Over the Knee Read online

  I pull the offending package from my pocket and offer it to the manager. “I’m so sorry. I do sincerely apologize. It was a mistake, though. I was talking to my sister on the phone and I just forgot…”

  “Madam. Have you any idea how much revenue we lose every year as a result of shoplifting?” If the store detective I met outside seemed chilly, the manager is positively arctic. Still, her assumption is ridiculous.

  “No, I don’t. Why would I? I made a mistake when I was distracted. Here’s your perfume back, still sealed up. Can’t we just leave it there?”

  “Hardly, madam. We have a policy. We always prosecute shoplifters.”

  Do I look like a woman interested in their policy? Still, I appreciate that, at least on the face of it, I do appear to be in the wrong here so I tamp down my irritation and try to reason with the manager. “Shoplifters, yes. Okay, I get that. But you can’t mean to press charges on a customer who simply made a mistake. That’s just plain ridiculous.”

  The manager bristles, and I wince. It was most definitely a tactical error to imply that her policy, and by extension she herself, might be ridiculous. She sniffs and glares at me down her nose.

  “Perhaps. But we’ll let the courts decide that, shall we?” The affronted store manager turns to address the smaller of the two security guards who still flank me. “Is your boss on his way here?”

  “Of course. He’ll be down in a minute. I contacted him as soon as we apprehended the suspect.”

  Suspect? Me? I stifle the near hysterical urge to laugh, convinced I must have slipped unawares into some parallel existence where this nonsense makes sense. Still, hopefully this chief store detective who is apparently about to descend upon us at any moment will know the difference between a real criminal and a customer whose mind was elsewhere. Christ, I hope so.

  * * * *

  “Mr. Novak, thank you for coming down. We’ve caught another one for you.”

  Novak? No, surely not. The supercilious tone of the perfumery manager is aggravating enough, but pales next to the awful prospect of what seems to be unfolding.

  I turn, slowly, hoping, and my heart sinks to my shoes.

  Josh. Josh Novak. My ex-husband, and the one man I had hoped not to encounter again—or at least not until I had time to suitably fortify myself against the impact he has on me. A hundred years or so would do it, at a pinch.

  If he’s surprised to see me here and in such an ignominious situation, he manages to conceal it well. For my part, I’m gaping at him, open-mouthed. Josh saunters in, nods to his apparent employees who both scuttle off about their duties. This leaves just myself, the shop manager and him.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Davis. This is your suspect, I assume?” He turns to me, but gives no sign of recognition.

  “Yes. She was apprehended having left the shop in possession of a bottle of perfume valued at thirty-one pounds, and fifty pence, for which she had not paid. Of course she has some excuse, says it was a mistake, an accident. They all say that.”

  Josh eyes her, his expression inscrutable. “Indeed, Mrs. Davis. Shall I take over from here?”

  “I wish you would. I have a store to run and I can’t be messing about dealing with these types.”

  “Quite. Please don’t let us hold you up then.” From his clipped tone, I surmise that Josh is less than sympathetic to the trials and tribulations faced by the frosty Mrs. Davis in the day-to-day cut and thrust of high-end retail. I should know. I’ve heard that cool voice more than a few times myself, usually directed at me. Any pleasure I might have taken in the knowledge that at least so far he is not taking the shop’s side withers under his stern gaze. “We’ll take this up to my office, I think. After you, Libby.”

  As he gestures me to precede him the manager comes into her own again. “Oh, you know her then? Given you trouble before, has she?”

  “You could say that, yes.” He offers her a curt nod. “We’ll leave you to it.”

  A firm hand on my elbow ushers me from the store. Once back out in the bustling mall, I turn to him. It goes against the grain, but I ought to thank him for his help. For old time’s sake, if nothing else.

