The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel

by M. F. Sinclair

  I love you, David James Seton.

  Now as I lay in bed, watching him sleep, our bodies twined together, his arms pressed tightly against me as if to make sure I would remain by his side, I had never imagined such happiness. I loved him and wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I would tell him that as soon as he woke up. It was time to leave self-doubt behind and open up my heart, as well as my mind, to the possibility of love. After all, I thought as fatigue and satiation nudge me into sleep, what do I have to lose?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dark skies, both from the night and from the weather, covered the city of Northampton. Thunders rumbled and fast winds forced the rain down in slanting streams, causing them to splatter loudly against the windows.

  The thunder and lightning woke me up, but Seton slept through the whole thing. The extensive lovemaking, coupled with the jetlag, must have done quite a number on him. Rising up slightly on one elbow, I glanced at the clock on the night table. It was almost midnight—almost five in the morning in England. Yup, he was in London time all right, but I bet that he was also sated and happy, just as I was.

  In his arms, I sighed and snuggled more closely against him. He looked so beautiful when he slept—so boyish and peaceful—his hair tussled, his face dusted with stubble, his long lashes fluttering, his breath deep and steady. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. There he is, I thought, the man that I love. The one man I have given my heart to. I wanted him to wake up so that I could tell him how I felt. I would utter those three little words that I had never uttered before in my life.

  Trepidation surged helplessly through me. What if I scared him away? What if he didn’t feel the same? I shook my head and brushed the insecurities away. He felt the same way. I was certain of it. And as I said before, what did I have to lose? After all that had passed between us during the last several hours, it was only appropriate to tell him. I had been stalling, for I’d had plenty of opportunities to tell him during the course of our intense evening together, but I somehow couldn’t get the words out. I’ll tell him, I said to myself. I’ll tell him as soon as he wakes up.

  I tucked my face against Seton’s neck and kissed him there. My gaze slipped down to his nakedness and watched as his chest, red from scratch marks, rose and fell in a steady rhythm of sleep. He was sprawled on the bed, to his left side, facing me, one arm under his pillow, the other by his side. A blue sheet, tangled across the bed, covered his legs. His genitals were exposed. A rush of lust flared through me, and I reached out and caressed his chest, tracing one of the scratch marks, my finger moving slowly, lightly, so as not to wake him. My finger moved farther down, until it reached his flaccid penis. My hand curled over it and squeezed. His shaft twitched slightly and Seton’s sleeping form stirred, his body shifting closer to me. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t wake. His forehead furrowed into a slight frown, eyes still closed, his mouth slightly parted, and his face relaxed again as he settled back to sleep. Smiling, I dropped another kiss to his neck and sank back into the pillows, willing myself to go back to sleep. Yawning, I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to the wonderful fourth act that Seton and I had performed just a few hours ago.

  ****

  We were in the shower. The rich scent of lavender curled through the air as we shampooed each other’s hair and soaped up each other’s limbs. His gorgeous body glistened invitingly, drops of water caressing every muscle, every curve. I ran soapy hands over every inch of him and didn’t stop until he was quivering with need. Seton returned the favor by making me see stars for the umpteenth time when he pressed one of the handheld shower sprays against my clit. Then he pinned me to the wall, guiding my hips up to his waist. I wrapped my legs around him, the heel of my foot piercing his spectacular butt.

  “Mmmm, that’s it,” he murmured as I felt the hard length of him slide easily into my aching passage.

  I moaned, shuddering, and Seton responded with a loud groan that mingled with laughter.

  “My wanton pet,” he said, driving into me in long, pummeling strokes. “You’re my pet, aren’t you, darling?”

  “Yes,” I rasped out, basking in the joy of his dirty talk. “I am.”

  “And my whore?”

  “That too,” I said breathlessly, slipping my fingers over my clitoris.

  Seton let out a strangled grunt. “Oh, yes,” he coaxed when he saw me reaching between my legs to touch myself. “Touch yourself for me, darling.”

