Dom's Baby

by Melinda Minx

  She gulps at her cider as if it actually were alcoholic.

  She wipes her lips and continues, “I think I’d had the water running for a minute or two. I always took really long showers, and Dillon knew that. I was so annoyed that I went out without even remembering to turn the shower off. I stomped through the bedroom, barely noticing that Dillon wasn’t in bed, or anywhere in my room.

  “I walked across the living room toward Destiny’s room, again still not realizing that I hadn’t seen Dillon. I’d honestly forgotten about him at this point. I barged into Destiny’s room without even knocking, and I saw Dillon in there. He was leaning back, and Destiny’s lips were around his cock.”

  She grinds her teeth together.

  I nod. “That’s hard to forgive.”

  “It wasn’t even about Dillon,” she says. “Like I said, we were probably on the way out anyway. But it was so disrespectful of her to do that, and she didn’t even apologize. Dillon tried to, and Destiny just laughed. She said ‘Oh, come on, you always complain about him,’ as if that justified what she did.”

  “So that was like, ten years ago?” I ask.

  “Come on, Dominick,” she snaps. “You can understand how that wouldn’t exactly be easy to get over. Even with a lot of time passing.”

  “I understand, I wasn’t trying to judge you, just figuring out the details. I assume she never really apologized for it, or for anything else she did that upset you.”

  “No, I kicked her out the next morning. We got very distant. I still see her at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we are polite to each other, but that’s it.”

  “You said your parents took her side?” I ask.

  “It’s subtle, but they treat her like she’s the favorite. They judge me harshly for putting my career before... before my love life. For kicking Destiny out over ‘some little argument.’ For being the way I am, but they overlook Destiny’s faults. She’s never had a serious relationship. I can’t say I’m surprised at that, after seeing how she behaves. My parents probably think they’ll never get grandchildren at this rate.”

  She looks surprised for a moment. “Jesus,” she says. “Dominick, you have to promise me you’ll never let my sister be your client. Ever.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry,” I say. “Destiny doesn’t sound like she’d have a block. And—”

  Madrigal slides out of her chair, stands up, and storms back into the house without saying a word.

  “Shit,” I say to myself. “Did I really just fuck up like that?”

  I basically just compared her directly to her sister, saying her sister wouldn’t be infertile like she is. There’s no way to massage that into a good thing to say, and Madrigal is rightfully going to be pissed off at me for saying it.

  I bring our cups in as if I was merely cleaning up. Madrigal is already halfway to the staircase, she turns and waves a hand at the cups dismissively. “You know, I’m actually going to get an early start on sleep tonight. You can just leave those there.”

  “Madrigal—” I start, but she cuts me off.

  “Seriously, Dominick,” she says. “My day is over, so you’re done shadowing me.”

  “I didn’t mean what I said. Not in the way you thought I did at least. The thing is, I don’t think of you as unable to have kids, I know I’m going to fix this—”

  “Great,” she says, walking away from me, pretending not to be mad but busy instead, “We’ll figure it out I’m sure. Just let’s call it a day, I’m exhausted.”

  She goes upstairs without a backward glance and I know well enough at this point to let her go. I wash the cups in the sink and put them out to dry, and I see myself out.

  The next time I initiate a meeting is two days later. I figured it was best to give Madrigal some time to decompress after making her so angry.

  One problem is becoming increasingly clear, however: I can’t get her off my mind. It’s not supposed to be like this with a client. It’s fine to be absorbed in the work—in trying to think of ways to clear the block. But you’re not supposed to be interested in the client herself.

  A slave does not fall in love.

  The fact that I’m feeling torn up about hurting her is wrong. It’s not what someone in my position is supposed to feel for a client. If anything, I should be using how she got so upset as a tool. Merely more insight into what has her blocked and how to work on clearing it from here.

  We meet at the same coffee shop that I first made her cum in. That’s intentional. I’m trying to force myself back on track with her. I want her to remember the Dominick that made her cum in public, not the one who was solving jigsaw puzzles with her and fucking up by comparing her to her sister who she is feuding bitterly with.

  She’s wearing bright pink lipstick, and her hair is tied up in a bun that sits almost on top of her head. Her lips look fuller than ever, and her thick body is nearly bursting out of the dress she’s wearing.

  I sit down across from her, and she smiles at me, but I can tell she’s still a bit angry beneath her smile.

  Even if I’m trying to separate myself from my emotions, I have to work this out. She can’t be mad at me, and I can’t just apologize. Not in my position of dominance over her. The best I can do is throw her a bone.

  “What is my order for today?” she asks, arms crossed. “I’m ready to get this thing solved.”

  “Today,” I say. “you get to make a request. I can’t promise I’ll grant it, but you may ask.”

  I see her gulp, barely able to swallow, and she looks up at me afraid.

  She must think it’s some kind of trap. It’s not supposed to be. For a client who has made such quick and unexpected progress, it’s often best to let her decide what happens next. Even if she decides something that ends up not really helping, it can at least help me identify where I should take her next.

  It’s a bit of a risk, as if she makes an unreasonable request that I have to refuse, she’ll likely end up even more annoyed with me.

