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After our check is paid, Ronan rises and helps me from my chair. Most Dominants are polite like that. They treat women with the utmost respect.
Ronan is no different.
We leave the bar, and he hails a cab. Once we’re inside, I give the cabbie my address.
We don’t talk much during the ride, and he doesn’t take my hand. In fact, our bodies aren’t touching at all, but I’m hyper aware of him, so very conscious of the effect he has on me. My heart is thumping, and my flesh is warm.
“I’m not too familiar with the city yet,” Ronan says when the cabbie drops us off in front of my apartment building.
“I’m lucky to have this place,” I say as we walk in and I wave to the doorman. “When my father passed away, we found out he had this apartment as well as his residence. It’s rent-controlled. I wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”
That’s not the whole story, of course. My father actually had my current apartment long before my parents’ divorce, only we didn’t know about it. He carried on with other women and men here, which led to the divorce. I didn’t know about any of that then—my mother only enlightened me after his death. Since his death was also the death of my college career, because he was the one paying my tuition, I had to get over the thoughts of what went on at this place, move in, and find a job.
Now that I’ve made the place mine, it’s cozy and functional.
“I don’t understand the whole rent-control thing,” Ronan says.
“It’s kind of a mess. I can explain it to you if you’re that interested.”
“I am interested, but that will give us something to talk about on the plane tomorrow.”
“I haven’t said I’m going yet.”
He pauses. “Forgive me for being so presumptuous.”
We take the elevator up to my apartment. It’s a studio, and my bed isn’t made. It’s in sight as soon as we walk in.
Which makes my nerves skitter.
Part of me truly wants to go to bed with Ronan, but he won’t just take me to bed. That’s too vanilla. He’s only interested in a scene, and I don’t play at my apartment.
My bed sits against one wall, adorned with a patchwork quilt and throw pillows, none of which are in the proper place, since it’s unmade. A nightstand with a small lamp sits beside the bed.
Opposite the bed is my living area. A modest-size futon sits against the wall, and in the corner is a small entertainment center that holds a flat-screen TV. The kitchenette is laid out along one side of the studio and has a compact refrigerator, a two-burner stovetop with oven, and a microwave. My dining area is a tiny table with two chairs.
I walk the few steps to the kitchenette. “Would you like some water or anything? I’m afraid I don’t have much alcohol, and definitely no Scotch.”
“No, I’m fine. I won’t keep you.”
I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed. “Okay.”
“I’m going to call you first thing in the morning,” he says. “Be ready to tell me that you’re going.”
My cheeks warm.
He advances on me, caresses my cheek. “We both know you want to go, Mary.”
Electricity sparks straight to my pussy. “Who wouldn’t want to go?”
“If you do choose to go,” he says, “it’s all on me. The hotel, the plane fare, everything. Separate rooms, of course.”
I hold back a gasp. “I can’t allow you to spend that kind of money on me.”
“Consider it a gift.”
“From a man I hardly know?”
“From a man who wants to know you very much.” He tips my chin. “I don’t even know your last name.”