  He continued to plunge into me as his hands snaked along my throat, forming a gentle noose around my neck. His fingers began to add pressure around my neck.

  My body trembled for a few seconds, and my fingers left my aching clit. But I wasn’t frightened—far from it—I was actually… excited. The pressure of his fingers around my neck, the roughness of it, made me giddy with passion, and I wanted to encourage him to continue in the same vein.

  “You like that, my pet?” he asked.

  I nodded and ground out, “Squeeze harder.” He complied.

  “Harder,” I repeated, my voice a little garbled.

  He looked at me, puzzled by my request, but he complied again. He squeezed my neck harder as he continued to batter me with his thrusts. A sense of euphoria took over me, my body quivering with pleasure. “Squeeze harder.”

  He paused for a moment, his hand still circling my neck. “Marjorie—”

  “Harder!” I shouted. He seemed uncertain at first, but complied yet again. Rapture befell me whenever his fingers dug harder around my neck. He controlled the air I breathed, and it was a sensation that both terrified and exhilarated me.

  Whatever it was that had ignited me had now passed over to Seton. An animalistic force took over him. He fucked me hard, fast, pumped into me like a ferocious beast, his hands tight around my neck.

  “Say you’re mine,” he demanded gruffly.

  “I’m yours,” I croaked, voice almost inaudible.

  We were like animals, no longer human. At least that’s how it felt to me. My hands clawed at his chest, leaving red marks across the middle, and Seton screamed. The sensation from the clawing must have fueled him, because his thrusts became so hard and powerful that I thought I would pass out from sheer pleasure. My body jerked upright with every rapid thrust, my flesh slapping against his as water dripped over us. “Again,” he said. “Say you’re mine.” His voice was a harsh command.

  “I’m yours,” I said hoarsely.

  His hands squeezed against my neck with an intensity that matched his merciless thrusts. He was rough, but not so rough that he would hurt me or choke me to death. “Again,” he growled.

  “I’m yours.”

  “Again!”

  “I’m yours.”

  “I’m yours, what?”

  “I’m yours, Sir!” I am yours, Sir, and I love you more than life itself.

  Ecstasy washed over us as we rode out each other’s orgasms. My breath left me in one loud woosh sound when Seton’s hands left my neck. We remained joined together for a long time, too weak to move. When the post-coital haze left us, Seton kissed me slowly, tenderly, as if we’d just finished making gentle love instead of fucking our brains out. He wrapped a towel around my body and carried me to the bed.

  We were in each other’s arms when Seton surprised me with, “Are you okay? Was I too rough?”

  “I like it rough.”

  He smiled. “I know you do. That’s one of the many things I adore about you.” He ran a hand across my cheek. “You surprised me a little, demanding that I reduce your intake of breath that way.”

  I looked away for a moment, blushing. “It… surprised me how much I enjoyed it.”

  “You did enjoy it, Marjorie. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

  I sighed. “I know. To be honest it… it doesn’t bother me. Not in the least.”

  He gave me a doubtful look. “Are you sure?”

  Another sigh, one that spoke of calmness and contentment. “I am.”

  A glint of app
roval flickered in his eyes. “I’m proud of you, darling. You’ve come a long way.” He put his arms around me and pressed his lips to mine. “Just promise me you’ll use the Safe Word if I ever do something that hurts you or makes you uncomfortable. Don’t be shy about using it. That’s what it’s there for. Do you understand?”

  “You betcha.”

  We stared at each other. Then Seton said, “Do you trust me?”

  Surprised by this question, I said nothing.

  “Well?” he coaxed. “Do you?”

  Thoughts rushed through my head. Did I trust him? To be honest, I hadn’t thought of it. Truth is, I had a hard time trusting people. That was the main reason why I never let anyone get too close. My friends were few and my ex-lovers were even fewer. I trusted Jeremy, and then look what happened. His intentions, however misguided, were noble, but he still went behind my back. Did I trust Seton? Only time would tell.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice low, quiet. “Yes, I trust you.”

