Free Typist #2 - Spanking the Billionaire Novelist by Mimi Strong

1: Surprise Delivery
    Smith Wittingham had quite the kiss; he made me hear bells ringing.
    I sighed into his kisses, enjoying the taste of his lips after arguing. He'd tricked me into a game where I'd pretended to be his obedient dog, and I had not been too happy when the truth came to light.
    Now, though, there were bells. And his tender lips on mine, both of us on my bed.
    Smith abruptly shoved me off him and sat up.
    “Someone's at the door,” he said.
    “Those bells are real? And here I thought I was hallucinating.”
    He scratched his cheek. “Well?”
    He was completely naked and in my bedroom, which was downstairs in the Vermont cabin. His clothes, however, were in his room, upstairs .
    I feigned ignorance. “Oh, did you want me to get the door? I don't think that's in my job description.”
    He grabbed my nightshirt from a hook next to the bed and pulled the shirt onto his manly frame. The thin fabric clung to his broad chest and the hem ended near his navel, doing nothing to cover his manhood, still tumescent from our kissing.
    He shrugged. “I suppose I could answer the door like this.”
    I giggled into my hand. Somehow, I didn't think they were quite that relaxed in Vermont.
    I said, “What'll you give me if I go get the door?”
    He smirked. “The exact same thing I'll give you if you don't answer the door. But harder.”
    I shook my head and ran out of the room, to the door. I imagined it would be some lost hikers or perhaps a neighbor in need of an egg or cup of sugar.
    I ran through the mudroom and pulled open the front door. My mouth dropped open in shock.
    Standing before me was a handsome young man, about my age. He had black hair, straight and long in the front, falling across one eyebrow. His eyes were blue and sharply focused on me, his lips full and delicious-looking, and … oh, my goodness, the brawn on him. He wore a sleeveless sports shirt, all the better to show off strong, muscular arms. His biceps were popping out, standing as he was with a box of something. It could have been a box of rattlesnakes and I wouldn't have noticed, not with those tanned arms and that face, so boyish and coy.
    He said, “Mrs. Wittingham?”
    I giggled and crossed my arms in front of myself shyly. “Oh, I'm not married to Smith. I hardly know him.”
    “I hear he's a fancy author, a famous bestseller, but I've never heard of him.”
    “I'll be sure and let him know you said that.”
    He laughed and glanced down, adjusting the cardboard box around to his hip. “I'm just joking. Of course I know Smith Wittingham. My family has known him for a while.”
    “Ah, shoot, that's not nearly as much fun.”
    “I don't read all his books, though. I mostly read the classics. Not that I'm a snob or anything, I'm just working my way through a list of books my uncle gave me, and they're in chronological order, and I'm not that fast a reader.”
    “So you haven't made it to Bridget Jones' Diary yet?”
    He gave me a long, studying look. “You're testing me. Whether you love that book or not, you're trying to gauge how I feel about a chick lit book, and thus how I feel about women in general.”
    “Here I thought I was just making conversation.” I smiled, masking my true emotions. “Now you're testing me, moving the topic away from small talk and on to gender politics. Which is a pretty bold move, for a delivery boy.”
    He popped his lower lip out and blew air upward, fluffing the silky dark hair off his eyebrow.
    “I guess I'd better stick to doing my delivery job,” he said. “Mind my place.”
    “Just bring that box inside and put it on the kitchen counter.”
    He wiped off the soles of his sport sandals on the mat that cheekily read Go Away, then brought the delivery in. His calves were even sexier than his arms, all dark skin and dark hair under his cargo-pocket shorts.
    He put the box on the counter and unpacked fresh produce, more packaged meals, and a parcel I recognized from the clothing store—the new