and stood up and started reeling in like a madwoman.

I stared in disbelief. “Are you for fucking real?”

She kept cackling as she hauled in yet another monster fish. “I had it on the line the whole time!”

“You’re evil.”

“Yes I am.”

I restrained the urge to growl, or haul her over my knee and spank her. Which, on second thought, she’d probably enjoy. “That’s not fair. No deal.”

“Oh no, no no no. You shook on it! No take-backs.” She tossed her pole into the plane and pointed her finger at me. “You wouldn’t break your word, would you, Brock Badd?”

“You cheated!”

“And?”

“That negates the deal.”

“No it doesn’t. You’d have known I had a fish on the line if you’d looked at my bobber. Not my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

I had an image in my head, now: Claire bent over my legs, her sweet, sexy ass bare for me, my hand descending to spank her ass until those hot little cheeks were all red and she was begging me to stop, or to fuck her.

And damn it, now that I had the thought in my head it wouldn’t leave. The idea of having Claire’s bare ass under my hand, taking my punishment like the bad girl she was…damn. Damn. I had to do it, and somehow I knew she would probably get off on being spanked.

I glared at her, and then, on a whim, grabbed her wrist, threatening to yank her off balance and into the water.

“Brock! Don’t!” She tried to resist, but I had her wrist in a firm but gentle grip, keeping downward pressure so she was one solid yank from going swimming. “Brock, I swear, do not get me wet. This is my favorite sweater, and my phone is in my pocket. I swear to fuck, I will never speak to you again if you pull me in.”

I kept up the pressure. “Pull your pants down.”

She froze, staring at me. “What?”

“You heard me.” I transferred my grip on her wrist to my other hand so I could set my pole in the plane, and then latched onto her ankle. “One heave, and you’re swimming. Pants around your ankles.”

“Why? What are you gonna do?”

“You never know. Now, pants down, Claire.”

She moved slowly, never taking her eyes off me. She unzipped her jeans, shimmied them down around her ankles. “Okay.”

I quirked an eyebrow up. “Underwear too.”

She hooked her fingers in the sides of her neon green thong and tugged so the scrap of fabric was pooled down with her jeans. “Now what?”

“Lay face down on my lap.”

“What if I fall in?”

“I won’t let you.”

“Promise?”

“I’d never break a promise to you, Claire.” I held her gaze, letting her see the truth.

She moved gingerly, slowly and awkwardly shuffling toward me. I grabbed her waist with both hands and guided her down, keeping her balanced as she flattened her belly onto my thighs. “What’s your plan here, Brock? If you want to fuck me, you’re missing a few minor details.”

“Not planning on fucking you,” I said, palming her ass cheek. “At least, not yet.”

“Then what are you—” She broke off with a startled shriek as I smacked her ass cheek. I wasn’t exactly gentle, either. The crack of my hand across her butt echoed across the water, and she lurched forward. “FUCK!”

I held her down. “Be still.”

“What the hell is this?”

I spanked the other cheek, and she shrieked again, lurching so the plane rocked. “This is what you get for cheating.”

The other cheek again, and now the pale, creamy bubble of her ass was pinking, and she was whimpering, gripping my jeans with both hands clawed like talons. I rubbed gently over the pink spots with my palm, and she began to loosen her grip. And I struck again, smacking harder than the last time, hard enough that she was jolted. I didn’t give her a reprieve, but spanked again, and she whimpered, sounding like she was biting her lip. The whimper wasn’t of pain, though. Oh no, I knew my girl.

“You like this, don’t you, Claire?” I demanded in a rough voice, caressing the reddening flesh.

“No,” she groaned.

I slid my fingers between her thighs and found her slit, dipped a finger in. “You’re soaked, Claire. Your pussy is dripping.” I spanked her again, twice on one cheek, but more softly. “Don’t lie to me.”

She writhed on me, and I tightened the grip of my arm around her middle, keeping her pinned down onto my legs. “Your weak little spanks don’t turn me on,” she growled. “You’re gonna have to spank me a hell of a lot harder than that.”

“Is that right?” I murmured.

I sucked the juices off my fingers noisily, and she craned her head over her shoulder to watch me as I licked my fingers. Slowly, gently, I caressed her ass cheeks, one and then the other in soothing circles with my palm. And then, without warning, I spanked her again, once, twice, three times, and each smack was harder than the last, and she was moaning, shifting her hips, shrieking with the smacks and moaning in between them.

“Harder.”

“Harder?”

“You hit like a bitch. Spank me harder.” She grinned at me over her shoulder. “Is that what you wanna hear? Spank me harder, Daddy.”

So I spanked her harder, alternating cheeks until the flesh was red and angry looking and she was gasping and writhing. And that’s when I slipped two fingers inside her soaked pussy and spread her juices over her clit and rubbed the engorged flesh there until she was humping my fingers and groaning, shuddering.