  “You hesitated.”

  I sighed. “This is all new to me, Seton. Please, give me more time.”

  He caressed my cheek. “I’ll earn your trust, Marjorie. Just you wait and see.”

  His voice sounded so sad, yet so determined, that I couldn’t help the spark of emotion that passed through me. “You’ve already earned it,” I assured him. “We wouldn’t have done what we just did in the shower if I didn’t trust you at all.”

  His smile returned. “My sweet girl. I…” He paused, looked thoughtful. Then, “You’re very special to me, Marjorie. You should know that.” He gave me a slow, tender kiss.

  We made love for the last time, and it was languid and brief. I didn’t climax, but I didn’t care. My body still hummed from all the orgasms I’d had during the course of the long day. When it was over, we simply held each other until we fell asleep.

  ****

  The rain hit against the windows with greater force. Sleep would not come, not again, so I might as well give up. Seton hadn’t stirred, still sleeping like a baby. I sighed, content, picturing the circle of bruises that would no doubt appear around my neck in the morning. Love marks, evidence of our intense shower encounter. It should have shocked me, should have disturbed me, but it hadn’t. I hadn’t lied to Seton. It really didn’t bother me. I’d wanted it, and it no longer terrified me to admit it. Not too long ago, I would have cowered away, made up excuses, placed all the blame on Seton, pushed him away somehow. But now I knew better. I loved him, and I could finally be myself around him. Dominance and submission, the danger, the taboo—those things were a part of me. It was wonderful, and so worth feeling sore and bruised and… hungry.

  My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten anything since that sandwich and soda I had for lunch at work. A twinge of guilt passed over me as I gazed at Seton. He had wanted me to make him dinner in nothing but my birthday suit. I couldn’t help smiling at that. What a fertile imagination the man had! He never failed to surprise me. I felt bad that he had gone to sleep without eating. Maybe I’d surprise him in the morning with breakfast in bed—with me in nothing but a pair of high heels and a naughty little smile. I wasn’t the world’s greatest cook and I often burned whatever I intended to prepare, but I could make eggs, bacon and toasts as effortlessly as the next person. I could also make coffee. Caffeine, scrambled eggs and a naked woman. Sounded like an excellent breakfast to me. In the meantime, I would satiate my own appetite for food.

  Stomach grumbling, I swung off the covers and clambered off the bed, padding naked over to Seton’s enormous walk-in closet, where all of his tailored jackets and colorful shirts lined up perfectly. A variety of sections were made to accommodate full-length items, like suits and coats. There were also lots of shelves, where Seton kept his jeans and polo shirts. T-shirts hung neatly over a shirt rack. A shoe shelf took up an entire wall. I had no idea Seton owned so many shoes. They all looked expensive, not to mention brand new. They were probably just thoroughly polished and shined. I wondered who shined his shoes. Was George in charge of that too? This looked nothing like my closet. Mine was tiny, for one thing, and my clothes hung sloppily from their hangers. Sometimes my closet was almost completely devoid of decent clothes and I had to dig through the laundry basket until I found something that looked and smelled remotely clean. I noted with interest that a large section of the closet was empty. Perhaps he hadn’t been able to fill it all up. Who needs all that closet space anyway?

  Sighing, I grabbed one of Seton’s t-shirts from the rack and shrugged into it as I made my way down to the kitchen. Mmm. The t-shirt was clean, but the faint scent of Seton’s spicy cologne clung to the collar. I loved wearing his shirt—it was like I was wearing him.

  I went to the fridge and grabbed a half-full container of Chinese food, dug through the endless cabinets until I found a fork (couldn’t find any chopsticks), and marched toward the sitting room. Maybe I would watch a little TV to while away the time.

