You could cut air with it - he on one side of the car, she on the other - anger radiating off both of them, filling them with tightly strung tension and... lust... pure and unadulterated lust... fueled by anger. She was rarely angry with him. Irritated, yes. Annoyed sometimes... But rarely angry enough to lash out at him with her fists... which she was about to do... any second now...
He was *never* angry with her. Annoyed sometimes by something she did? Yes. Mostly, he was frustrated when she did something he specifically told her not to do, and frustrated that she was sometimes willful and failed to think of the consequences of her actions. Then... he wanted to blister her bottom until she burned, until... he could see straight again... which was why he often delayed that rare but punishing spanking until he had cooled off.
He'd hold her tight in his embrace while he took calming breaths; if necessary, delay the inevitable for a few hours until he knew he was rational. Even then, he had to curb his strength when he spanked her so her ivory bottom would gradually turn rosy pink, then red, then carmine, then... Carmine was the limit and only if she had brought herself close to serious injury... anything worse and he'd never forgive himself - nor would she.
What she did tonight... he had been stunned. He had never seen the street urchin she had been... had never seen her in action... had never realized she was capable of that kind of rage. That button had not been pushed before. The woman at the party... jealous of his wife's popularity among the senior staff... had purposely insulted her, calling her a bastard and a slut and poor white trash and a baby whore and insinuating that her mother had been one, too. She was none of those things, of course, and if the woman had only been verbally abusive... but she had shoved Spencer, knocking her to the floor with a harsh backhand to her face...
He didn't know she could move that fast. When he saw her hit the floor, his heart had stopped. Alarmed, he had shouted from across the room... but by the time he reached her, she had already leaped to her feet... grabbed the woman's forearm and swung her hard... hurling her crashing into the wall... As the stunned female slid to the floor, Spencer grabbed her leg and was about to twist it till it broke... In an instant, he reached her before others could intervene... and lifted her off of the unconscious woman. Without thinking first... only wishing to curb her rage... pure reflex... he upended her... in front of God and company... and rained a brief but harsh volley of spanks on her upturned bottom.
There was a collective round of low feminine gasps, satisfied and smug coughs and smiles from the men and one long and shocked hiss from the small bundle of outraged femininity under his arm.
The moment he set her on her feet she swung at him and found herself tossed none too gently over his shoulder as he marched from the house, leaving startled silence in their wake. Neither said a word when he placed her in the passenger seat and buckled her seatbelt. They rode home in complete silence, the air crackling as they both tried to control their emotions.
When they arrived home, she jerked the seatbelt off and would have flown out of the car but his hand caught her upper arm, stopping her.
"No," he said firmly.
"Let go!" she hissed.
"Wait for me," he replied, a command... still holding onto her arm.
When he felt her relax against the seatback, he let go of her but had sorely underestimated her move. The moment he turned and opened the driver's side door, she was out of the car in a flash and running...
It took a lifetime and four heaving breaths to reach her and when he did, she was so fueled by her anger... punching... kicking... he had to tackle her to hold her down. Without uttering a word, he turned her onto her back and kissed her. It didn't make any sense - though often justified, anger rarely makes sense. Lust and need and passion and lovers quarreling rarely made sense - except in the moment - and only, to them. His larger body pressed against her smaller one, their rapid heartbeats echoing each other... his mouth hard and demanding on hers... one strong arm automatically cushioning her body on the hard ground, the other hand tightly wound in her hair firmly holding her head.
She didn't say anything when he picked her up and stumbled into the house, setting her on her feet and turned her so her back was to his chest. He was breathing hard and so was she as she waited for the inevitable, certain he was going to burn her bottom until the fight was out of her. His breath was hot and heavy on her neck, his hands tight on her waist and silently, she debated whether she'd get one good punch or kick in before...
"Ohhhh," she gasped as his hand curled around the neck of her dress and ripped it from her back, her bra snapping into two pieces as his angry fingers caught the edge of the strap. The sound of the fabric tearing penetrated... an old memory surfaced briefly then was lost again as the sudden feeling of a bared back startled her. She twisted her body in an attempt to turn but his hands held her in place as he pushed the remaining shredded garments away. Pieces of the ripped cloth were held to her sides by his arms cupping her belly and her sex and then her panties were shredded and she was naked except for her shoes... and he was in her... hard... and full... and demanding.
She made a hoarse noise, one she'd never heard come from her throat and registered the noises he was making... equally as primitive. At that particular moment, propelled by anger and lust and need... mutual need... neither was capable of forming words.
