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When he decided to come to this meeting, he'd made a conscious decision to start down that path, and not stop until he reached the nexus of her.
"Your place reminds me of the Victorian solarium, run by the acknowledged society queen. A place for ladies to talk politics, religion, home. But not really a male sanctum. "
She glanced toward him. "Do you know in Morocco it's the man's job to pour the tea in households, and he holds the pot high above the cup as he pours, to create a frothy top to the tea? I think it's welcoming to either gender. Men just don't tend to take advantage of the environment. But Chloe agrees with you. She thinks we need to do something to attract more eligible males. "
"Well, I suppose you could have ladies drinking tea naked. That table of elderly matriarchs had promise. I'll bet they were wearing some pretty sexy lingerie beneath their fancy dresses. "
Her lips tightened in an almost smile but then she drew it back into herself. He nodded toward a box on a shelf to the left of the stovetop where it could not be adversely impacted by the steam. "What's in that?" She took it down, the gracious hostess, bringing it to the table so he could see it better. The box looked to be carved out of ivory.
"This is orchid tea," she explained, lifting the lid of the tea caddy and showing the foil-lined interior. He bent forward and examined the dark rolled leaves interspersed with the pale twists of the orchid blossoms. She raised a silver scoop shaped like a scalloped shell. "Centuries ago, when tea buyers were testing different teas, the supplier would leave a scalloped shell on the top of the container as a scoop so the buyer could smell and handle the tea. " She scooped some of the infusion up in a simple movement, and extended it to him. "I'll serve you the Darjeeling tonight but see what you think of this. "
Her hands had the long-fingered grace of meadow grasses stroking the flank of a passing deer. Tyler reached out, took the spoon from her so he could gently encircle her wrist and turn her palm upward. Tapping the spoon's contents into her hand, he lifted her palm closer to his nose, his lips mere inches from the pulse he felt racing beneath his grip, making him want to tighten it. He didn't. He inhaled, smelled a woman who wore no perfumes but the fragrances of her cafe. The tea's fragrance was soft, tantalizing and soothing at once, the energy of life married to its tranquility, balancing the drinker in a like fashion, he suspected.
"Much better," he agreed. "I find that much more to my liking. " He let her go slowly, his touch whispering across her skin.
She remained motionless, staring at him, the hand in the air where he left it, cupped around the spilled tea.
One thing Marguerite knew about Tyler. He did not idly flirt. If he reached out, touched or caressed a woman, whether it be with his fingers, his voice, or the powerful regard of his gaze, it was because he had his sights firmly set on acquisition. It was possible he was merely enjoying the sexual chemistry that a man and a woman could have in their current setting, an acknowledgement that their common tie was in fact their sexual pursuits but this felt far more. . . personal.
She turned away at last, feeling his regard as she measured out the proper amount of tea and dropped it into the first teapot, a simple white bone china piece she used for steeping before pouring the mixture into the final tea container. With a quick glance at the kettle temperature again, she lifted it to pour the heated spring water on top of the tea leaves in the pot.
"Isn't it supposed to be boiling?"
"Not for a green tea. Just below boiling is more suitable. "
"Does it matter?"
She finished the pour, set the kettle aside, and covered the steeping pot. "It matters.
It all matters with tea. The amount of moments you steep it may be personal preference but the container, the water you use, the color of the teacups, it's all important. Tea is a touchstone, a way for my clients to reclaim their balance. I try to give them that. "
"Do I look unbalanced?"
He looked as though he wouldn't show a line of hull in a full course gale. Instead of answering, she picked up the tea strainer.
"Sounds like you've studied this from the Zen perspective. " Tyler's attention drifted back over to the single orchid on the table. It sat in a small clay container lined with smooth stones carefully arranged on the surface, wet with a shallow amount of water. He noted that the gray glaze of the pottery shone softly in the muted light from walls sconces on either side of the heron.
"Yes. And there are Taoist principles involved as well. Even when the leaves are picked and rolled, every degree of breakage creates a change in flavor, in pleasure received. "
"You could say the same about a cherished submissive. " Her nod appeared to acknowledge appreciation of his insight. He was beginning to be fascinated with her economy of movement to convey a wealth of response. Or, he mused, she could be conveying very little. The potency of her slightest movement allowed the one in her presence to conjure all manner of meaning into it.
Raising the white teapot in one hand, a matching porcelain strainer in the other, she began to pour the tea into the teapot he assumed they were going to be using, a Chinese porcelain with a bright design of green leaves, red blossoms, and gold work.
"May I pour you a cup?"
She could do anything she wanted for him, Tyler acknowledged dryly to himself, though he gave her a simple nod. He noted the lack of teacups on the table at the same moment she turned back to the side table, bent and opened what appeared to be a dish warmer from the waft of warm air that drifted from it. She brought two teacups of a matching design and poured.
"Keeping the cups warm also affects the flavor?" Her lashes flickered. "Yes. "
"You know," he observed, "the perception of D/s is that every interaction is rigidly controlled by either the Dom's Will, or rules both parties have set up. Or even the rules of the environment
, like The Zone. " He watched her sit in the chair next to him, adjust it out so she was facing him. She picked up her cup, examined the bright red contents, then raised it to her nose, inhaling. He watched with interest as the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. That she was listening to him, he had no doubt. He could count on one hand the times he'd actually seen Marguerite meet another person's eyes for more than a second at a time, if at all, but she still managed to convey her absolute attention. As if she was meditating on the words as they were spoken. It made it easy to pause and collect one's thoughts, for he'd never known her to interrupt someone before they were finished. It was as if she was tuning into something that wasn't the speaker's voice but the place the words came from, knowing when the thought was complete, the well empty.
"But that's just the perception, the rules of engagement. Inside those boundaries, there are no boundaries. A simple sexual encounter can become a much deeper, more meaningful interaction, going in ways neither sub nor Dom expects. "
"It's similar," she said, picking up on the direction of his thoughts as if she were inside his mind. "With tea, it's the preparation, the selection that centers the mind, the spirit, opens the tea drinker to a much wider experience once you sit down in the embrace of those preparations. "
"What is it you like about that photo, the one with the women walking with the baskets on their heads?"
