“Lots of spanking?” Kirsten asked, and then, instead of answering immediately with words, Michael moved his hand boldly to her bottom.
“Yes,” he said. “Lots.” Kirsten drew a very sharp breath. Did he really have his hand there, cupping her little backside? Was he telling her about consequences like that? His hand felt so possessive, so commanding, that it seemed to rob her of her ability to think straight.
“I—” Kirsten said, but then they heard voices coming up the steps.
Before she could say anything, Michael said, “Once they go by, we’ll go back down. I’ll make sure they don’t see your face, okay?”
“Okay,” Kirsten said quietly. The eroticism of the moment evaporated, but it felt to her like it had gone gently and transformed into this man she had just met that afternoon taking as much care of her as any old friend or family member. Or lover. Kirsten nestled her face in Michael’s chest and just enjoyed the feeling of his arms around her, and the left hand that he hadn’t moved from her rear end. She smiled as she wondered what he was experiencing, having his hand there, on the person of the girl from the movies.
The voices, a man’s and a woman’s, stopped at the top of the steps, when they realized that another couple had preceded them into the small space of the lookout. “It’s alright,” Michael said. “We’re just going.” He turned Kirsten so that she faced away from the interlopers, keeping his right arm around her shoulders and relinquishing—with reluctance Kirsten hoped—his possessive grip on her bottom. Would he spank her? Her heart fluttered just thinking about the question.
Michael shepherded her to the top of the stairs and let her descend in front of him. They were both silent on the way down. When they reached the street, Michael took her hand, and Kirsten realized suddenly that all the forwardness she had worked so hard at—inviting herself on his walk, inviting him into her house, taking his hand, putting her own hand on his chest—had amounted to a kind of plea for him to turn it around.
Yes, I’m Kirsten August, movie star, she had tried to say with those actions, but you can touch me. Please touch me. And adore me, yes, but… But what? What had been missing, always, when a man got close, even that sandy night in Jordan when she had been sure that Jack Quentin would deflower her by morning? But spank me, too? She shook her head, trying to figure out why she had responded the way she had: to Michael, to his screenplay, to his hand on her ass.
But take my hand. Kirsten could definitely settle on that much, for now. Take my hand as if I belong to you, and put your hand on my ass and hold me there, to let me know that you would like to have exclusive rights to it.