Penance

Motion brings my attention back to David who pulls up a pinch of his own shirt between two fingers. He tugs it twice and jerks his chin in a silent command. Trig responds stiffly, his normally fluid movement slightly jerky as he reaches up and grabs the back of his T-shirt. He pulls it up over his head and lets it slide down his arms, gathering it into his hands, and kneading it. Pulling it over his head has rumpled his hair but he doesn’t reach to smooth it down and as he stands before David, his eyes shifting, his hands moving nervously, his hair tousled, I find him incredibly adorable and I grin.

David holds out one hand and Trig relinquishes the t-shirt, hunching his shoulders slightly and pressing his arms close to his body. Despite his obvious discomfort, I allow myself a moment to take in his body. His skin is smooth and the room is lit with lamps which soften and warm the curves of his muscles, so defined I can trace each with my eyes, a distant part of my mind entertaining me by reciting their names in anatomical Latin, but my eyes are soon pulled back to his face. He’s looking at the floor now, his eyes are cast down but his chin dips only slightly. He looks humble, unhappy, but not defeated. I feel a tug at my chest and belly. I love him. I’m already proud of him.

David spreads the t-shirt over his left thigh and motions Trig forward. Trig obeys and I feel my breath quickening and my heart beating faster, imagining that it’s in harmony with Trig’s own as he takes a step forward. He’s moving stiffly, as if he’s already taken a beating, though I know that he hasn’t. His feet are bare and the worn cuffs of his jeans cover all but his toes and an inch of skin. Enraptured, I realize that I missed the unspoken command that now has Trig unbuttoning his fly. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t look at me, but something in me is suddenly conscious of my place in this intimate moment. I’m not sure where to rest my eyes. I risk a quick glance at Kyle who is curled into the couch beside me. His right thigh is pressed against my left, a strong and steadying warmth. He doesn’t meet my eyes; his gaze is fixed steadily on Trig, but his right hand slips over mine, his fingers curl around and press firmly into my palm.

Trig has pushed his jeans down to his ankles. He steps out of them, unbalancing slightly and taking an awkward step. My belly tugs again with a mix of emotions, both sympathy and keen interest. Trig, my perfect dancer, graceful, artful, always with his feet under him… stumbled.

His face is red, but I notice first the splotchy flush creeping down his neck and chest, the crimson of his ear. Then I see his face, the way he is breathing through his nose, his nostrils flaring slightly with each breath. I’m transfixed by his embarrassment, the anxious way his eyes dart between David’s face and hands, the spastic twitches of his fingers as he presses his arms to his sides, his hands to his thighs.

Trig is naked! The thought hits me with such intensity I suck in my breath and I realize suddenly how long it’s been since I breathed. I feel giddy and I want to grin but I chew my lip instead and let my gaze move intently over his body again. I’ve seen most of him in bits and pieces when he’s lifted his shirt, or pushed down his jeans to show me welts, stripes, bruises… But I’ve never seen him naked… head to toe… in nothing but his skin. I let my eyes trace the curve of his shoulder, down his back, over his ass… so perfectly round, smooth, and strong, I realize it’s going to be smacked very hard, very soon, and I try to fix in my mind the paleness of his skin in this moment. I want to grin like an idiot and I try to admonish myself that this is a serious occasion, an intimate and personal encounter, a grave and solemn situation.

David moves his hand and my light mood evaporates. My belly knots with anticipation and I actually feel my butt and legs tense as Trig lowers himself across David’s thighs. David has his feet spread, and Trig’s hips are over David’s left leg, his chest on David’s right. Trig braces his toes against the floor and before he’s even stopped moving David raises his hand high, not just his hand, his arm, his bicep parallel to his shoulder, like he’s going to throw a baseball, and brings it down with such incredible force I actually feel myself jump and pull back, bumping into Kyle’s shoulder. The first slap is followed immediately by a second, just as hard, and the room actually seems to echo with the double crack of his hand on skin. Trig’s jerks hard, he bends one of his knees, and scrabbles with his hands, wrapping them quickly around David’s calf. He makes a soft squeak that sounds halfway between a yelp and a gasp and I have the sudden impression that this isn’t how spankings normally start between them.

David lays his hand on Trig’s hip and rests it there. Trig is tense and breathing fast, and it takes me a second to realize that Kyle’s hand, still wrapped around mine is lightly thumping my thigh. I turn to look at him.

