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“And you’re trying to show me what a terrible Domme I’ve been because I didn’t know these things about them?” Her words were silk. A soft purr barely heard over the din of our surroundings. I knew she was a prideful lioness circling her prey, finding my weakness. But that gritty tendril in her voice resonated all the way down to my synapses. Women who topped always cupped me by the proverbial balls. I loved watching them exert power with such quiet grace. It was something I’d never seen a Dom do. Not that Dom’s weren’t quiet in the way they topped, but Dommes were slyly charming and sweet, batting at the mouse before gobbling it up.
“You know as well as I do that we’re not supposed to ask personal questions.” She replied, twisting the paper tubing from the straw the waitress brought for her glass of water. “I can’t just go poking into their personal life.”
I held up my hand, hoping to stymie her upset.
“I know Margaux. They were told that. But that is the heart of the issue between you three. A lack of communication and a desire for more.”
“Look, I appreciate you acting as a volunteer intermediary—”
“Margaux.” Her hand was in mine again. When did I reach for it? Or did I just grab it? Regardless, her beautifully manicured fingers flexed against my palm. As if they had a mind of their own and they were deciding fight or flight. “Please listen to what I’m saying.”
I swung around, so I sat directly next to her. I wanted to touch her, to use physical contact to get her to open up enough to hear what I was saying. I could tell, just from the few interactions I’d had with her, that her hackles were up again. Just like when she was at dinner.
“You are a fantastic Domme.” I tell her, taking her hands in mine, “Listen to what I’m saying. You. Are. A. Fantastic. Domme. I’m not telling you this to challenge you or change you. I’m telling you this because you’re so fucking amazing that your two men are literallybeggingyou for more.”
The moment I took Margaux’s hands in my own, I saw something I hadn’t expected to see. I took a chance and ran the back of my fingers down her chin. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the connection. When her eyes fluttered back open, her pupils had dilated so wide I’d lost the gray color of her irises entirely.
That was the moment. In the middle of a little café that smelled of espresso and baked goods, filled with the ambient sounds of friendly chatter and the shrieking hiss of the steamed milk machine. I saw something which surprised the hell out of me. It wasn’t possible. Yet, she looked so at peace from just that brief moment of contact. It was the same look I’d seen when a woman knelt for me. The very look Margaux saw in Dax and Lazlo’s eyes. Trust. Entreaty. Submission.
Margaux was a switch.
11
This was a huge mistake. Why had I allowed Gideon to convince me this would be a good idea? Oh yeah, because his emerald-colored eyes were so fucking hypnotic. And his touch was so oddly calming I found myself craving another brush of his fingers across my face, or my hand in his. And now, because he was a curiosity my body wasn’t ready to cast aside. Here I was, in front of his house, sitting in my car debating my sanity. We should have met at the club.
“Hi,” he stood at his front door, barefoot and in well-worn jeans and a University of Chicago t-shirt. “Thank you for coming.”
My face decided to smile for me the moment I stood in front of him. All the control I’d spent years learning how to harness and cultivate went out the window every time I saw him. Like some pre-teen with a crush.
“I brought some wine.” I held up the bottle I’d grabbed from my private collection. I figured I may as well enjoy what I drank.
“That was very sweet of you.”
His voice was soft and calming. It spread salve on my jittery nerves. He pressed a soft kiss to my cheek as he accepted the wine. The warmth of the moment pulsed through my bloodstream, sending a flood of pleasure through my bloodstream with my quickened pulse.
“That color is so beautiful on you.” He ran his fingers down the dove gray dress I wore. “Instead of highlighting the gray in your eyes, it actually brings out that tiny ring of blue.”
Had a practical stranger ever noticed that before? My old boyfriend used to call it the “ring of truth,” because he said it appeared whenever I had to express something that meant a lot to me. However, other than intimate partners, no one mentioned that feature. Until Gideon.
I heard a door close and an alarm bleep. Gideon opened the door wider for the pair to enter. They made a stunning pair in street clothes. Obviously I knew their naked forms like a well worn map of my hometown. But seeing them in clothes that showed their personalities was intoxicating.
Dax wore tight fitting brown pants and a deep navy button down that highlighted the raw strength of his thick thighs. Lazlo was always elegant and put together, wore a designer golf shirt and pressed shorts, his well defined calves on full display for everyone’s perusal. Gideon suggested our little gathering. Given we couldn’t play at the club for a few more weeks, it seemed like a fair solution. I missed them. And us.
“You make an elegant pair.” I stood to greet them both, falling between them in what should have been an odd collection of limbs. It felt so wonderful to be held by them. “I’ve missed you both.”
Lazlo nuzzled my cheek, directing my mouth to his. His kisses were sensual, that spun the warmth of Gideon’s kisses into glowing embers. He shifted me into Dax’s arms. Rather than kiss me, Dax wrapped his arms around me and held me as if I shattered and he held all my broken pieces while someone reassembled me.
“Mistress,” He said, trailing his lips along my pulse point.
“We’re not in a scene,” Gideon corrected, please let’s use our regular names tonight.
He directed us to his expansive kitchen where he’d set out dinner plates around his oversized table. We took our seats, Lazlo and Dax seated across from me, instead of on either side of me like they typically sat.
“I hope no one is counting carbs.” Gideon placed huge platters of food down. “I learned most of my cooking from my brother, and he studied in Italy for two years.”
“Impressive,” Dax accepted a platter filled with Osso Bucco, passing it to Lazlo once he’d taken a serving, “is he a chef?”
“No,” Gideon laughed, handing me a plate of Eggplant Parmesan. “An architect. But you spend enough time absorbing local culture I guess you pick up a few things.”
