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pulled her pants down, but not her panties. The Sergeant was, in many ways, an old-fashioned “gentleman,” and he was already a bit surprised at what he was doing to the woman sprawled over his lap and howling at the top of her lungs. The temptation to take down her panties was strong, though—almost overwhelming—but he resisted the urge. Not merely because he was a gentleman, but because he knew it would be distracting. She needed spanking. Not merely deserved it, but needed it. And she was going to get it. Hard. A hard, long, thorough spanking—hard enough, and painful enough to get through to her. To get her to understand the dangerous situation they were facing. To get her to cooperate. But while he was busy setting Anne Wilson’s extremely deserving ass on fire, Geoff Cameron couldn’t help but notice that it was an extremely attractive ass. And even covered by a filmy haze of pink nylon, the sight was—as he’d expected— distracting. Let alone the feel. Or the physical response he was having trouble hiding.
    Male anatomy is funny that way.
    All Anne knew was that she was in a world of pain. On the other hand, she was a journalist, and even as she kicked and squirmed in a desperate attempt to escape the sergeant’s iron grip, she found herself wondering how the hell anything so simple could hurt so much. How it could turn her —rabid feminist and equal to any man—into a blubbering, sniffling mass of jelly. And all it had taken to do that was a strong masculine hand, a certain amount of male muscle, and the determination to show her who was in control. Even as she wailed and begged, Anne found herself feeling grateful that he hadn’t used his belt, as he had threatened— the wide, brown leather belt that came with that gorgeous scarlet tunic. And the final thing that crossed her mind was the most puzzling of all. Why, in the midst of all this pain and misery and embarrassment, with her nose running and her ass on fire— why the hell was she getting turned on?

    Apparently, female anatomy is funny too.
    The seventy-four seconds (closer to seventy-four minutes , from Anne’s point of view) finally ended, and by the time the spanking stopped, the confusing feeling of sexual arousal she’d experienced had disappeared entirely—lost in a final flurry of especially vigorous swats to a spot just beneath her panty line.
    They walked back to the plane in absolute silence, but Anne wasn’t about to leave well enough alone. It had become a war of wills, and she wasn’t accustomed to losing that kind of battle.
    “There’s no way in hell I can sleep in there,” she complained when she opened the cabin door. “It stinks of gas. And you were worried about a little cigarette smoke?’”
    “I drained the gas tank to be on the safe side, in the event we’re struck by lightning. The odor will fade in a day or so.”
    She reached inside and pulled out a rolled sleeping bag. “The hell with it. I’ll sleep outside, under the plane.”
    He sighed. “I know you’re angry about what just happened, but you can’t do that. It’s going to start snowing, soon, and by midnight, the temperature will drop below freezing. You’ll be punishing yourself by sleeping outside, not me. And it won’t prove anything.”
    “It has nothing to do with that,” she lied. “It doesn’t feel like snow, and this sleeping bag was advertised as heavy duty. It damned well better be. It cost me two hundred bucks at a Bass Pro Shop in Seattle. I’ll be perfectly fine. Cozy as can be.”
    Finally, he gave up, and shrugged his shoulders. “Suit yourself.” He glanced up at the sky. “But it is going to snow. Around two, tomorrow morning, I’d say. Perhaps two-thirty. ”
    She looked up at the sky. “It’s not going to snow,” she said flatly.
    He smiled. “Whatever you say. Good night, Miss Wilson, and sleep well. For my part, I’ll rest more peacefully knowing that because of my efforts, at least part of you will be