Looking into his face, I realize that my body is taught and I’m vibrating slightly. Kyle holds my gaze for a second and then he winks and the corners of his mouth tilt up slightly. I let out my breath in a silent and humorless half-laugh. My lips are dry and my muscles are still buzzing. I look back at Trig and David.

The tension has mostly gone from Trig’s body and he’s straightened his legs again, his toes are dug into the carpet. His hands are still around David’s right calf, but his grip is loose. His head is down, but I can mostly see his expression. His eyebrows are drawn slightly as if he’s worried or concentrating, but he doesn’t look afraid. I try to relax my own body and I feel Kyle shift his position so that my back is against his chest. He puts one arm behind my back, circles his hand around my belly and pulls me back against him. I let myself lean into him and he presses his lips against my shoulder for a minute, I can feel his breath, warm, through my t-shirt.

For the first time, I see David glance at us, his gaze lingers longer on Kyle than on me, it seems as if some communication is passing between them, but I don’t turn to look at Kyle’s face. Then David looks down at the back of Trig’s head. His hand slides down the back of Trig’s thigh then back up to his ass and Trig shifts his hips very slightly, I see the fingers on his right hand curling into a fold of David’s jeans.

I am looking at Trig’s face when the third slap lands and he jerks his head up slightly, his eyes squeeze shut and his lips press into a tight line but he doesn’t make a sound. I glance at David as the fourth swat lands. The second two aren’t as hard as the first ones, though if I didn’t have the first two to compare them to, I know I’d have been thinking, “Geez, David is spanking him really hard!” As it is I’m relieved that the force of the first two isn’t going to be maintained throughout. A rebel thought whispers that I’m probably glad of that ’cause the spanking wouldn’t last very long if it was all that hard, and I wonder at the dark little vicious streak that is as much a part of me as the soft, mushy streak that just wants to gather Trig up and make it all better. Of course, not until after he’s been smacked thoroughly… Damn vicious streak.

David continues to spank, now settling into a rhythm. The crack of his hand is loud and I feel a little twitch in my belly at each one. Trig seems to be in a rhythm, too. He’s keeping his head down, and his body tenses slightly at each swat although so subtly I’m not entirely sure if he’s tensing from the pain or just keeping his balance. I completely believe that the strength of David’s hand alone is enough to drive Trig forward an inch with each blow. Maybe the tensing is just countering ending up on his face…

I try not to hear the clock ticking the seconds between swats. David can’t hear it, nor Kyle, and I’m sure Trig is beyond listening. I’m the only person in the room who can hear it and I try to tune it out. It ticks the seconds and David’s hand falls almost on every other second, but just far enough off the rhythm that he and the clock hand go slowly out of sync and back again as the seconds tick by. Briefly this scrapes at my attention, irritating me, I wonder how I even am sparing attention to a clock when this scene is playing in front of me. I try to focus but my attention is drifting again, half here, half somewhere else. I’m startled and slightly ashamed of myself, then I realize – I know this… This is the beginning of the spanking, of so many that I did myself, the beginning when the spanking is slow and steady, the bottom is still breathing through the pain, not yet beginning to react, when the top, when I, am not yet trying to break his concentration and his will… It feels suddenly like I’m part of something, part of some knowledge, some skill-set. I know this. My attention is suddenly intensely focused.

I look at David. His right hand is on Trig’s shoulder, at the junction of his shoulder and neck, his fingers are loosely curled under toward Trig’s collarbone. His left hand falls like a metronome, slightly off the tick of the clock. Trig has raised his head slightly and I can see his face better, he’s flinching a little now at each swat. His mouth is open and he clamps his teeth and inhales with a soft hiss at each swat, then opens his jaw and lets his breath out in a sharp huff before the next.

I’m wondering how long he is going to hold up, then the tempo breaks. David rubs his hand slowly over Trig’s ass and down each of his thighs. I’m surprised at how red Trig’s skin is. I wonder at how much pain Trig is in. He doesn’t relax as David lets his left hand rest on Trig’s hip and squeezes Trig’s shoulder twice, it looks almost like encouragement and then he speaks.

I feel a moment of disorientation. I rarely hear David’s voice, even more rarely hear his speech. Now in the silence of the room, the ticking clock shoved completely from my mind, David’s voice is deep and soft, his words, though few, are startlingly unaccented by his deafness. The actual words themselves finally register in my mind and I feel my eyes widen.