One hand continued to cup her mound, his thumb and fingers pressing and squeezing passion's button, the other arm around her chest holding her upright, his hand possessively covering her breast. He was rough and relentless in his rhythm, his body demanding a response from hers and she gave him what he wanted, unable to fight him even if the thought had crossed her mind, which it didn't. She would have collapsed after that first swift and brief orgasm, but his arms held her tight to his chest.
"No," he growled when she was flagging, and kept pounding into her, then increased the pace of his hips and his hands until she was almost sobbing... One orgasm after another pushing her so high into the sky... so fast... and then dropping her... She was suddenly consumed by a dull dry ache... convinced she would feel bereft when he finally left her empty. And then the remainder of her ripped garments fell from her body and his teeth found her shoulder. He made a deep, low roaring sound, and after long seconds... la petite mort... and rebirth, it was over.
Both were panting as if they'd run miles, and she shivered, uncertain of what was going to happen next. Without bothering to refasten his clothing, he turned her around to face him and bent his head to rub his face against hers before carrying her to the couch.
"She was bigger than you, heavier than you," he said softly when he caught his breath and held her nude form on his lap. "You could have been injured badly. I..."
"I can take care of myself," she replied testily. "And I did," she reminded him. "If you hadn't interfered, I would have..."
"Caused far more damage than you did," he said in that same soft and controlled tone he used when he was trying to urge his heart not to leap from his chest when she courted danger. "She was a bitch," he told her when she would protest. "She behaved like an animal but you..." he cupped her chin. "You should not have gone down to her level. You should have remembered that you're a lady, *my* lady. You could have quietly cut her verbally. You could have arched that beautiful brow of yours and turned your back."
"She insulted me! I didn't provoke her and she hit me!"
"Yes, she did," he remembered and with a great deal of gentleness, kissed the side of her face that was just now beginning to turn a pale shade of mauve. "And you would have broken her leg and who knows what else if I hadn't stopped you. As it is, she probably has a concussion from hitting the wall."
"I would have broken every bone in her body," she admitted quietly and with no remorse. "I would have kicked and twisted and torn and punched until I ran out of steam. I would have..."
"Was it her words?" he asked, trying to calm her by covering her face with tender kisses. "Or was it a self-defensive act that got out of hand?"
"It was her contempt," she replied, looking up into the face of the man who loved her beyond words, beyond censure, and for her... would boldly look into the face of God and beyond his own redemption.
He nodded, hitching his pants as he stood with her in his arms, her shoes slipping to the floor. "You have to learn to curb that temper of yours, my love. And I know just how to help you do that."
"You're going to spank me, aren't you?"
"I think I was justified in what I did," she told him, not fighting him as he carried her to their bedroom.
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But what you did to her made what she did to you look like child's play. She was an angry and unfeeling and jealous woman. You, on the other hand, were an enraged and very well skilled street fighter. She didn't have a chance."
"Will you have to apologize to anyone for what I did?" she asked, suddenly worried that his newly appointed captaincy of a warship was in jeopardy.
"No," he smiled for the first time since the incident. "My C.O. and the others will just kid me about having a mini titan warrior for a wife."
"Then there's no reason to spank me," Spencer concluded. "And you!" she sputtered as her anger resurfaced and she squirmed, trying to get out of his arms. "You spanked me in front of... in front of... You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"That was the outlet for my rage," he explained, tightening his arms around her and kissing the tip of her nose. "Not the most politically correct thing to do, but I didn't break any bones or bruise anything more than your ego. Have I told you lately that I love you?" he grinned at her indignation and then nuzzled her neck. Before she could protest further, he sat on the side of their bed and flipped her onto her belly.
"I'm going to get even!" she gasped when his heavy hand began a harsh and strident polka on her bottom cheeks.
"Please don't hurt me, bambina," he laughed softly and bent his head to nip each bottom cheek, then concentrated on raising the temperature of those cheeks to a rolling boil.
"You don't love me," she sobbed when he pulled her to his chest. He waited quietly until she stopped crying and cursing him for this barbaric act and then wiped her face with his shirt.
"I love you so much," he whispered. "If you had been seriously injured, if anything worse had happened, I would have been hard pressed to remember I'm an officer and a gentleman. You won't fight like that again, do you understand? There's no need. I will fight your battles for you."
"I'm perfectly capable of..."
"Your battles are *my* battles, little one. *I* will fight your battles," he said firmly.
"What if *you* make me mad?"
"Then I'll have to make love to you over and over again until you get over that mad."
"You're arguing with me?" he raised a skeptic brow. "I see I'm going to have to show you what I mean."
And he confirmed his words by cupping her sore bottom and loving her... over and over again... ~ End ~