  “Thank you for rescuing me. This is all so silly, really…”

  “Is it? We’ll see. My office is through here, in the management suite.” He continues to march me across the floor, his grip on my arm subtle but assured. Other shoppers may not see anything amiss, but I’m in no doubt that he means me to accompany him and will brook no argument. Oddly, I was inclined to argue the toss with the store detectives and the shop manager, but with Josh, I know that would be futile. It may be a couple of years since I saw him last, but he left an abiding impression on me. I allow him to steer me out of the public area and into the suite of offices.

  “Sit, please.” Once in his own private office, the door closed behind us, Josh eases himself behind his desk. He indicates the one spare chair for me. I do as I’m told. Old habits die hard.

  I glare at him across the desk. I have to admit, he looks a lot more relaxed than I feel right now.

  “So, you’re in retail security these days?” I attempt to make conversation as I sneak a glance around his office. It’s small, but neat. Efficient, I suppose. Josh always did set great store by efficiency.

  “I am.”

  “What happened to the Paras?”

  “Nothing, as far as I’m aware, though I’m not in regular contact with the army these days.”

  “You left?”

  “I did.”

  “Why? I thought you were a career soldier.”

  “I know what you thought, Libby. You were wrong. For now, though, would it be simpler if we stick to just me asking the questions?” He arches an eyebrow at me, a familiar gesture, a warning I should heed.

  And maybe I would, if he was still my husband and I was still in the habit of obeying. Well, on occasion.

  “Why did you leave the army? And why didn’t you tell me you were out?”

  “Maybe I realized there was more to life. And maybe it was none of your business.”

  I bristle. “Of course it was my business. You knew how I felt about it.”

  “By the time I decided to move on, you’d beaten me to it. You left me, Libby, and that made my choice of future career no concern of yours.”

  “But I…”

  “Enough reminiscing. Shall we deal with your current predicament?” He lifts his gaze from the document he’s been scrutinizing. “So, you’ve developed a fondness for expensive perfume. I wish I’d known.”

  “Why? Would you have bought me some?”

  He ignores my sneering tone. “Who knows? Yes, probably. There was a time when I’d have given you anything. I think you know that.”

  His sudden change of pace has the no doubt desired effect, completely derailing my line of thought. I stare at him for several moments, lost for words. Josh was always insanely sexy, a dominant presence on the rare occasions he was around and a lot of fun, but never tender. Well, apart from during sex, but I don’t think that counts. Does it?

  “I didn’t. I didn’t know that.”

  His expression is inscrutable again. He narrows his eyes at me and shrugs. “I see. So, Libby, about this theft of perfume from Scents…?”

  “Theft? You of all people must know I’m no thief. Why would I steal it? Apart from anything else, I’d lose my job at the first hint of dishonesty.” I work as chief clerk to a firm of corporate lawyers, handling clients’ funds all the time. My reputation has to be impeccable. “And I could easily afford to pay for the bloody stuff.”

  “But you didn’t pay for it, did you? Why was that, then?”

  “I’ve explained, but the woman in the shop wouldn’t listen. I had a phone call and it distracted me. I simply forgot. I must have slipped the box in my pocket by accident. I don’t even remember doing it.”

  “I agree it does seem out of character for you. And you would have a lot to lose. You still work at Carter and Benbow?”

  “Ye
s. And I got promoted, so I’m not hard up. I could pay. I’d be happy to pay now…”

  “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. That’s no longer an option.”

  “Right. So what are my options then?”

  “I either charge you, in which case the police will take over and you’ll be processed through the magistrates’ court in all probability…or, I have the discretion to dismiss the matter and allow you to leave.”

  “You’ll let me go?”

  “I have that option, although nothing you’ve told me so far would go any way toward convincing me that would be the right course of action. If I were to just let you off, it would be on the basis of you being my wife, nothing else. That might be convenient, but it would hardly be professional.”

  “Ex-wife. And everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “Our divorce isn’t yet finalized. You are my wife, at least in the eyes of the law. And you’re also a thief—unless a magistrate says otherwise—in the eyes of the law.”

