“No, she never mentioned you much,” I finally say, attempting to keep my demeanor relaxed and my tone friendly. It’s not easy. “Sorry?”
“No worries.” Martin orders a cocktail. Is he a lifestyle sub? If he is, then it’s quite odd he would confront me in a bar, especially without his Domme in tow. He must not be lifestyle. Honestly, male lifestyle subs at our level of success and heritage are very, very rare. Those men tend to keep that behind every closed door possible. They might be killing it in the board room, but the moment they get home, their wife or mistress becomes the ball-busting bitch they’ve been crying for their whole lives. “I’m far from being as high profile as you.”
Point #4, here we come: now he’s kissing my ass, and he knows it will have either one of two effects. The first is me being a flattered dumbass who doesn’t realize he has BB gunned me in the ass. Or I’ll go even more on the defensive. Guess which one I’m doing!
“That’s not true. You Canadians have your own social circles, I’m sure.” Don’t make a silly accent joke, Ian. Don’t make a silly accent joke…
“Hm, well, put it this way. People have heard of your family where I’m from. They haven’t heard of mine where you’re from.”
No, I can’t say that people in my hometown are much concerned with Canadian lumber. “Who are you with now?” I ask, changing the subject. “I must have missed it earlier.”
“Solange. Do you know her? Kathryn did.”
Of course Kathryn did. “I may have seen her around.”
“I told her that I had run in to you two earlier this morning. She was quite surprised. Apparently she’s so removed from that circle that she still had yet to hear that you and Kathryn are so serious. She couldn’t believe it.”
“We get that a lot.” From the crowd that runs around The Dark Hour, anyway. People are shocked that Kathryn can be happy with me, and then they assume I’m subbing with her. Because it’s totally their business what we do in the bedroom. “It’s rather unconventional.”
I want this guy to leave. I’m sure he’s a perfectly decent man, and Kathryn didn’t make it sound like it was an ugly breakup, but damn, leave me alone. “Sometimes unconventional makes for the best relationship. I guess you could color me surprised that she’s into a guy like you.” The cocktail lands in front of him right as he holds up his hands to me. I’m gonna knock him off that stool, I swear. “You know what I mean. She was always adamant with me that she doesn’t like dominant alpha men. Then next thing I hear after we break up is that she’s seeing you. If I may, you two put on quite the debut show at The Dark Hour.”
Oh my God, he was there. Does Kathryn know? That would make her even more sour than usual. She’s really self-conscious about public perception of her.
“Thanks, I suppose. We are pretty happy.”
“So those rumors in the papers about you two getting engaged are true?”
Cheeky fucking bastard. There is no surprise on his round-ass face. He’s been waiting to drop that on me since he sat down. “You know how the papers are. Always making up stories to sell more copies. The thought that a man and a woman can be seriously dating for over a year and not moving in together or getting married scares them.”
“Ah, I thought as much. As long as those other rumors aren’t true, though.”
What is this? Girl’s Hour at the local bar? One thing I do not like about beta males is how well they play the passive aggressive game. “What rumors are those?” I shouldn’t bite, but I do.
“The ones that say you’re breaking up every other week.”
“Yes, well…” This is why I do my best to control the press regarding my relationship. I’m used to them speculating who I’m marrying or dumping, but Kathryn does not take it well. “They’re wrong. We’re doing quite well, thank you.”
“Of course. I was telling Solange that you make a handsome couple.”
He finishes his cocktail and slips off his stool. Thank. The. Lord.
Then his hand slaps me on the shoulder, like we’re buddies. “I’ve known a lot of Doms in my life. Takes a special one to admit defeat to a woman like Kathryn.”
I glare at him.
“Oh?” With a devilish smirk he removes his hand. “I should have figured. You actually don’t know how to give her what she really needs to be happy.”
This.
Fucking.
Rat.
Bastard.
We have hit point #5: kick him right in the nuts and watch him go down, grabbing his balls and sniveling into the ground. “Haha! You and your girlfriend have cooties! Bye!”
