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“Why didn’t you just level with me?”
“How could I? I stay masked for a reason.”
“You’re not masked now.”
“No. You’ve unmasked me.” I can’t help shifting in my chair. “And I’d be lying if I didn’t say it’s frightening.”
“What is there to be frightened about? I’m only a woman—a woman who’s intrigued by your lifestyle. Who wants to learn more. And I’m not talking about writing an article for my work. I’ll get that information from research. I want to learn more for me. And I’ve been thinking, Hunter. I think I’d rather not take the class at Treasure’s Chest. I want to learn from you.”
“I’m not a teacher.”
She laughs then—uproarious laughter—and the absurdity hits me. The truth is I am a teacher. It’s my chosen profession.
“I’m not a teacher of BDSM,” I clarify. “Though I will teach you how to be the perfect submissive for me.”
“Maybe you should teach BDSM. You obviously enjoy teaching. I took the liberty of looking you up on RateMyProfessors.com. Your reviews are great.”
“Except for one,” I say.
“Who cares? You can’t reach everyone. Perhaps your teaching style just isn’t quite right for some.”
“Perhaps not.”
There’s no way to know for sure, but I suspect the negative review is from a student whose advances I rejected.
“I have a degree in English literature. That’s what I teach. I don’t have a degree in BDSM.”
“Is there even such a thing?” Frankie’s silvery eyes sparkle.
“These days, you can get a degree in just about everything. You can get college credit for all kinds of independent study. Of course, that doesn’t guarantee that you’re going to find a job.”
“Yeah, I suppose not. Who would hire a guy with a PhD in BDSM?”
“Only a college that teaches it.”
We laugh again. Our server comes by and takes our drink order—two of my special martinis.
Frankie is easy to talk to. She’s warm and smart and funny.
Everything I’ve always been attracted to in a woman.
Plus, she’s beautiful and has a killer body.
Frankie is more beautiful than either Allison or Teresa, who were both warm and smart. Teresa’s warmth sometimes came at a cost, though, and that’s when she let out her mean streak.
She hid it well…but only for a while.
God, why is Teresa creeping into my head?
I’ll never be able to make anything work with Frankie if I can’t get Teresa out of my thoughts.
Damn. That’s exactly what’s going on. It’s a defense mechanism. I’ve built so many walls around my emotions that I’m not sure I’ll be able to free them.
But Frankie makes me want to try.
Which is also scary as hell.
We’ve had sex only twice. Once at the club, and once at her place, and both times I was still clothed. Frankie makes me want more. I want to take her to my place and make love to her in my own bed.
That’s a surefire recipe for disaster.
I’ve kept things distant with my partners for a reason. Part of that reason no longer exists with Frankie. I’ve already told her my name, shown her my face.
I wanted to do these things.
I could’ve easily walked out of the coffee shop, told her she was mistaken and to have a good day.
No one would’ve been the wiser if I got out of there quickly.
But I didn’t.
There’s only one reason why.
Part of me wanted to let my guard down with Frankie.
This woman—this woman I don’t even know but who knows more about me than anyone I’ve been intimate with—if you can even call it intimacy when we share the act but nothing else—in the past five years.
Our server comes to take orders.
“I’m so sorry,” Frankie says. “I haven’t even had a chance to look at the menu.”
“That’s no problem,” he says. “Let me tell you about today’s specials, so you have all of the information, and I’ll be back in a moment. We have Fish Beaujolais made with Alaskan halibut, and it comes with roasted cauliflower and fresh green beans. We also have a wonderful wagyu ribeye, sixteen ounces, and that comes with a baked potato and also fresh green beans.”
“Sixteen ounces.” Frankie widens her eyes. “That’s a full pound of meat.”
“You’d be amazed how many ladies order it,” the server says.
“I’ll think about it,” she says.
“Absolutely. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She scans her menu, and I realize I haven’t looked at the menu either. But I don’t need to. I always have the same thing when I come to The Glass House. Prime rib, medium rare, with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus spears. Is garlic the right way to go tonight? I don’t normally worry about that. Sure, I chew a couple of breath mints before a scene anyway, but I don’t want anything to go badly tonight. I don’t want my breath to have one hint of garlic.
“As good as that ribeye sounds,” Frankie says, “there’s just no way I can eat that much.”