  “I…” she stammers. “Um, I’m afraid to break any rules…”

  I can already see her forgiving me. There’s something she really wants from me. I pray it’s something I can actually give.

  “Ask,” I say. “Asking won’t break any rules. Like I said, it’s a request, not a demand.”

  “Okay,” she says. “So what if we went on a date? Like, a real one? It’s just, I know you’re not going to be the father—not really—but I want to at least know what you’re like. Outside of all the other stuff, at least.” She blushes when she says that. “I know it’s just going to be pretend, but—”

  “Your request can be granted,” I say. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Idiot. I should have at least thought about it. There’s all kinds of problems with her request, serious ones. I’ll have to be extremely diligent during the whole “date” and make sure she doesn’t breach contract. Hell, I’ll have to make sure I don’t breach contract.

  I slide my chair back, stand up, and walk out of the coffee shop without looking back.

  11

  Madrigal

  I’m no longer mad at Dominick. The anger was already fading, but the fact that he let me be in charge for once smoothed it all over for me. Honestly, I knew his comment wasn’t meant to hurt me. And if he was telling the truth, that he really doesn’t see me as infertile, then there really was no malice behind what he said.

  Either way, Destiny is always going to be a sore spot for me. At least until we make amends, if that can ever happen. I try to push that all out of my mind and focus on the date.

  Without knowing what kind of date Dominick is going to take me on, it’s hard to choose an outfit.

  If I wear an evening gown and he takes me to putt-putt golf, I’ll feel like an idiot. On the other end of that, if he takes me to a five-star restaurant and I’m wearing jeans, I’ll feel like a slob.

  Shoes. I’ll do the shoes first. God, he wouldn’t really take me to putt-putt, would he? Assuming that the date
won’t require physical exertion, I check through my shoes and find something with a nice heel on it. A good high-heeled shoe can elevate any outfit.

  I find a nice pair of white heels and set them aside.

  A skirt would make the most sense as the next piece. A skirt with those shoes will pass better in a more formal setting, but will still look casual enough if we’re just grabbing a bite somewhere.

  I pull out a tight, black skirt that isn’t too short.

  Then I pull out one of the tops I bought a few days ago. It’s low-cut and sleeveless, so I’ll need something to wear over it.

  I grab a dark, form-fitting jacket. It will help make my outfit more versatile. If we end up going somewhere really nice, and want to show more skin, I can take it off. If we go somewhere casual, I can leave it on for a more comfortable, dressed down appearance.

  I put everything on and check myself out in the mirror. I use the mental exercise from earlier and imagine how the stranger from the one-way mirror would see me. My eyes cling to my breasts and my deep cleavage, and then to my thighs.

  Good. I look good. Dominick will hopefully think so too.

  I should have read the contract, I realize, but I didn’t want to. I didn’t want my relationship with Dominick to be reduced to legalese, to something so black and white and bound by rules. It’s childish of me, but I want to pretend that Dominick is really mine. That when he finally does knock me up, that the baby will be ours.

  I check the time. It’s already seven. I need to get going on my makeup.

  I finish with just a few minutes to spare. I don’t know if Dominick is actually going to be on time, or if he’s going to order me to wait on a dark street corner somewhere. I never know with him. I did tell him I wanted a normal date, so he really shouldn’t pull anything too crazy.

  At eight sharp my doorbell rings, and I pull the door open to see him wearing a crisp white shirt with no tie, covered by a dark-blue blazer. The smell of his cologne hits me, and I nearly melt.

  “Hey,” I say, smiling.

  “Hey,” he says, putting a hand against the inside of the doorframe. “You want to get going?”

  “I thought I’d invite you in first…”

  “Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s get going.”

  He reaches his hand out, and I take it without question. He pulls me outside and toward the street, he reaches into his pocket. A car parallel parked on the street chirps and lights up. It’s a black Audi.

  He opens the passenger door for me and waits for me to get in. I buckle up as he shuts the door, then walks toward the driver-side door. He gets in and starts the car.

  “Where are we going, by the way?”

  “Let’s get a drink,” he says. “Get to know each other. I know a good place.”

  As we pull up to the bar, I decide to remove my jacket and leave it in the car. As I do so, I catch Dominick staring at my chest.

  “Not very gentlemanly of you,” I chide.

  “Never said I was a gentleman,” he says, smirking at me. “I will buy you a drink though.”

  He holds the door open for me, which I don’t mention to him is rather gentlemanly, too. As is the way he comes in behind me and puts his arm around me.

  I forgot to ask him when I made my request to not mention the contract or our arrangement, but it seems like he guessed as much when I mentioned that I wanted a “normal date.”

  Dominick finds a table and gestures toward it. He pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down.

  “I’ll get us some drinks,” he says.

  Without asking me what I’ll have, he goes off toward the bar.

  I watch him as he orders. He laughs and jokes with the bartender, and his eyes light up when he laughs. Anyone would mistake him for a normal man. Yes, an obscenely hot and gorgeous one, but normal in that he’s not working for some shadow organization that gets rich women pregnant. Not someone who meets you in a house with a one-way mirror, and then fingers your ass until you cum while overcoming your sense of shame.