Martin leaves with a tootles. The way he saunters out of the bar with his head held high and hands in his pockets makes me want to throw my glass at the wall in front of me.
Instead, I pick up my phone. I text Kathryn, “Let me know when you get back. There are things we need to do.” I’m talking about sex, of course. Whether she’s prepared or not, I’m giving her the full Ian Mathers Dom treatment tonight. It’s a matter of principle. No one but us will know it’s happening, but that’s all that fucking matters. No ex of hers gets to wound my pride without me going on a proving-myself rampage ala Godzilla in post-war Tokyo.
I get a reply right away. “I’m already upstairs. Where are you?”
Coming. That’s where I am. Coming.
Chapter 8
KATHRYN
Instinct tells me that I hear heavy footsteps for a reason. Either my boyfriend is angry, or he’s about to go on another tear.
I ignore my instincts. My mind is too full of my mother’s bullshit. All I can do is sit on this couch in our hotel suite and stare out the window, trying my best to appreciate the view of the Eiffel Tower while I gnaw on a completely innocent cuticle that hasn’t done anything to deserve this fate. My twist is definitely too tight on my head now. Every strand is piercing my scalp, begging to be released.
I’m pent up in more ways than one. What I want is my sweet boyfriend who will come crack some jokes and massage my feet while we drink wine and watch weird French TV.
What I get is a grim visage the moment he enters the room. His eyes are instantly drawn to me. Devouring me.
Great. Greaaaat.
“When did you get back?” Ian asks, tossing his wallet onto the nightstand next to the bed. “I was waiting for you downstairs.”
I finally relent on my cuticle. With both legs drawn up on the couch, I can’t easily turn to see what he’s doing, but I can sense him coming closer. I’ve felt this aura many times in my life, let alone our relationship.
This is not the sweet, wisecracking boyfriend I want right now.
This is, however, probably the boyfriend I need right now.
His hands are on my shoulders, swiftly moving down my chest, skirting past my breasts and teasing my stomach. His chin rests upon my shoulder, lips touching my skin. His grip is possessive, and in a way… comforting.
Not until Ian had I encountered a possessive streak that didn’t send me running for my father’s protection. (Because what better way to keep the patriarchy soundly standing?) He’s the man who taught me that wanting to feel coddled once in a while isn’t a bad thing. Nor does it make me weak. For so long I had convinced myself that being tough and emotionally impenetrable was the only way I could morally live with myself. Yet, as most of us women discover, there’s that one person out there who makes you exactly what you need to be.
Who knew that what I needed was a man who knows how to help me escape reality. What even I didn’t know is that such men exist who don’t also make you feel like shit for it.
“I got back about half an hour ago.” I accept a kiss to my cheek. Heavy, hard. His hand eases my sweater open and caresses the V-neck of my T-shirt. “Was decompressing before I asked where you were.” He bites my ear. Oh, boy. “Thought about taking a bath. Apparently you can see the Eiffel Tower from the bathroom.”
My head leans back, and I’m looking into his hazel eyes. Dark today. Whenever they look thi
s sharp yet dark, I know something is afoot. My body is already preparing with a flood of warmth and adrenaline of anticipation. But, boy. Am I not sure this is what I really want right now. Can I at least get five minutes with him without the alpha male coming out?
“You smell like alcohol,” I say.
He relents his seduction. “Just cognac. I’m not even tipsy.”
“You’re not tipsy, but you’re brazen.”
“Says the woman guzzling wine over here.”
Ian takes my glass and finishes the last few sips. The moment the glass taps the table, he’s back on me, and I swear that if it weren’t for the sofa between us I’d be flat on my back making rough love.
My body is saying great, let’s do that! My mind, however, is still adjusting.
“You’ve got something you want to share?” Besides his breath, anyway.
“You.”
“What happened between this afternoon and now? You weren’t like this earlier.”
