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It flummoxed and intrigued her, because up until recently, her primary experience with a Dom, and therefore her mental picture of one, was Marcus. A nun who'd been in a convent since the age of six and didn't know what sex was, let alone BDSM, would still recognize Marcus as
a Master. His Dom-ness was that out front.
Desmond Hayes, on the other hand... As crazy as it sounded, it was as if he'd sent her an exclusive message. A message delivered to a place inside she'd only recently opened up to find what secrets she'd been keeping from herself, too busy dealing with the regular pitfalls of her unoriginally tragic love life.
Or maybe that was why that door had remained closed. To keep the treasures hidden in those chambers from being spoiled by her other failures. It was best that something special never be taken out and used, if the alternative was it becoming the same ruined, stinking mess as the rest.
Wow. She needed a rope to pull her out of that pig wallow of self-pity. Fortunately, she was sitting next to a rigger. She hid a smile as she tuned back in to the feast he'd been laying out before her.
The sandwiches, all quartered, sat on neatly unwrapped squares of waxed paper. A generous tub of carrot sticks was open next to them with a squat jar of peanut butter. He was loosening the tops on two bottles of water and placing one by her.
"Hummus, chicken salad, PB&J and grilled cheese." He pointed to each. "Help yourself." Pulling a small palm-sized device like a stopwatch out of the pack, he fitted it with a slim needle, swabbed his finger with a postage-sized alcohol wipe and did a quick stick, glancing at the screen. Appearing satisfied with the number, he detached the needle, put it in a container and tucked those things back into the pack.
She had Type II diabetic friends who checked their blood sugar in such a matter-of-fact way before meals. Seeing him do it was another surprise, since most of her friends who were Type II had weight problems and an aversion to strenuous exercise, but she expected every condition had exceptions.
The efficient, swift way he did it and put it away again without comment told her it was routine enough that he barely thought about doing it in front of a stranger. But his lack of comment also suggested he wasn't inviting questions. Fair enough. A ten-minute acquaintance hardly opened the door to personal health inquiries, so she sat on her natural curiosity. For now.
As she picked up a square of the chicken salad sandwich, she noticed he went for the PB&J first. Biting into her sandwich, she was surprised at the taste and freshness. "This is excellent. What deli did you get this from? I'm still new in town. I'll have to stock up."
"I made it. I make most my food from scratch. Ingredients come from the farmers' market near me." He bit into a carrot stick and gestured at her with the other half, his heels drumming lightly against the stage front as he shifted. "If you're not into cooking, there are ladies who bring home cooked meals for sale. You can stock up and reheat them. They have the market once a week during the seasonal months. I'll take you to it sometime if you like and introduce you to the folks who bring the best stuff."
"Oh. Well...hmm."
"We won't call it a date. Just being neighborly, since you said you're new in town." He winked. "If we end up getting naked after, that'll be because of my irresistible charisma. Like dinner and sex, only we'll do farmers' market and sex."
She laughed and he grinned. He leaned in and touched the corner of her mouth with his thumb, taking off a bit of the chicken salad. She reached self-consciously for her napkin, but noticed he put the tiny piece of salad to his lips, licking it away, which made her mouth tingle as if he'd done it to hers. Suddenly she remembered that weeks-ago fantasy of rubbing chocolate off her lover's lips, only to have him grasp her wrist and taste it from her fingertips himself.
"I'd love to see you in my rope and nothing else," he said thoughtfully. "Have you done any scening in the local group yet? Or did you have a regular Dom or hangout in New York? Logan said you'd come from there. What's your situation?"
She'd blanched at the forwardness of the first statement, but as he continued, she put it together. "Oh no. I'm just a theater manager. I'm just... I don't... I mean, I'm flattered, but I haven't..." She stopped and shot him a narrow look. "You're laughing at me."
"No. I'm pleased with you. You're flustered. Which heightens my interest in ways you can't even imagine." He'd drawn up one knee and had his work shoe propped on the edge of the stage, balancing that way with his elbow on his knee as he chewed his sandwich and studied her. Thanks to the short sleeves of the T-shirt, she noticed he had well-developed biceps.
She should be holding her own better in this conversation, using amusement and her tart tongue to put him in his place. Except he didn't seem to be joking, just considering his own reaction to her. He acted like someone who spent a good amount of time in his own head, which she supposed he probably did as a roofer. However, he didn't seem introverted, quite comfortable in the company of a stranger.
"I don't pigeon hole people to get them to fit my fantasies," he said. "But I'm getting the vibe that you are interested in all of this. Personally. Yet you haven't explored it a whole lot, have you?"
No, she hadn't. Having Marcus and Thomas show her around the scene in New York hadn't appealed to her. Ironic, since one long ago significant event with them had been the trigger to her dormant interests, but she'd felt self-conscious pursuing it further in their company. She'd done a lot of online looking, though. Followed by and integrated with some serious fantasizing, which she'd assumed ever since would be like most of her relationships: better as vibrator material than reality.
After the initial meetings with the cast members, Julie had done more specific Internet research on what she'd learned from them. Suspension, fire, liquid nitrogen, whips, knives, rope. Role play--everything from interrogation and Victorian drawing room scenes, to puppy and pony play. It kicked off her own personal and professional imaginings, though she kept the former firmly channeled into the latter.
"Logan's great at mentoring people who are curious," Desmond suggested. "If it's easier for you to take those first steps by calling it work, he'd do it under the guise of supporting what you're doing here."
"Don't do that." Her tone sharpened. "Passive aggressive jabs annoy me."
The genuine surprise in his face reassured and shamed her at once. "Easy, New York," he said. "It wasn't a judgment. Plenty of people interested in this like to approach it in a more detached way at first. It's a smart way of playing it safe, keeping it a little arm's length. Only an idiot jumps into the deep end without being able to swim. Or even knowing if they're going to like swimming."
"Yeah. True. Sorry. Weird trigger."
He picked up the tub and offered her some carrot sticks, taking a handful himself. "Let me guess. You had a boyfriend who liked to do that patronizing, 'I'm only telling you this for your own good, even though it suits my purpose to emotionally manipulate you the way I want you to be' thing. In the meantime, he made you feel like what wasn't working for your relationship was all your fault."
His wry humor made it difficult to hold onto offense at being so accurately read. She cocked her head, more sure of her footing, especially when he smiled at her. It went deep into his eyes and made a woman feel special. Danger, Will Robinson.
"So are you the reformed asshole who did the manipulating, or the recipient of the female version of it?" she asked. "Is that how you recognize the signs?"
"If I tell you that, I'll ruin the fog of sexual mystery that clings to me."
"I think you're safe. It's the carrot sticks that are keeping me enthralled." She smiled and his own broadened.