  I lounged on Seton’s leather couch—the most comfortable piece of furniture my ass had ever landed on—feet tucked neatly under me, devouring the cold Chinese food and watching a late-night talk show. My eyes drifted to the laptop perched on Seton’s desk. The computer was turned on, and the flashy screensaver winked incessantly, almost invitingly, at me. I froze into place, mouth full of chow mein, my mind whirling with curiosity. Seton’s new manuscript was probably stored somewhere in that computer, and I so wanted to read it. I had no idea if he had finished it or not, but I wanted to read his work-in-progress, wanted to see what other darkly suspenseful story he had concocted. My mind spun with indecision, and I had a hard time swallowing my food. Seton wouldn’t be pleased. Most authors hate it when people read their rough drafts. It’s something to do with underdeveloped storylines and characters. Whatever. I wanted to read it. One chapter. Just one chapter. Then I would shut it down. Seton would never know, and what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  Slowly, deliberately, I pushed to my feet and, food in hand, moved toward his desk, situating myself in front of the computer. Swallowing back a twinge of guilt, I settled into the comfy rotating chair, switched on the small lamp on the desk and clicked off the screensaver. I went to the search box on the upper right hand corner of the screen and scanned Seton’s doc files, scrolling down through numerous results.

  There were notes everywhere. I had no idea what they were about. I quickly skimmed through a file and came out with nothing. The paragraphs made no sense—just random lines, quotes and notes that told me nothing. It was almost like they were written in code. The name “Madeleine” was everywhere. A rush of fear coursed within me as I continued to scroll down his files, my eyes traveling worriedly over the staircase. Seton would be very angry if he saw me. He would probably punish me. What instrument of torture would he use this time—the flogger or the palm of his hand? Before he fell asleep, Seton described various forms of punishment, like locking up the sub inside a confined space or branding her with a spiked belt. The spiked belt left permanent scars, hence the branding. None of that stuff appealed to me right at that moment, so I rushed through all of his doc files, trying in vain to find the elusive manuscript.

  I searched endlessly for his stories, hoping to find at least one of the old ones, but there were none. It appeared that Seton saved his files on disks or flash drives. On some level, I knew the manuscript wouldn’t be stored in his computer. Most authors are meticulously private about their work, and they wouldn’t leave it broadly on display, waiting for busybodies such as myself to find and read them.

  Disappointed, I was about to log off when I spotted it—a hidden file with the name “Madeleine (Working Title)” on it.

  My heart fluttered with excitement. That was it! Seton’s next novel! His new brilliant effort—and I would be the first one to read it! I cast a cautious glance at the stairway, making sure that Seton wasn’t lurking around somewhere.

  My stomach pinched tightly when I turned back to the screen. I still didn’t know which pu
blisher Seton would choose, but I was almost certain that it wouldn’t be Bookends, so this might be my one and only chance to read the manuscript before it made it to print. I sighed. Curiosity won. One of these days, I was going to have to control my curious nature before it landed me in water too deep to get out of. It’s done, thought. Can’t chicken out now.

  I pulled up the file and began to read.

  An insubstantial man—so insubstantial, in fact, that we won’t bother to give the chap a name—unzipped his trousers and unbuttoned his shirt as his bit for the night, a gorgeous brunette in nothing but a red laced bra and thong, smoked a cigarette and stared at the rain pouring outside the window. London looked quite gloomy after a rather promising start.

  I smiled at the screen. So far, so good. I skimmed through the chapter and noticed that Seton used a lot of European spelling and British slang, and he used the UK-standard single quotation marks, but that could be fixed (but expensive to correct. At Bookends AtoZ, we always say that spelling, grammar and punctuation is the author’s responsibility. Copy-editing costs money, and Alfred had been forced to downsize. But, hey, this was David J. Seton. I was certain that Alfred would be more than happy to make an exception). The opening chapter was a prologue, and it seemed to be introducing a sexy brunette. And that title—Madeleine. Interesting. Who was this Madeleine?