“Are you ready to start?”

Trig pulls in a long breath. It is unsteady and it catches in his chest. The look of worry is deeper now, and looks more like anxiety than concentration, though I guess it might be some combination of the two… Or some other emotion I haven’t even considered. He slowly wraps his hands and arms around David’s leg. His tongue flickers over his lower lip which he pulls under his teeth and releases slowly before he nods. His eyes close.

I press back more into Kyle’s body. I want to look at his face, but I can’t tear my eyes from Trig. I wonder if Kyle is turned on. I’m close enough, I could tell if I shifted, moved my arm a little… but I decide against it. I’m not sure what answer I’m looking for, I’m not sure I even want to know what’s happening between my own legs and I take the mental half-step to the left that is so second nature to me…and I have no body.

David is still rubbing small circles and figure-eights on Trig’s ass and Trig squirms slightly, repositioning his feet. He braces his toes on the carpet, pushes his legs straight, one hand is rhythmically clenching and opening around a fold of denim.

The spanking starts again, as hard as before but faster, too fast to breathe between swats and I find myself holding my breath until the urge for air breaks my trance and I gulp a quick breath and hold it again. Trig doesn’t hold up long this time, within a few swats he’s starting to twitch. His hips shift and he drops his right knee for a second, pulling his foot up off the floor, then thrusting his toes back down into the carpet.

Soon Trig’s breath is coming out in hisses and soft grunts. I notice that his ass is a hot red and I feel a moment of strange disorientation… It seems that the spanking has both barely started and been going on for ages. Trig’s reactions seem strangely understated for the power and the speed behind David’s swats, yet I’m faintly uncomfortable that Trig’s stoicism has been broken, as if I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t.

David had been alternating the swats from right to left, now he lands five swats in a row on Trig’s right ass cheek and Trig’s understated, more-breath-than-voice grunts, become a series of three increasingly vocal yelps. The pitch of his voice is rising, too, now. Five swats to his left cheek bring a similar response then a repeat to the right brings on a slightly more sustained exclamation that breaks at the end into ragged inhalation.

My chest is tight, I suddenly realize my eyes are wide, I’m sitting rigid and still, but something in my gut lurches in response to the faint tremor in Trig’s voice. It is recognition, a visceral and primal response refined over and over again by the men I’d spanked, broken, taken to tears. I know that place, that edge. Though I know David didn’t hear Trig’s response, he stops abruptly after repeating the five swats a second time to Trig’s left cheek and now runs his hand down and back up each of Trig’s thighs.

I feel myself taking regular breaths again and I catch myself starting to grin as I watch David’s face and eyes, there is something calculating in the way he is looking down at Trig, a slightly wicked satisfaction in his expression, or perhaps I’m just projecting, though I’m sure that I see it. Trig is breathing fast and hard and his entire body twitches slightly every few seconds though David isn’t touching the skin of Trig’s ass which has grown a deeper red and seems roughened and slightly goosebumped.

As David moves his hand back up Trig’s right thigh, he suddenly raises his arm and brings his palm, with startling force, back down where he’d left off the gentle massage. I feel myself start and Kyle’s arm squeezes slightly in response. Trig jerks his head up and sucks in his breath with a soft whimper. Then he clenches his teeth and lowers his head and takes the next three sharp swats to his thighs without making a sound, though he doesn’t succeed in keeping his legs straight and still. He squirms and drops his knees and lifts each foot off the floor as the swats land.

David continues swatting Trig’s thighs, his hand moving from just above Trig’s knees to just below his ass, Trig’s skin turns pink quickly and I blink as I notice a particular swat leaves a white handprint momentarily on Trig’s skin before it flushes red. It takes only a few swats more before Trig’s silence breaks and he moans a soft “ow.”

I get a glimpse of his face as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth and scrunches his face until his eyes close. Another soft sound comes out, muffled, from his throat. I am still looking at Trig’s face when the sound of swats ends and the room suddenly seems to echo with silence, or maybe it’s that my ears are ringing. The transition is even more dramatic on Trig’s, the tension drops from his face, and he stares at the floor, breathing heavily. I notice that his hair is damp and a faintly glistening sheen of sweat coats his back and shoulders.