  He grabs two glasses of dark beer with just the right amount of foam and brings them back to me.

  “Beer,” he says. “I only date women who drink beer.”

  I laugh. “What if I don’t?” I ask, looking at the frosted glass and waiting to drink it, just to tease him.

  “I’m up-front about what I want. That would be your signal to say goodbye to me.”

  I pick up the glass and take a big swig. I get notes of chocolate and coffee as I swallow it down. There’s an almost fruity aftertaste that bubbles on my tongue to contrast the bitter hoppiness. “Mm, luckily I do like beer, so I won’t have to lie to you.”

  “Why would you lie?” he asks.

  I bite my lip and give him my best flirty expression. “Because I like you, a lot, so I’d pretend to like beer if it meant not having to walk away from you.”

  He laughs. “How do I know you’re not lying now then?”

  “I guess you don’t,” I say, taking another swig.

  “I know you’re not lying,” Dominick says.

  “How?” I ask.

  “The face you make after you swallow,” he says, putting a pointed emphasis on the last word as an evil glint shows in his eye. “I can see that you’re processing the aftertaste, trying to identify it and enjoying it. If you were just chugging it to appease me, I’d expect a fake smile, or if you were a really bad liar, a barely masked shudder as the bitterness hit you.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him, genuinely impressed. There’s so much I don’t know about this man, and each little thing I learn make me desperate to learn more. I likely only have tonight to learn all I can.

  “You have any deal breakers?” he asks me, taking a long drink of his beer.

  “Like you with beer?” I ask. “Things that will make me just walk away?”

  “Mmhm,” he says, nodding.

  “Well,” I say, taking on a playfully condescending tone. “You’re certainly tall enough, and built enough, and—”

  “Don’t flatter me,” he says, jabbing a finger at me. “Just answer the question.”

  “Direct,” I say. “I like that.” I realize that I’m still flattering him, but he just grins. “I suppose... a man I’m dating has to be hard-working and determined. Or he at least has to be willing to put up with the fact that I am.”

  He clicks his tongue. “I can be hard working, but a woman I’m with has to be able to unwind.” He leans back in his chair, shoots me a look, and then asks, “Are you able to unwind, Madrigal?”

  I’m tempted to say: “You know I can,” but I don’t want to shatter the illusion. He knows I can unwind, and not just with a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Of course,” I say. “A woman who likes beer is obviously going to be able to let loose after she’s done working.”

  “I don’t know,” Dominick says. “Say you’re the kind of woman who just drinks one beer to enjoy the taste, but not a drop more because you can’t stand to lose control for even a moment.”

  He digs one elbow into the table and locks eyes with me. How did he know that’s exactly the way I drink beer?

  “As if,” I say. “Let’s finish these and get another round.”

  Somewhere during our third beer, I manage to forget all about our arrangement. I’ve convinced myself this is a real date with a guy I met somewhere perfectly normal, like... online.

  Beneath the table, I push my knees into his muscular thighs, and I run my fingers along his strong, tattooed forearm. He sips his beer casually as if I touch him all the time, but when he finally looks up and smiles at me, I lose it.

  I lean in toward him. I worry he’ll deflect me somehow, but instead he just takes charge. He grabs hold of me and presses his lips against mine. His tongue enters me, and I hold back the urge to moan into him. The beer has me nice and warm and uninhibited, and I figure after masturbating in front of perfect strangers, making out in the middle of a bar is no big deal. Has a little bit of PDA ever really hurt anyone?r />
  I slide my hand to his and squeeze his calloused palm as we kiss. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed, but I’m still pretending this is a real date. It’s the first time we’ve kissed like this. Without him ordering me around or trying to break down all of my walls.

  His free hand squeezes my thigh just above the knee, and he starts to work his way up my bare leg.

  “Get a room!” someone shouts, laughing, and Dominick pulls back and looks up. He smiles and nods to the guy who shouted, and I sit there disappointed, but still with the taste of him on my lips and tongue.

  An appetizer, I decide.

  Real dates end in sex all the time.

  “That’s probably our cue to get out of here,” Dominick says.

  “Get a room, you mean?” I ask, cheeks flushing.

  “It’s barely nine,” he says. “What kind of date lasts less than an hour?”

  He grabs me by the wrist, and we go back into his car.

  “Where to next then?” I ask.

  He looks at me, and something in his eyes makes me feel like he’s let down some kind of barrier. He almost looks nervous. “You want to see what I’m really into? Like how you’re into jigsaw puzzles?”

  I nod without speaking.

  “Don’t make fun of me too much,” he says, “But I’m just thinking... when you get pregnant and I’m gone, I want you to be able to tell our—to tell your kid—something real about me.”

  “Yeah,” I say, trying not to let myself tear up. He just said our kid.

  “Alright then,” he says. “Buckle up.”

  12

  Dominick

  “Laser tag?” She asks me, laughing too hard for her to not be poking fun at me.

  “Come on,” I say. “It relieves stress, it’s physical, and it’s fun.”

  “Well,” she says, still grinning ear-to-ear, “when you break it down like that.”