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“The wine list was excellent, but we’re not drinking tonight.”
“I understand.” He bowed like Fort was royalty. I had those Queen of England feelings again. “My name is Mr. Marchand,” he said, taking in both of us with an ingratiating smile. “If there is anything at all I can do to make your visit better, please let me know.”
I followed Mr. Marchand with my eyes. He didn’t visit any other tables to simper and bow. Just ours. “How rich are you?” I asked Fort. “Seriously. Are you secretly a European prince?”
“No,” he said, picking one of the orchid-like blooms from the carafe of water and holding it out to me.
I took the flower and tucked it behind my ear. “You’re so rich you don’t want to talk about it?”
“I was taught not to talk about it.” He shrugged. “I try not to let the Sinclair name define me. My father built the company, I just help with it. Does my money make you uncomfortable?”
I looked around at the shimmering vines. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I have no class, as you probably guessed from our original meeting.”
“You have plenty of class.” He pursed his lips, scrutinizing me with his head propped on his hand. “That night… Well, I’m assuming something went wrong.”
“Ugh, really wrong.” I narrowed my eyes at the gawking woman at the next table. “I just need to stop dating douchebag playboys. In my defense, I’m around a lot of them because they come to Goodluck’s art exhibits.”
“A lot of art collectors are douchebags,” he agreed. “And let’s be honest. A lot of D-types are douchebags. You know who I mean by D-types?”
“Yes. Dominant types. And I agree.”
“Have you always dated Dominants? I mean, are you new to the lifestyle, or…”
“Not new. I’ve always been submissive, although it took me a while to work up the courage to act on it.”
He studied me a moment, sending new flutters over my body. “We all reach a point where we can’t deny our needs anymore,” he said.
My flutters turned to flames at the edge of intensity in his voice. What kind of D-type was he? I looked at his mouth and imagined him kissing me. I knew with some submissive sense that he wouldn’t be soft and gentle. I looked at his hands and pictured them hurting me, holding me down, white knuckles and force. What were his needs? He owned some pretty serious cuffs. What did he do to women under his power? I couldn’t ask, or I’d start down that slippery slope where I might invite him home with me, or accept an offer to “come up for coffee” at his place.
“Sometimes…” I shifted in my chair and bit my lip, a nervous habit. “Sometimes I make really bad choices when I get to that point. You know, when my needs get really strong.”
“I do the same.” He flashed a sardonic smile. “But I also enjoy when my needs get really strong, so what’s a pervert to do?”
“We’re not perverts,” I said in a quieter voice. “Lots of people want the things we want. BDSM isn’t a big deal anymore.”
His smile faded. “It’s a pretty big deal to me.”
My fantasies of force multiplied, as did the feeling I was in over my head. He was holding back words, holding secrets behind his predatory gaze. A distraction arrived, the first batch of our small plates. I turned my attention to the waiter with a sense of relief, and then the food: chipotle shrimp, braised Brussels sprouts, some creamy brie with artisanal grapes.
“It all looks so good,” I said.
He gestured with his fork. “Dig in, and eat all you want, please. We can order more. I like a woman with an appetite.”
He didn’t say it in a sleazy way, but all I could think of was “sexual appetite.” He had to have women in his bed every day of the week, submissive women, since he was a D-type. I wondered what he did to them to satiate his “needs.” My fantasy brain was going crazy, imagining undefined, sadistic acts while we sat surrounded in woodland magic.
But he moved the conversation to tamer topics as more plates of food accumulated in front of us. We talked about work, our experiences in business school, movies and music we liked. He was into rock stuff while I was more an indie-alternative gal. When we came back around to personal topics, he kept the focus on me. He wanted to know what had happened at Underworld the night I’d gotten so drunk. In some way, he had a right to know, since he was the one who’d had to deal with the aftermath. I tried to explain about Keith, and why that night felt like the end of my rope.
“He was one of those guys who have so much charisma,” I said. “So much personality that you just get sucked in, you know? When he talked to me, when we played together, he made me feel like I was his whole world.”
“So you did play with him?”
“Not that night.” I poked at an assortment of balsamic-glazed vegetables. “We hadn’t scened in months. He was done with me, but I couldn’t get over him. This has been a pattern in my life, something that happens repeatedly in my relationships, and I know it’s my fault for picking the hot ones.”
“The hot ones?”
“The Doms with flair. The Doms every sub wants. There aren’t enough Dominants who know what they’re doing.”
“True,” he agreed.
“And when there’s a Dom like that, who really has his shit together, there are fifty subs waiting in line to be with him, and each of those subs is expendable.”
“Exploitable.”
“Yes. Ugh.” Lingering anger heated my cheeks as I tugged at a braid, twirling the end around my finger. “Keith used me, manipulated me for fun. He got off on how much I fell for him. The stupidest thing is that I saw him do it to other girls. I knew this seduce-and-conquer routine was his thing, but when he did it to me, I was sure he loved me. I was sure I was different and special. He told me I was. He whispered it in my ear.”
Fort grimaced. “It’s the worst when they whisper it in your ear.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No,” he said. “I’ve seen what you’re describing. That’s why I don’t go to places like Underworld. It’s not real kink, it’s a meat market. It’s where the sport fuckers go to find an easy mark. I’m sorry it happened to you.”
“More than once,” I said, putting down my fork. “So I can’t get involved with D-types anymore. I’m not cut out for it.”
He pushed a basket of bread my way. “That’s it? You’re done with the lifestyle?”
“I think it’s for the best.” I was trying to convince myself as much as him. “I’m going to focus on work for a while, maybe read some self-help books about relationships and emotional health.”
“Sounds…healthy.” His gaze went intense again. “But what will you do, Jewels, when your needs get too strong to ignore?”
I knew he was still calling me “Jewels,” not “Jules.” I could tell by the way his lips caressed the word. What will you do? He wanted to know about my needs.
“I don’t know what I’ll do,” I said, picking up my fork again. “Where can I be submissive without being taken advantage of? Where can I meet Doms who aren’t assholes?”
He tilted his head, acknowledging my frustration. “Most of the Doms I know are assholes.”
I wasn’t sure if he included himself in that number, but I assumed he did, and it made me feel even sadder. “Well, it doesn’t matter, because I’m done with the BDSM scene. It’s not worth the drama.”
The waiter sidled up to the table to add water to both our glasses. As soon as he was gone, Fort took a long look around the room.
“The scene,” he repeated. “It fucks up so many people. It fucked you up, but maybe…”
His voice trailed off, and he wouldn’t look at me.
“Maybe what?” I asked.
He glanced at the vines above us, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Fuck. What am I doing?”
“Excuse me?”
He looked back at me. “The night I saw you leaning against that building, I…” He snapped his mouth shut and rubbed his hand
across his lips. “Well, I liked your socks, the way they fit your legs. I liked them a lot.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
“The little bows on top…” He scanned the plates in front of us. “Do you want dessert?”
I blinked at him. “I don’t…think so.”
He signaled the waiter and he came running. “Could we have some coffee?”
“Certainly, Mr. St. Clair.”
He turned to me after the waiter left. “Juliet, I think you’re great. Your socks are great. Your hair, your eyes…” He sighed. “You’re a very attractive woman, but I shouldn’t be flirting with you, complimenting you, and asking you about the lifestyle. I shouldn’t have asked you to dinner. Even though you’re submissive, we wouldn’t be a good fit as a couple.”
“Oh, okay.” My blush was back, scalding heat crawling over my skin. “I mean, I wasn’t really asking to become, you know, involved with you.”
“I know. And you shouldn’t.”