David brings his left hand up to Trig’s back and begins tapping his fingers, like he’s playing a scale on the piano. At first I think it’s an absent-minded gesture, but Trig’s head jerks up and his body tenses so abruptly at the contact that I feel my head tilt slightly the way I do when my attention is suddenly caught by something I don’t understand. As if skewing my visual angle is going to make it make more sense?

Slowly, deliberately, David taps each of his five fingers on Trig’s back, repeats the sequence again, then brings down all five fingers simultaneously, twice. Trig makes a soft huffing sound and squirms as he repositions his hands around David’s leg.

I shoot a quick glance at Kyle, wondering if this is a common code between Deaf players, but his eyes are narrowed, his lips pursed in the slight way that is his response to his attention being caught by something he doesn’t understand.

David wraps his right arm around Trig’s waist firmly and presses his forearm into the small of Trig’s back. His right hand, to this point, had been loosely resting on Trig’s body, his shoulder, or the small of his back, the deliberate act of restraint now makes my belly tighten and without thinking I hear myself whisper, “Uh oh…”

Hearing the words out loud I flush, embarrassed at myself even as I realize I haven’t spoken loudly enough for Trig to hear. Kyle obviously couldn’t, though when I glance at him, he catches my eyes and gives me a quick grin and a wink that makes me wonder if it is just coincidence or if he read, through other senses, my reaction. Kyle’s arm tightens a little around my waist and I relax against his body but my gut is churning ice and my breath is shaky. Strangely, though, I’m not sure if it’s excitement or fear.

I focus on Trig’s face. He has raised his head and seems to be staring at the far wall, his lips are moving and I suddenly wonder if he’s praying. I can’t tell what he’s saying, if he’s even fully forming words, and then David’s hand cracks down and Trig jerks. But there isn’t a pause this time, not even the space of a second before another swat and then another and another… It is a barrage and I suddenly think of the Fourth of July when they start releasing all of the fireworks right on top of each other and you know it’s the finale. At first, David alternates from cheek to cheek, and Trig almost immediately begins yelping, the pitch of his voice rising again. Then David focuses on Trig’s left ass cheek for a string of swats and Trig’s resistance seems to break completely, both of his feet come up off the floor and he writhes under David’s arm. His yelps become a somewhat inarticulate string of words of which I am only sure of hearing “fuck” and “please.”

David leans into Trig’s back, never slowing the pace of the swats and Trig’s cries become frantic and then broken by choking inhalations. Suddenly David stops and raises his hand high, again above his shoulder, and brings it down, as hard as those first two swats. Trig thrashes and yells and David brings his hand down again, and again. I count the final swats, almost numbly. Ten. And then David leans back, moving his right hand to the back of Trig’s neck, lowering his left hand to the small of Trig’s back. For a moment Trig’s continues to flinch as if he’s still being spanked, and his breath comes in and out ragged and whimpering.

David rubs his thumb back and forth on the back of Trig’s neck and I suddenly realize that Kyle is doing the same thing on my belly. I slide one of my hands over his and he curls his fingers around mine.

Within a few seconds, Trig has stopped whimpering and he takes a few breaths in and out through his nose before gasping again through his mouth.

I wait, uncertain whether it’s actually over. My gut tells me that it is, that it’s… right, but I realize I don’t know David well enough, or even Trig under these circumstances, to know for sure.

I look into myself for a moment and I realize that my sadistic streak is quiet, satisfied. I’m ready for the comfort phase, and I am relieved when David murmurs something that I don’t understand and Trig slides half backwards, half sideways off of David’s thighs and onto his knees. He balls his hands into fists and crosses his wrists in front of his crotch. He’s trembling and he’s still taking jagged, gulping breaths.

David shifts and strokes Trig face lightly with his fingers then slides his hand around the back of Trig’s neck and leans close to him. He murmurs again, this time I hear the last two words… “good boy” and Trig crumbles. I see his face contort just as David pulls him against his chest. Trig sobs once and it feels like my breath has been torn from my chest.

David’s right hand cradles his boy’s head, while his left rubs slow circles over Trig’s shuddering back.

I know Trig is okay, I know David is taking care of him, I know it all and I still feel helpless and more out of place than ever. Before I can come up with an excuse to get out of the room and give them privacy, Kyle is pushing away from me and I turn in time to catch him sign to David.

Need water? Juice?

David nods slightly over Trig head and spells with his left hand, behind Trig’s back, OJ R-e-f.