  Outraged, frustrated and more than a little scared, I stand and lean over his narrow desk, glaring down at him. “This is bloody ridiculous. Look, I had a call from Michelle. You remember Michelle? My sister?”

  “Of course. How is she?”

  “She’s well. Very well. She had some good news today and we were going to celebrate.”

  “I see. Then the sooner we get this matter sorted, the sooner you can be on your way.” He picks up a pen and taps the form in front of him. “I just need some details… Name—Elizabeth Novak… You do still use your married name, I assume?”

  I give a curt nod, and he writes my full name at the top of the sheet, then glances up at me. “Do sit down, Libby. Now, are you still living in Salford?”

  I resume my seat, my arms folded, my mood mutinous. “No. I moved to Knutsford. It’s in Cheshire.”

  “Very nice. The full address please?”

  I reel off my new details then sit back as Josh completes the rest. He recites my date of birth, marital status—so recently clarified—my nationality and other particulars from memory. I provide my new phone numbers, landline and mobile. The matter takes a few minutes then he passes the documents to me.

  “If you want to check the details, then sign just there. I’ll get the police to send someone over to pick you up.”

  “What? What do you mean, pick me up? I thought you were going to let me go.”

  “I am. This will become a police matter. They’ll question you and decide whether or not to press charges. You’ve a good chance of convincing them—good character, no previous convictions, and all that. You don’t have form for this sort of thing, do you?” He lifts one eyebrow as he holds out his pen. I daresay my expression provides the necessary response. “Thought not. So, just sign it, and we can both get on.”

  “No. No, I’m not signing. I’m not a criminal and you can’t just hand me over to the police. You can’t—”

  “No? You have some alternative course of action to suggest? I’m listening.”

  “I… No. I don’t know. I didn’t steal anything. I just want to get out of here. I want to see Michelle, and…and…” I break down, sobbing, as the full implications of this whole bloody mess wash over me. A bundle of tissues is thrust into my fist.

  “Libby, it’ll be all right. You just need to explain to the police how this happened and they won’t press charges. They’ll believe you.”

  “Why would they? You don’t.”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Then why involve the police?” I gaze at him, his handsome features obscured by tears.

  His smile dazzles me. It always did. “Good question. Fair enough, we won’t. You can go.”

  “No police?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re no criminal, Libby. I know that about you, at least. And our fine constabulary has better things to occupy them than dealing with an airhead who never concentrates on what she’s doing. I remember this was something I had to take issue with often enough when we were together, and you haven’t changed, it seems.” He shrugs. “Still, it had its compensations as I recall. You can leave now, Libby, and I suggest you give Scents a wide berth in future. Mrs. Davis never forgets a face.”

  “You’re letting me go? No police, no punishment?” This is what I said I wanted, but as he gestures to the door, I begin to think I’m not ready to leave after all. Not yet.

  “Punishment, Libby? I never said anything about that. I’m head of security here, that’s all. I nick ‘em, but I don’t decide on guilt or dish out punishments.”

  “You used to. Dish out punishments, I mean.”

  “As your husband, yes. When you deserved it.” He regards me under lowered brows, his beautiful dark eyes glinting. I know that look, that expression that would send me panting to my knees every time.

  I resist the urge to drop to the floor at his feet now, though it’s a close run thing. “You’re still my husband. You just made that clear enough.”

  “Do you want me to spank you, Libby?”

  Yes! Oh God, yes! “No, of course not.”

  He holds my gaze, his expression steely. The sterner he becomes, the more my pussy convulses with longing, with something suppressed for too long. My knickers are moist.

  “Do you want me to spank you, Libby?” he repeats the question slowly, each word enunciated with calm precision.

  “Yes, please.”

  “For this? The perfume?” He taps the small, long-forgotten package of Angel, still before him on the desk.

  “If you like. Whatever.”

