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"No. Just leave it there. Chloe is still new to judging customer tastes. That's one of our stronger black teas. I think I have something more to your liking. " She laid the douser on the tablecloth, keeping her eyes on it. "It's a small matter, but earlier I didn't give you permission to touch me. I'd prefer you not to do so. " He was a Dom with a very cool temperament. She knew he'd understand and not create a row, though she questioned the wisdom of making an issue of it, based on what she was intending to ask him.
"Not comfortable being around men who aren't on their knees?" Tyler had no problem with woman Dominants, so she assumed the question to be based on curiosity. It didn't make his exceptional intuition any less irritating.
"Not used to it, certainly. "
He rose, and she'd misjudged how close she was standing to him. She made herself wait a second before she stepped back, wanting it clear she was doing it to give him room to follow her around the table, not because being confronted by his height and broad shoulders at less than a foot distance washed her with a disturbing heat.
She turned on her heel, ostensibly to lead him to the private room but also to avoid prolonging the face-to-face proximity with nothing between them. When she reached the brocade curtain that separated the private tea area from the main floor, he was close enough behind her that his long arm drew the fabric back for her. His fingertips grazed the small of her back, the contact just light enough not to be a blatant disregard of her request. What was it Lao Tse said? Energy was in the space between things. The light touch made her decide that such energy could become compressed into a flash of heat upon impact, shuddering up one's spine.
Tyler noted the shiver that rippled through her. He knew Marguerite did not welcome touch. Even her submissives were allowed very little liberty in that area. She touched them; they did not touch her. On infrequent occasions she allowed a slave to service her orally, and the undulations of her body while he did so were as sensual and controlled as a swan on a lake. She appeared to draw pleasure from it but Tyler sensed that the pleasure for her was in the choreography, the emotional reaction of her sub when she granted him the pleasure of her most intimate taste. He knew there were those who thought she climaxed during those sessions. He had his doubts about that.
But he didn't read rejection in her shiver now, simply surprise at being touched at all, and uncertainty in how to react consciously. Her body did it for her, instinct filling in the void, and that reaction made his own body respond.
She stepped away, reluctantly drawing his attention away from the slim and statuesque line of her back and shoulders to his new surroundings.
The room had a pleasing simplicity. One large original watercolor of a blue heron graced the wall behind the round table. The table was draped in a gray damask which dropped the proper twelve inches on all sides, revealing teak legs shaped like the elongated heads of Chinese dragons. A rock fountain grouped with several bamboo plants and a palm in the corner gave the impression of a tropical forest. And behind Marguerite was a picture window overlooking a tiny courtyard with a statuary garden.
The room spoke of confidences, seclusion and sanctuary. She'd obviously desired all three for this meeting, intriguing him. The table settings emphasized a ritual of civility. Personal control.
"What type of flavor do you think I prefer?" She cocked her head. "The subtle, the delicately made. You're the type of person who wants the mystery inside the flower bud. "
"I can still appreciate the different nuances of the stronger flavors. " He studied the orchid in the center of the table. "With the very delicate, you sculpt something down to such a whisper of form, there's nothing else it can be. It's in strength you find surprises, variation. "
Marguerite realized he was too good at discerning her own interests, the philosophies in which she'd immersed her life. And he was far too intelligent for her peace of mind.
She changed the direction briskly. "Well, all that said, this is a second flush Darjeeling. It might remind you of a muscatel wine. "
"It might be worth the cost, then. I could buy a box of a hundred tea bags at the grocery store for the price you charge for a cup of it. " She winced. "Barbarian. Darjeeling is the high end of teas. It's produced in India, in the foothills of the Himalayans. "
"Have you been there?"
She nodded. "You can see Mount Everest in the distance on a clear day. There's a misty climate there. For tea, the perfect composition of soil, air and rainfall. The first flush, the first harvest, of this particular tea is very expensive. They usually serve it at an invitation-only tasting with a great deal of fanfare. " Certain that the information was similar to what she gave her clientele when they asked such questions, he wondered that any of them could get past the distraction of the woman to focus on the words. She was different from any Domme he knew, and now that he was seeing her in her world which was anything but mundane, she intrigued him even more.
Her shop was in a downtown neighborhood where people hung out in the quieter side streets. Cars navigated around them, the people acting as if the vehicles were in their front yards, which seemed almost true. It was a poor area of mostly black faces but there was a sense of community. He'd done enough background research on her to know that Marguerite's shop in the elegant old house had been well received and her location did not seem to dismay her upscale client base. She'd bought the block of six lots, chosen one of the hundred-year-old structures as her teahouse and torn down the other run-down edifices, one of which had been used as a crack house. When he'd driven up to the teahouse, he'd noted that on two of the lots she'd created a park with swing sets, a sandbox, comfortable benches, gazing pool and a privacy hedge. On the opposite side of the business was a lush garden with walking paths that looked as if it was maintained by one of the local landscaping companies. He'd surmised that the tall privacy fence directly behind the house gave her a backyard of her own, which included this private courtyard he saw now.
From what he'd seen when he came in, the play park and the path garden were apparently open to the neighborhood children and their parents, anyone seeking a moment of peace and beauty. But two adamant rules were printed on colorful, tasteful signs at the multiple entrances to them. No alcohol or drugs were allowed on her property.
His gaze shifted to the Japanese scroll to the left of the doorway. "What does that say?"
She went to the side table where there was a stovetop and a kettle steami
ng and checked the temperature reading. "'God is in the silence. God is in the empty space. '
Please sit down. " She glanced at him. "Southern male etiquette has been acknowledged and is appreciated. But it's easier to prepare the tea for you if you're sitting, since this is a smaller area and you're not a slight man. Either chair is fine. " It had been set for two people with woven bamboo placemats, napkins neatly arranged and fanned in pewter rings, silver spoons and saucers with a red and gold oriental design. Rather than facing over the expanse of the table, the two cup settings were next to one another, a more intimate arrangement that surprised him. A small round cake was in the middle of the table, a sharp-bladed short knife waiting for precise cuts of the dessert.
"You prepared for me. " He realized it with a pang of chagrin. "I apologize for coming so early. You're right. It was rude. "
She inclined her head but he sensed no censure to the gesture. The Ice Queen was what they called her at The Zone. But as he took a seat to watch her, ice was not what came to mind. She could not be described. Like the most perfect piece of art, a person had to stand in the same room, breathe in what she was, be this close to touching her.
In the club, she wore the clothes of a Mistress. Not always what one would expect but garments that clearly underscored her ability to command obedience from any sub whose path she chose to cross. But here in the real world, she wore beautifully tailored dark slacks and a blue silk blouse. No jewelry, not even her ears pierced. No rings.
The feature that struck most men first about Marguerite was her hair. So pale as to be almost the color of moonlight, and eyes that were such a light blue that he was reminded of the shifting images one could almost glimpse in a spring's clear waters.
Pale skin. Tall and elegant, never the slightest slouch to suggest she had any self-consciousness about her height.
She affected him in a way he had great difficulty in describing, a way that he knew would cause his few close friends within the BDSM community to doubt his sanity.
When he looked at her, he knew he was meant to understand the secret to her soul in a way he suspected no man ever had.