Kyle nods and swats me lightly on the thigh and I scramble up after him, grateful for the excuse to get out of the room.

In the kitchen, Kyle pulls orange juice from the refrigerator and finds the cupboard with drinking glasses on his second try. He looks at me as he is putting the juice back in the fridge.

Stay, I back quick.

I’m grateful for Kyle’s company, his strength, his male presence and strength. It feels like somehow he knows the right things to do, the right things to say, that he’s part of this culture of men and I’m a clueless visitor.

I fiddle with things on the counter and I can feel the anxiety building in my chest. I don’t belong here, I’m an interloper…Kyle returns as he promised but we barely exchange a glance before Trig steps into the kitchen behind him. I shift my gaze and nod, both greeting and signal to Kyle.

Trig is back in his jeans and has donned pullover hoodie, the hem of the hood pulled down until it shadows his eyes. He and Kyle exchange a glance which lasts a moment too long to be casual, then Kyle lays one palm against the side of Trig’s head and gives him a light shove.

Trig’s mouth quirks in a half-hearted smile which dies as quickly as it bloomed. His eyes catch mine for an instant and then he is looking at the floor again. Kyle tosses me a smile and a wink over his shoulder, neither of which comforts me, then he steps back through the doorway into the living room.

The silence is heavy in the kitchen. Trig hovers by the table while I curl my fingertips around the edge of the countertop behind me. For a long time neither of us speaks. I watch him and he stares at the floor, his fingers twitching over the back of one of the kitchen chairs almost as if he’s reading Braille.

Finally I swallow and find my voice, though the first word comes out a bit rusty. “Are you okay?”

He twitches slightly at the sound of my voice then nods once.

“Do you, uh…” I hate this. I hate feeling like we’re strangers. “Do you need something to eat?”

He has diabetes, heavy emotions and painful scenes both burn up his blood sugar quickly. The orange juice was the first fix but I know he’ll need some protein to sustain it.

He answers with another silent nod but doesn’t move.

“Do you want me to go?”

At this his head finally jerks up and his eyes focus on my face. “No!” Then as if discomfited by his own assertiveness, he drops his head and draws his hands up to his biceps. He hugs himself for a moment and takes a breath as if he’s going to say something, then closes his mouth again.

After another false start, he shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles to the refrigerator. He pulls out a jar of peanut butter, kicks the door shut, takes a spoon from a drawer, and edges himself into the corner of the counter farthest opposite me. I allow myself a moment to acknowledge the stab of pain in my chest as he obviously distances himself from me.

He opens the peanut butter and spoons a large glob into his mouth, closing his lips around the spoon and working it with his tongue. For a moment we both stand in a silent tableau.

“Are you really okay?”

He nods around the mouthful of peanut butter, his eyes no longer on the floor, but low and unfocused.

“Do you…” it’s difficult to say the words but I need to know, “do you wish I hadn’t come?”

He raises his eyes again, this time his face hardening somewhat. “No,” he says, the peanut butter flattening his enunciation but not touching the edge in his tone. I’m not sure if it’s anger or indignation. Whatever it is, though, it isn’t the passive silence and that gives me hope. That stubborn set to his brow and jaw, that edge on his voice, that is familiar, that is the Trig I know, that is the annoyance when I insist on insisting on something he doesn’t consider good for me.

He drops his gaze again, but the stubborn furrow remains on his brow and he shoves the spoon back into the peanut butter with some force. I wince slightly and remind myself not to accept peanut butter in their house in the future, but I also feel a lightness of relief beginning to permeate my chest.

“Are you freaked out?” he asks suddenly. The stubborn furrow has become a worried one, the corners of his mouth have turned down and he is looking at the floor again. He looks as if he is bracing for a blow.

“No!” I say quickly, “of course not…”

He slides his gaze upwards, his expression still wary. I feel the tug to give simple reassurance, I’m not freaked out, I’m fine, it’s okay… It’s the truth, but not all of it. It is the safe truth, the one that makes me feel comfortable and safe, but looking into his eyes and his haunted face, I know I owe him more than what makes me comfortable. Hasn’t he just bared himself, literally and beyond. Yet I can’t give him my full truth?

I lick my lips, my throat tightens against what I know I’m about to push out of it. I take a shuddering breath, “Not freaked out…” my mouth is so dry… “Turned on. Not freaked out.” I can barely look at him, I can feel my eyes wide with the adrenaline of exposing myself and I don’t even know why it is so hard to say.