  He leans back in his chair, watching me as I imagine a cat might regard a mouse just before it pounces. He has me trapped, but this situation is of my making. I could be halfway to the exit by now.

  “Why do you want me to spank you, Libby?”

  I start to wring my hands, a nervous habit of mine. I stop myself, deliberately lacing my fingers together to keep them still. I meet his steady gaze and do my best to scratch together an answer.

  “I don’t know. Lots of reasons. Because I miss it, and no one else does it like you do.”

  He lifts one eyebrow. He appears amused. Almost. “You’ve tried others, then?”

  I nod. “Two. It wasn’t good.”

  “I see. So this, here, today, would be…for old times’ sake? Because you’re feeling contrite and maybe a little horny.”

  “I’m not asking you to fuck me.”

  “Not yet. But you will. We both know that when your knickers are off and you’re over my knee, your bottom bared and thoroughly spanked, you’ll beg me to fuck you. You always do.”

  “You’re being very crude, Josh.”

  “You know the rules about speaking plainly on these occasions. So, am I wrong? And if I’m about to punish you, it’s ‘Sir’.”

  I pause for several seconds before shaking my head. “You’re not wrong. So you’ll do it then? Sir?”

  He smiles, but it’s a grin lacking in warmth. It is sensual, though, dripping with sexy promise. “Take off your jacket and hang it on the back of the door. Then remove your underwear.”

  No further answer is required. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. Gleeful anticipation of the sensuality to come in the next few minutes, guilt at the forbidden pleasure and fear of discovery, are all at war within me. “What if someone comes in?”

  He leans back in his seat and starts to unbuckle his belt. “No one comes in here without my permission. You have a count of five, Libby. Jacket, underwear then you lay yourself across my lap and raise your skirt. Alternatively, if you prefer, you can just leave and we’ll say no more about any of this.”

  I’m not leaving. No way am I going anywhere yet.

  “You intend to use your belt?”

  “I do. You need something quite…intense, I think, otherwise you wouldn’t be asking me for this. Would you agree?”

  I offer him a sharp nod as my pussy convulses again. Without another word, I turn from him and shrug off my jacket. I hang
it up as directed, then reach under my skirt to peel off my tights and knickers. I step out of my spiky-heeled shoes to remove my clothing, but Josh gestures toward them when I would have left them behind me on the floor.

  “Put the shoes back on please. I always prefer your submission to be delivered in sexy heels.”

  “I’m not your submissive. Not anymore.”

  “We’ll see. The heels, please.” His tone is cool, clipped and oh-so familiar. My pussy dampens more as I slip my shoes back on, then stand before him, waiting.

  Josh gets to his feet and draws his belt from the loops at his waistband. He takes his time, holding my gaze as he does so. Then, the belt dangling from his right hand, he walks around the desk. He takes the chair I was sitting on, moving it away from the desk and into the center of the room, where there’s more space. He smiles at me as he sits down on it. He pats his right thigh in invitation. “I think you know the drill, Libby—unless you find yourself in need of a spot of retraining?”

  “No, Sir. I remember it perfectly. Thank you.”

  We were always ultra-polite at moments like this. Nothing has changed—at least, in that regard—over the two years we’ve been separated. I step forward to stand beside him, then lean over to position myself over his lap.

  The first thing I register is the hard bulge of his erection pressing against my right side. I take satisfaction from this. I always loved to know how much I could arouse him, despite his finely honed Dom cool. This he can’t conceal behind an impassive, stern expression or clipped commands. Not that Josh was ever cold, exactly. He was controlled, disciplined, exceptionally firm, but always considerate, and his approach to aftercare was sublime. Josh was always hot on cuddles, tender words and the most exquisite lovemaking when occasion called for it.

  He could read situations, by which I mean he read me like a book, and always delivered the perfect formula. If I needed hard, rough, savage, that’s what he would provide. Alternatively, there were times I just wanted to be held, to feel loved and cared for, and he would do that too. He always knew, always got it right.