Then, when I knew she was seconds from coming, I lifted her into the back seat. “Time to go,” I said, standing up.

She stared at me, her jeans and underwear around her ankles, her skin flushed, cheeks pink, hair a mess, eyes wide, surprised, shocked, confused, still shaking. “Wait, what?”

I shot her an evil smirk. “That’s it. Time to go.”

“But—but I was—goddamn it, Brock!” she howled. “I was right there!”

“I know.”

“And you’re just gonna stop? You’re going to leave me like this?”

“Yep.” I hauled in the anchor, and then dried my hands on my jeans before climbing behind the controls.

She stayed in the back seat for a stunned moment, staring at me in anger. “You bastard.” I glanced back, and she had two fingers between her legs. “Who needs you? I can come without you.”

I reached back and pinioned her wrist. “Nope. No coming without me, remember?”

“Goddamn it.” She shook my grip off and pulled up her thong and then her jeans. “This is your payback, huh?”

I winked at her and clicked my tongue. “Can’t put anything past you, can I?”

She closed the door, secured the poles and tackle box, and slumped into the copilot seat. “You suck.”

I went through preflight, and then started the engine and took off. When we were airborne and heading back toward Ketchikan, I shot a look at her. “You like being spanked.”

She gave me a dirty glare. “Yeah, well, see if I let you do that again.”

I laughed. “Oh, you’ll let me.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She crossed her arms over her boobs and huffed. “Fuck you.”

“I keep my promises, Claire. You cheated, and I got you back. You want me to finish you off? I can have you coming all over my fingers in seconds. Slip those pants down and I’ll show you how fast I can make you come.”

“But?”

I shrugged. “But you have to agree that you cheated and that it doesn’t count. I won’t ask about anything again if you really don’t want me to, but you have to promise that you’ll talk to me, that you won’t keep things bottled up like you have been.”

“Why are you pushing this so hard?”

“Because you mean more to me than just about anyone on this planet, and I know you’re feeling things you’re not expressing, but you’re too damn headstrong and stubborn to talk about it. You’d rather push it all down and pretend it doesn’t affect you. And when it comes down to it, you don’t really trust me.”

“I do too trust you,” she argued.

“Then talk to me.”

“I don’t know how.” She unbuckled the five-point seat belt, unbuttoned her jeans and shoved them along with her thong down around her knees. “Now—finish me off.”

“Apologize for cheating and I will.”

She sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes in supreme irritation, and then let out the breath and met my gaze. “Fine.” She lifted her chin. “Brock, I apologize for cheating. Can you forgive me?”

I held the aircraft steady with one hand and reached over with my other hand, dipping my middle finger inside her and then pulling it out to flick my fingertip against her clit. “I forgive you, Claire.”

She moaned, and then sucked in a sharp breath, throwing her head back and closing her eyes in bliss. “My ass hurts so bad it’s hard to sit down.”

“I liked seeing your tight little ass all red and splotchy.”

Her eyes flicked open. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve experienced in a long time.”

“You like it when I spank you, don’t you?”

She lifted her shirt up to pinch and roll her nipples between her fingers. “Fuck yes.”

“You want me to bend you over my bed and fuck you from behind while I spank you, don’t you?”

“I want that so bad, Brock!” She was writhing in the seat, grinding against my flicking fingertip. “I want you to spank me until I beg you to stop and then I want you to fuck me doggy style and keep spanking me. I want to feel your big hard hand on my ass cheeks, and I want to be so sore I can’t sit for days, because every time I sit down I’ll think about you spanking me and fucking me.”

My cock was raging inside my jeans, bent double against the zipper, aching. “Fucking hell, Claire. You’re such a dirty girl.”

“Brock, baby—” She broke off to moan breathily, rolling her nipples between her fingers, riding the edge of orgasm. “You have no idea how dirty I can be, Brock. No fucking idea—oh god, oh god, oh god!”

She thrashed, fucking herself on my fingers, screaming like a banshee as she came. By this point, I was so hard inside my jeans that it was actually painful. Once Claire was finished coming, I tugged at the zipper of my jeans so my dick could straighten out a little bit. The movement caught Claire’s eye, and she reached for me, still breathing hard.

“I feel like maybe it should be your turn, huh?” she said.

I put both hands on the yoke. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

She reached into my jeans and pulled my cock out. “You liked spanking me as much I liked being spanked, I take it?”

I nodded as she stroked me lazily in one hand. “Hell yeah, I did.”

“What made you do it?” She rubbed her thumb over the tip, smearing pre-come. “I didn’t think you were the kinky type.”