The furrow smoothes from his brow and his jaw slackens. He tilts his head slightly. “Really?”

It’s so hard to look at him, my gaze keeps sliding away when I try to meet his eyes. The corners of his mouth quirk up suddenly. “Really?” he asks again, now with more strength and warmth in his tone.

I chew my lip, my belly is churning and I can feel heat spreading from my face to my ears. He is grinning now, and he has the look he gets when he wants to know something and he isn’t going to let it go until he gets what he wants. He takes a step closer, trailing his fingers along the counter top. I feel the counter top press into the small of my back as I try to shrink back from him.

“It really turned you on to see that?”

I am mortified. I realize in that moment that this is what that word means. This feeling. This god let the earth open up and swallow me now feeling. I squirm, he’s too close now for me to casually slip past him into a more distant corner of the kitchen.

“Well,” my muscles are bunched tight and I push myself farther into the unyielding counter top. “Yeah, I mean, I’m a top, you know, and obviously, that, you know, that’s my thing, you would expect it, wouldn’t you? I mean, but not when you were really upset cause I don’t like you to be really hurt, but a little hurt, just not bad hurt, but it was still… you know… when you were… not like, like…” My eyes catch his face and I swallow my babbling. His expression has softened; he’s smiling gently at me. “It’s not that I like seeing you hurt,” I say more quietly.

“I know,” he says, still smiling.

“Not like bad hurt…”

“I know.” He’s even closer now, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body.

“I’m not a psycho or something…” I mumble almost under my breath, and his expression grows more serious for a moment.

He takes my face in his hands and leans close enough to press his lips to my forehead, then he wraps his arms around me and pulls our bodies together.

The tension and anxiety finally melting away, I snake my arms around his back and bury my face in his shoulder. For a moment neither of us speaks and I breathe in the mingle scents of his clothes and skin, he still smells faintly of clean sweat and where it dampened his hair, the faint scent of his shampoo lingers. Taking advantage of the chance to talk without having to meet his eyes, I mumble into his shirt.

“Did it hurt?”

I feel his chest and belly tighten abruptly and he laughs then presses his lips against my hair before answering. “A little.”

“Does it still hurt?”

He pulls back enough to look me in the face, his mouth quirks up at one corner. He licks his lips once and glances away briefly. “It’s a little warm,” he says, his lips twitching with a smile that doesn’t quite show itself.

I pull back from him suddenly and with earnestness that borders on childlike yet I can’t help myself I say, “He hits HARD!”

Trig raises his eyebrows and grins widely and nods.

“Holy Christ I never seen anybody spank that hard with their hand!”

Trig just smiles at me but I can’t quite break free yet. “Seriously! So hard!”

“Yeah,” he says, there is laughter in his voice and I know he’s laughing at me, but it isn’t cruel and I don’t mind.

My energy is coming back, centering, strengthening. “Did it hurt a lot?”

His expression becomes more serious. He nods and seems to be struggling to keep his gaze lifted.

“And you won’t skip your pills anymore?”

His mouth is curved in an unhappy frown, his eyes are lowered until I can’t see the color of them. “I’m sorry.” It is almost a whisper and something breaks in his tone that makes my own chest tighten with emotion.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was.”

“Trig…”

“I made choices…they led to that…”

“Trig, we all make mistakes. You have to take care of yourself, that’s what matters.”

He begins to shake his head and I catch his chin in my hand.

“We’re okay, Trig.”

I can feel the muscles of his jaw twitching beneath my fingers, his gaze remains cast down.

“Hey,” I say, putting a sharp edge on my voice. I pull his chin up until he drags his eyes up to mine. “We’re okay. Do you hear me?”

He gives a microscopic nod and I release my grasp on his chin.

“And the pills… You just got your butt beat for that, so you’re not going to skip them again, right?”

A slight twitch of his lips offers a trace of his previous good humor. “At least until I don’t remember this every time I sit down…”

I narrow my eyes at him and he gives me a sheepish look. Abruptly I snake my hand around him and swat him hard on the left ass cheek. He jerks and opens his mouth with a soft, sharp inhalation.

“Just a little warm, hm?” I raise one eyebrow at him.

He answers with that cute, crooked grin, “Just a little.”