“You happened. Endless thoughts of you and what I want to do to you. It’s been going ever since last night. The longer we put off relief, the antsier I get.” His wandering hand ends up in my shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same way. I’d have to call you a dirty liar.”
Even if I am the same way, it doesn’t mean an explanation isn’t lacking from this situation. Something has happened. Ian doesn’t turn possessive alpha male on me like this unless something causes it. Yet no matter how much I want to question it, there’s one thing I can’t control.
The fact I’m already getting into it.
“Why don’t you change into that sexy thing you bought today?” He’s not in my bra yet, but his fingertip smoothes over the bump that’s my nipple. This woman can’t control her shuddering. “Katie.”
Uh huh. Hoo boy. There’s a Dom in my bedroom, and he only has hands and eyes for me.
Does he want me meek and submissive? Sometimes that’s what I deliver, but only on my terms. Does he want a petulant brat who makes him work for my respect? That’s what I throw down when I’m in a playful mood and he wants to dominate me. When I’m suffering through a tailspin of emotions that fuck with my head?
This is the most natural I get in my submissive role.
“Why should I do that?” I whisper. Kisses descend my cheek and neck. “What’s in it for me?”
“You know.” That vibration in my ear sends a million sparks through my body. “You know exactly what’s in it for you.”
Do I ever! A blank consciousness. The ability to escape from this stressful world where image is everything – more important than my own damned accomplishments. Oh, and endless pleasure, I guess. There is that. Ian can be a total cad in everyday life, but when he puts his mind – and cock – to dominating me, I’m usually screaming and writhing within ten minutes.
He caresses me. Not sure if it’s my face, arm, or collarbone, because my brain doesn’t want to think about anything. I know what he’s doing. Ian’s giving me a taste of his fantasy. Our scenes are about passion and pleasure, of course, but they’re also about catharsis. I don’t know how many times I’ve had mental breakthroughs when I’m bent over getting spanked and told to serve.
You’re probably wondering if it ever goes the other way around. After all, I’m coming from my own background of domination. Yes, being a Domme is cathartic in its own way. Men who used to submit to me were definitely experiencing catharsis through fantasy. I have a feeling, though, that male Doms are coming from a completely different headspace from beta males and Dommes.
I don’t pretend to know what Ian is thinking when he’s pulling my hair, immobilizing me, or making me drown in his seed. Sometimes I don’t want to know.
“You mean the black lingerie?” I ask sweetly. My head turns for a kiss to the lips. I’m not disappointed.
“I wouldn’t mind you naked, but tantalizing is good too.”
A surge of energy overtakes me. I turn on the couch, grasping his hand and looking up into those determined eyes. “Can you do that thing?”
His façade chips. “Depends. What are you talking about?”
For some reason I can’t hold his gaze, even though his eyes are following mine wherever they look. “Feels weird asking when you’re already like this.”
“I want to give you what you want.”
I’m taken aback at the finality of those words. “I want to feel like I have nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.”
All I can do is hope that he knows what I’m talking about. Thankfully, he cups my chin and softly smiles. “That’s all I ever want to do, my love.”
***
The moment I emerge from the bathroom, dressed in the black negligee I bought today, our scene will officially begin. Knowing this, I change my hair multiple times, wanting to live up to Ian’s perfect vision of me. I may not know exactly what that entails, but I know I want to find a balance between who I really am and the opposite end of my own spectrum. “Sweet Vixen,” is what I will call it.
The negligee accentuates every inch of my body, including the inches not covered by any fabric. The cups boost my breasts up, the lace so sheer that there’s no mistaking my nipples, already hardening. From the bust flows satin as sultry as my attitude. It covers my mound and brushes against my thighs. I’m wearing a black thong that I know will be ripped off my body within ten minutes.
I hope it lasts longer than that.
