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I fidgeted with the linen napkin in my lap. “A lot of people call me Jules.”
“I mean the sparkly kind. Maybe it’s your eyes.”
I touched my necklace, fidgeting with that too. I couldn’t stop touching things. “Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I hoped you would.”
He was great at this casual-date thing—hire a car, flatter the girl, don’t drink wine if she doesn’t want to drink wine. I tried to be classy like him. I didn’t want to be the gawking, fumbling dinner companion, but I felt out of my element. It wasn’t just the breathtaking dining room or the sky-high prices. It was Fort’s outsize presence, his naturally dominant manner—and I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Our waiter stammered as he took our order, and a woman at a nearby table looked over her shoulder at my dinner companion every thirty seconds or so.
Soon after we ordered, the manager stopped by our table, delivering crystal pitchers of water with flowers floating on top. “Didn’t you find anything to your liking on our wine list, Mr. St. Clair?” he asked as he poured for us.
“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.
