Emma moved her finger, swiping against the side of the pale china teacup and watching as it teetered on the edge of the tea table before finally tipping, falling to the hardwood ground and shattering into a thousand pieces. Across the room, seated in the corner of the loveseat, Preston looked up from his book and sighed.
"That was part of a set," he said.
Emma reached for another teacup, setting it precariously close to the edge of the table.
"It's going to cost at least twenty dollars to replace, assuming I can find a replacement," Preston went on.
"That's a shame," Emma said, before tapping the side of the second teacup and sending it, too, clattering to the ground next to its sibling.
It was going to be hell to clean up.
Preston reached for his bookmark, placing it carefully between the pages before closing his book with an audible thump and placing it on the small side table next to the couch. He was dressed up, as he tended to be on work days, in slacks, a dress shirt, a tailored woollen waistcoat, and shiny oxfords.
Emma herself was dressed up, as she tended to be on days like this, in a pleated skirt, thigh-high socks and mary janes, a tucked blouse, and a fitted cardigan. When she dressed like this, Preston rarely let her out of his sight. Not that he needed to, the whole point of the outfit was for days like this.
As Preston rose, the couch springs groaning, Emma shot her hand out for another cup, her heartrate spiking at the sharp look he cast her. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, but then Preston was there, grabbing her wrist with a firm but gentle grip.
"You're not breaking a third one," he said in a tone that brooked little argument.
Emma pouted. "But I was having so much fun."
Preston's eyes narrowed and she watched his chest rise and fall with a measured breath. "You only pull this shit when I have work to do."
"You were reading," she pointed out. "I figured you'd gone on break."
"The day isn't over yet," he countered. "And reading is part of my work, you know that. It's research."
Of course, it was. He was a writer. As if the floor-to-ceiling bookcases in the room weren't evidence enough of that, nor the one bookcase kept specifically for copies of his work.
"Get up," Preston said suddenly. "You're not going to stop until I give you what you want, so get up."
"Don't act like you don't enjoy it, too," Emma said, but stood and smoothed down her skirt with one hand, the other still being held by Preston.
Preston said nothing, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. He couldn't admit it, you see. That would ruin the game. He wasn't supposed to be soft today, he was supposed to play the role of tired, overworked husband.
He led Emma over to the loveseat, where he sat and looked at her expectantly.
Emma frowned in mock confusion. "I'm not quite sure..." she trailed, tapping her lips with a finger.
"Over my knees," he said. "I haven't got all day to wait for you."
"It doesn't look terribly comfortable," Emma said, this time twisting her heel.
Preston reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses with the motion. Then, in one smooth movement, he pulled on Emma's wrist so that she went tumbling over his lap, her breath whooshing out of her. She had to brace her hands against the floor, her braids slipping over her shoulders to hang in front of her face, swaying slightly.
Preston's hands landed rough on Emma's hips as he adjusted her, fitting her over his lap the way he wanted. Then he gripped the hem of her skirt and flipped it up, one hand smoothing over the fabric of her panties.
"Over or under?" he asked, his free hand roaming up her back.
Emma licked her lips, already fighting the urge to squeeze her thighs together at the sudden rush of arousal that flooded her. "Under," she said.
Preston hummed, gripping both sides of her panties and pulling them down so they were around her knees. The cool air of the room hit the exposed flesh of her sex and she shivered, a moment before Preston's hand landed on her ass.
It was a light swat, but Emma still jumped at the suddenness of it. Somehow, she never saw the first one coming.
"You broke two cups this time," Preston said. "Last week it was a dish. The week before that it was a vase. There was water everywhere. Soon enough, I'll need to buy entire new sets of kitchenware."
"It's not my fault everything you get is incredibly breakable."
Smack.
Emma jumped, this time unable to keep from squeezing her thighs together as Preston's hand landed hard against her rear.
"And you talk back so much," Preston said, voice calm and controlled. She was sure if she looked up, she'd see that muscle in his jaw twitching. It always twitched when she challenged him. She kept her eyes straight ahead instead, focused on the grain in the hardwood.
"Every week, we do this," he continued. "And every week, you break our things. It's become routine."
"You like routine," Emma pointed out, only to be met by another smack.
"I do," Preston admitted. "So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to count for me. You work in administration so I know you can do that. You're going to count how many times I spank you. When we reach fifty, we'll stop."
Fifty. Emma had to keep herself from squirming in excitement. Last week was only thirty.
"If you mess up, or if you fail to count aloud, we'll start over from the beginning," Preston continued. Emma felt his hands leave her, then heard the telltale whisper of fabric over flesh as he rolled up his sleeves. "Can you do this for me?" he asked.
Emma nodded.
Smack. She gasped. She hadn't heard him finish rolling his sleeves.
"Use your words," Preston said.