Only thing I don’t know what to do with is my hair. I go from leaving it down to pulling it back into a tight ponytail. The ponytail is too innocent. Sometimes we play at me being the innocent virgin and him the man who does more than soil me – because, excuse me, sometimes a girl wants to pretend that the man she loves is the only one she’s ever known – but that’s not what I’m going for tonight. Leaving it down is too messy. I put it back up in a twist, but this time it’s loose.
I don’t touch up my makeup, not that I wore much today. Just some concealer and nude lipstick. One thing about being with a man who thinks the world begins and ends with your ass is that you could be stung by bees and he’s still going on about how gorgeous you are.
I slowly open the door. The main room is empty… save for Ian standing in one corner on the phone. He’s speaking his nearly unintelligible French.
He puts the phone down as soon as he sees me. “Look at you. What have I done in this life to have the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”
Normally I don’t blush when he flirts like this, but I’m already entering that confounded headspace that allows me to be vulnerable, so I become as bashful as an innocent lamb at her first boy-girl dance.
Ian extends his hand. He’s taken off his watch and rolled up his sleeves. Even so, I can see every strong line of his arm and hand, like a roadmap of his body. My eyes travel along one of them as I approach, lifting my own hand to take his.
He twirls me. The skirt of my negligee flares out, showing more skin than is appropriate even in this situation. Or maybe that’s me feeling bashful again.
The moment I stop twirling, he snatches me into his backward embrace, hands on every part of my body seemingly at once. I’m speechless. Even if weren’t starting a scene, I would be at a loss for words for how much he wants me.
Not merely wants me. Possesses me.
“You’re the most exquisite woman in Paris.” His murmurs against my skin are only matched by the way his thumbs press into my skin. “Do you know that? French girls aren’t half as beautiful as you, and this is supposedly the birthplace of beautiful women.”
“I’m told I’m part French on my father’s side.” Where does he think the name Alison comes from? The Swedes?
“That explains it.” Has being felt up ever been so good? I want to bottle the way he worships my body and save it for rainy days when I’m alone and in need of the man who is currently away on business. “Now, what can I do for you, ma belle fille?” Oh, he would choose this moment to suddenly have a perfect accent. Where was this when we were ask
ing directions at noon today?
I’m squirming, but not because I want out of this hold. My body is reacting to how he touches me. “You can start by spoiling me,” I say.
“Hm? I didn’t hear you.”
Damnit. I’ve started to forget that we’re playing roles. “Please make me feel good, sir.”
The words are suspended in the air. Ian buries his nose in my twist, teeth nipping at the roots of my hair. Shudders tear through my scalp. I want him to ravage me right now. Is that truly too much to ask? What’s keeping him from throwing me down on the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy? That’s where we were last night when we were interrupted.
No. This isn’t sex because we’re driven to have it. This goes beyond that. This is what lured me into this relationship to begin with.
“What exactly is going to make you feel good?” The hem of my negligee ascends my thigh. “I want to make sure I give you exactly what you need.”
We’re moving toward the bed. I envision myself collapsing on it with him on top of me, tearing away my clothes and inhaling the most sensitive parts of my skin. I want to lose myself to every motion of sexual therapy.
My knees hit the edge of the bed. The force almost knocks me over, but Ian’s hold is so strong that I can’t go anywhere. Once I have my bearings, my senses also return. Ian’s cock is hardening behind my ass. How badly does he want me, exactly? Enough to bury himself so deep within me that I don’t know where I end and he begins? Please, please, please.
“I need you to remind me of who I am.”
“How am I going to do that?”
“You tell me.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
A lump the size of my heart goes down my throat. “You’re going to dominate me.”
“Is that what you want? For me to dominate you, Katie?”
Rocket science isn’t needed to know why he’s asking me these questions. It’s not for foreplay. It’s a way for us to make clear what we want from a scene. A play on consent, I suppose you could say. Something that’s always mattered to me. Ian has never been intimidated by it. Guess it plays right into his style as a Dom… he likes it when women beg and plead for him. I heard him with other women before we started dating. I know.
Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 5