AllFreeNovel
Share Us
As she moved out onto the floor, she saw him right away. He wore tan slacks and a perfectly ironed and fitted cream-colored Oxford shirt, open at the throat. His jacket was hooked on the point of the chair, and he wore brown, polished dress shoes, the casual elegance suiting Tea Leaves.
He didn't blend though. Instead, he looked li
ke an intrigued, benevolent god who walked among men. He emanated difference and yet something so familiar, as if she knew him like the touch of the sun.
She had tried to describe him in her mind before, as if using words would sculpt a definitive closed boundary around him, keeping the essence of him from touching her identity and altering it somehow. Her failure to do so forced her to acknowledge she was captivated by more than his physical attributes. Her body reacted to his presence, the sound of his voice, his scent. There were times she would pass an area at The Zone, catch that scent, and know he had been there only a moment before.
His physical features were nothing to scoff at, however. Dark hair kept cropped smoothly short on his nape and around his ears. Just enough feathering on top to draw attention to the way it scattered carelessly across his high forehead. He was in his forties, so she suspected if he let it grow longer, the peppering of gray would become silver streaks. A tall man, probably six foot five, his shoulders coaxed a woman's fingertips to trace their breadth. And then those fingertips might tremble off the edge, slide down the curve of hard biceps, linger on a forearm, find themselves captured by a large hand that looked capable and confident of handling something fragile without damaging it, much as he handled the whimsical sample cup now.
In short, he exuded the confidence of a man in the prime of his life, where the physical and mental abilities were at once together, a man who understood what he wanted. And whatever that was, it created a restless force to him that had the ability to reach out and physically touch her whenever they had the slightest proximity to one another, like now.
She'd never had to deal with him out of The Zone. As she crossed the floor, it suddenly felt as if they were all alone. Her heart rate sped up, choking her with its throb of panic.
Stop. It's bad enough you have this reaction to him. You don't know why, which makes it irrational. Stupid, even. You invited him here. Remember?
With the expression of the pleasant proprietress firmly in place, she moved toward him, giving him a slight nod to let him know she was on her way, a courtesy. However, she stopped to pay attention to her customers, an unspoken reprimand to him for coming before the closing time she'd specified.
"Mrs. Allen. " The lady she addressed was approaching eighty. It was an age at which Marguerite expected a woman could safely allow one's looks and appearance to lapse but most of her senior citizen clientele were better put together than women half their age. They came to Tea Leaves wearing silk blouses, suits with a tasteful pin on the lapel and sturdy but stylish shoes. Their nails neatly manicured and legs always, always clad in silky hose, never a run to be seen. Sometimes the perfume might be a bit overdone but Marguerite found it comfortable. The smell of older Southern women, the scents of their powder and papery skin mingling with White Diamonds or Chanel #5.
Mrs. Allen smiled at her and clasped her hand, and Marguerite immediately covered it with her other one, savoring the contact with someone she genuinely liked, who eased rather than disturbed, the familiar rather than the unknown. She realized at once her grip might be a bit desperate, for Mrs. Allen looked startled. Marguerite loosened her hold and gave the woman's knuckles a gentle pat. "After your friends treated you to the Staffordshire set for your birthday, I thought you'd never go back to Brown Betty. "
She nodded at the little brown ball of a teapot, its surface polished to a shine that allowed her to see the impression of her own reflection, distorted and distant. The connection of their hands was magnified, as if it was the truly important part of the picture, and she supposed it was.
"Miss M, you know that was the prettiest thing. And you were right. The same tea could taste entirely different in it. I'm so glad you had us try that new brand of Earl Grey. But me and the Brown Betty. . . " Mrs. Allen gazed fondly at the squat ball of a teapot. "We have ourselves a standing date each week. We're a sturdy pair of practical birds is all. "
"Stolid classics," one of her two friends at the table put in.
This incited a chatter of notes and laughter among the three women that made music in her tearoom. It would join with a similar composition at the next table, then another, the different conversations weaving into a complex arrangement that was a song of sanctuary. Marguerite imagined its energy filling and surrounding her tearoom every day, even spilling onto the street and bringing in new people, those seeking tranquility. She fed off it, used it now, absorbing it in a deep breath as she gave them one last smile and released Mrs. Allen to face the less tranquil element who had entered her domain.
As she passed the last table, he rose, that Southern gentleman she expected. Her height of five ten with an added two inches of heels to bring her to a willowy six feet didn't faze him. That centered element to him made him perfectly in sync with the atmosphere she strove to provide. It was how he affected her that sent a ripple through the composition, that warning note that a transition in the symphony was about to occur.
He didn't smile, utter polished platitudes or flash a smile to throw up the barricades of acquaintances. His gaze passed over her leisurely. She was sure he had thoroughly inspected her when she came out from the back, as sure as she was that he was doing it now to be certain she was aware of his scrutiny.
It made no sense at all. Tyler was a sexual Dominant. She was a Dominant. There should be the attraction of mutual admiration but why this? This indefinable, overwhelming feeling?
"Our meeting was for six-fifteen," she said.
If he was taken aback by her lack of greeting, he did not show it. He remained standing, studying her, and then he did the most remarkable thing, because men did not touch her. Not without her expressed permission, and usually only after they had begged for the privilege.
He reached out and touched the hair she'd artfully arranged along her temple. "I've never seen you with a curl. " Inserting his finger into the coil, he caught it with his thumb to stroke it with his forefinger, stretching it out straighter as he did so, then letting it go, watching it bounce back into place. It caused a pleased and warm look on his face that made her feel at loose ends. "Always, when I see you, you're wearing it tied back in that severe tail. "
She knew she needn't worry. He wouldn't fill in that sentence with ". . . when I see you at The Zone", the place where they knew one another best. Or rather, the façade they both knew best. They both knew the strict rules of confidentiality for all members of The Zone, maintained in the outside world.
"Yes," he said at last. "I'm early. I wanted to see your place, how you run it. I can't get that impression after closing. Why does my being here early bother you?" If it had been anyone else, the automatic answer "It doesn't" would have bounced out of her mouth. But she was sensible enough not to bluff with a man who only had one equal at The Zone for interpreting body language and tone, and that was herself. It raised her hackles though, for him to exercise his power as a Dom at this moment, calling her out and making it clear, albeit in a mild and courteous way, that he wouldn't accept an evasive answer.
People lied all the time in the real world with a bouquet of pleasantries to deceive no one, only to make evasiveness palatable, acceptable. In The Zone, Doms didn't allow subs to do that. It was all about getting to the pure naked core of every thought, no dissembling on any level.
"That's not really something I care to discuss. It's my problem, not yours. " That was as honest an answer as it had been a question. And it was all of the answer he was getting. "You're welcome to be here. If you need anything, let Chloe or Genevieve know. I've got some things to finish in the back but I'll be out when they lock up in about thirty minutes. "
He nodded, those amber eyes never shifting from her face but making slight movements, revealing that he was watching her lips as she spoke, the sweep of her lashes, even the sparse movements of her hands. "I'll be here. Go finish your day. I'll wait as long as you need. "
Like she needed his permission.
Her lips tightening to suppres
s a retort, she turned precisely on her heel and headed back the way she had come, intensely aware of the curious looks from Mrs.
Allen's table. Her regulars would be wondering about that corkscrew curl move but she kept on her cool smile and moved briskly enough that no one engaged her. Her track took her into the reflection path of the large Victorian mirror mounted to the left of the kitchen entrance, so she could see him.