“I’m not typically. But I was so pissed at you I thought about spanking you as a punishment, and I realized you’d probably just like it, and then I couldn’t get that image out of my head.”

She met my gaze, her fist gliding loosely around my shaft, her touch gentle, affectionate, unhurried. “Well, I don’t approve of you punishing me, but I do approve of being spanked like that. Feel free to take me over your knee whenever you want. I might protest, but that’s half the fun, right?”

“You totally earned it and you know it.”

“I don’t like being pushed, Brock. I’ll talk when I’m ready, if I’m ever ready. Some things are just…”

“Off-limits?”

“No,” she said, slipping her other hand into my pants to cup my balls. “Some things are hard for me to even think about in my own head, much less talk about. This is one of those things. I may not ever be able to really talk about it, and pushing me is just going to piss me off.”

“I get that, and I respect that. But don’t bullshit me, okay? Don’t block me out and don’t fuck with me. Like when you tried to use sex to get out of going to the hospital. That shit doesn’t fly with me.”

“Sometimes you don’t listen to me, and I have to get your attention somehow.”

I was finding it hard to focus on the conversation and flying at the same time. “I don’t listen to you when what you’re saying is bullshit.”

Now both of her hands were around my shaft, slowly pumping, and her eyes were on my cock, and her tongue was sliding back and forth across her lower lip, an adorable little signal of hers that she was getting ready to use her mouth. Adorable, but also a Pavlovian thing for me, as in, when I saw that tongue stick out and lick her lower lip like that, my already-hard cock went even harder because I knew I was about to get her hot wet mouth on me.

Oh…yep. There she went. She set aside the headset and bent over me, and I hissed and clenched my fists around the yoke as she took me into her mouth, her wet heat sinking around me.

One of the first things I learned about Claire was that she had absolutely zero gag reflex. None. And this was something she was always very eager to demonstrate on me. Imagine my shock, that first night together, when she got me hard and spent a few minutes using her hands, and then had bent over me and took my cock into her mouth, and then just kept taking. I mean, I’m a pretty well-endowed guy and she’s a pretty petite girl, and I was in no way expecting or anticipating her to take even half of it when she started sucking.

But she’d glanced up at me with a little grin, as if she knew she was about to blow my mind, and then she’d sunk her mouth down my shaft until her lips touched my balls and her nose bumped my belly, and I wasn’t even sure where it all was, or how she was capable of such a feat. She didn’t always deep throat me, though. She liked to save it for when she really wanted to make it special.

Like now. She cupped my balls in her hands and massaged my taint—one of her favorite things to do to me, for some reason—and then, with that hot little smirk, she took me all the way.

“Holy fuck,” I groaned.

She bobbed on me slowly, backing away a little farther every time, and then taking me to the hilt again. She had me flexing, groaning, and her mouth was suctioned around the head, her tongue sliding against me, sucking hard. I hissed, feeling the orgasm rising in me.

“Gonna come soon,” I warned.

And now, with my warning, she deep throated me and then backed off until I popped free of her mouth, and she licked the tip, and then took me all the way again. And again. And again. Faster and faster. No hands, just my cock sliding wet and slick past her lips until I felt the pressure boiling inside me, hot and wild and undeniable, and I groaned, letting my hips flex.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—” I snarled, my eyes narrowing, need blasting through me. “Now, Claire…I’m gonna come—right now.”

She didn’t slow down; if anything, she sped up. Took me as deep as I’d go, and then as I released she backed away, taking my come in her mouth and swallowing it with a loud gulp before sinking down on me again, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, tongue flicking and flitting and licking and swirling. Another hard blast wrenched through me, and now she backed away to wrap her lips around the head and sucked hard as I groaned and flexed and kept coming. She swallowed frantically, her fists around my cock sliding and pumping as her mouth sucked, and I felt myself getting dizzy from the power of the orgasm she’d pulled out of me.

I forced myself to focus, to keep the craft steady in the air, keeping the nose up and the wings level.

“Goddamn, Claire.”

She lifted up, and a droplet of my come slid down from the corner of her mouth. I wiped it with my thumb, and she grabbed my hand, licking my thumb, then pumped my cock a few times until more come seeped out, and she licked that away too, as if savoring the last of an ice-cream cone, and then she tucked me away and re-zipped and buttoned me.

Claire sat up and donned the headset. “It never ceases to amaze me how much semen you produce, Brock,” she said, buckling up once more.

“You do it to me, babe.”

“To you, or for you?”

I shrugged. “Both.”

A few minutes of silence, and then she glanced at me. “I really am sorry, Brock.”

“I know. It’s okay. Just be real with me, okay?”

“I’m trying.”

The rest of the flight back was normal, with normal conversation, normal silences, everything totally normal.

And yet…I still had an uneasy feeling.