OLIVIER
The next day, Olly stood, leaning a shoulder against the open bay, his head bent, his eyes on what he’d looked up on his phone.
Chevalier: Knight. Soldier. Cavalry. Horseman.
Horseman.
He wanted not to smile but he couldn’t fucking stop himself from doing it.
That room she’d led him to, to scare the shit out of him. The stall. The bridles hanging from its sides. The padded benches, vaults, saw horses with wide cushioned tops instead of two-by-fours.
Chevalier.
Fuck, he was in over his head.
He didn’t understand what was the big deal. He thought he could handle it. With stupid-ass, cocky certainty, he’d convinced Barclay of it, Jenna, but not Whitney. That bitch had a mean streak and when he’d asked her to do what she’d done for him, he figured she did it to set him up to take a fall, either getting caught and bounced from the Honey or getting his ass right where it already was after one session with Amélie.
Over his head.
He blew out a breath, shoved his phone into his back pocket, and looked into the Phoenix sun streaming down to bake the pavement outside the firehouse.
He wasn’t going back Saturday. He wasn’t going back at all. He’d been approved by that huge fucking black guy for a scholarship but he’d still had to pay a membership fee based on his earnings and that shit stung. It cost a fucking fortune. If he didn’t go back, which he wasn’t going to, it would be a fucking fortune for one night strapped to the floor having his ass paddled and his dick jacked.
That fortune worth every penny.
“Shit,” he muttered to himself, knowing that last thought should give rise to others, others that would change his mind, and he couldn’t allow that.
He was not ready for this.
He didn’t think he’d ever be ready for this.
Amélie had put him through the wringer and she knew the potency of everything she did, every look she gave him, every word she said, every fall of her sexy-as-fuck sandals on the wood floor.
And she’d guided him to the single most phenomenal orgasm he’d ever experienced in his life.
But she’d asked what he didn’t particularly like for the sole purpose of using it against him. Opening the shades. Stretching the cheeks of his ass. Then leaving him on that floor to experience the humiliation of that girl coming in and letting him loose.
Amélie had been right. The girl had been professional about it. It was all the same to her, not about the scene, just about the job. She didn’t take any jollies from it.
She just unstrapped him, not touching the harnesses, doing it quickly and efficiently and saying as she left, “Just leave the stuff on the floor, all of it. It’ll be dealt with, honey.”
Then she was gone.
But Olly had been seriously ticked. Getting dressed, freaking because he worried he wouldn’t be able to figure out the way to get the fuck out in that maze of rooms. Seeing other people in the halls look at him and wondering if they’d seen Amélie work him.
He hadn’t felt the full extent of his anger until he was home, in bed, and again hard as fucking rock.
What she’d done to him, how hard he’d come, how fucking beautiful she was, that clingy, dark-green wraparound dress she wore, tits that were high and full, hips curvy, a sweet round ass, all this on a slender, almost delicate frame, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
He’d needed to jack off but wouldn’t allow it to control him, trying to focus on what she’d done to cow him, telling himself that shit wasn’t right.
And not allowing himself to remember that he knew the blinds were up, but once she started in on him, he didn’t give a fuck about anything but what she was doing, what he was feeling, and how fucking hard she made him come.
He eventually fell asleep only to wake an hour later with a hard-on that was raging and wouldn’t be ignored.
So he gave her more, jacking himself violently, thinking about what she’d done, and more he wanted her to do, and coming nearly as hard as he did for her.
Doing it knowing that he didn’t even know where the woman lived, her last name, the kind of fucking car she drove, but he still stroked every tight stroke for her.
Fuck.
Barclay had warned him to go into the Honey the right way, the way they’d ease him in, even if it was Barclay who had told him in the first place, “Man, you do not belong in this scene. You need to get your ass into the Honey.”
That scene Barclay was talking about was the Bolt. The club Olly had just started to go to. A club that was nowhere near the straight-up cool of the Honey.
From the moment Barclay shared what the Honey was, Olly had been obsessed with it.
He closed his eyes and opened them, no longer seeing the Phoenix sun.
It was that box. That fucking box. That box he found when he was fifteen and his mom sent him up to her and his dad’s room to get something from the closet. Big and black and hidden, exposed only when he couldn’t find what she wanted him to get for her so he went searching. At his age, he could have no clue what curiosity would expose when he’d opened it.
The ropes. The handcuffs. The blindfold. The vibrators. And a huge fucking dildo.
Not a box owned by parents any kid should see.
He’d buried that, but not deep enough. It was impossible.
He’d been jacking off by then for a long time and the shit that filled his mind so he could come even before he found that box was extreme.
But that box unhinged something he could not rein in.
And being a weak twat, he’d become that guy. That loser asshole that hit the strip clubs. The one who paid for lap dances. The one who found and paid for peep shows.
None of it doing anything for him.
It had been when he’d been out with buds and they’d met other buds and Barclay was among them when things got clearer.
Barclay was open about being a third of a partner in a BDSM club, that club being the Bolt. He also had skin of steel since the guys tried to take strips off him constantly, giving him shit about it, banter that could turn nasty and did, a helluva lot.
Barclay was not only immune, he was also observant. He noticed Olly never said shit, didn’t participate in that, and often told the other guys to back off. This had the uncomfortable result of them turning that shit on him, accusing him of being in the closet, giving him crap about him liking to have his ass spanked.
Not knowing this was true.
Olly did not have skin of steel.
What he had, from a little kid, was a serious temper. A temper that fused fast, blew quick, and made words come out of his mouth that he might mean, but they could be communicated in a vastly different way. A temper his mother frequently told him, if he didn’t learn to control it, would get his ass in hot water.
But bottom line, he still didn’t like to be around assholes who acted like assholes and he was the kind of man who’d tell you you were being an asshole. They knew that, so it took a lot, but he didn’t let their crap stop him. And he did it only partially because he didn’t like to be around assholes, but also because, if he didn’t continue to get up in their shit like he normally would do (his short fuse was both fortunately and unfortunately legendary), it might make them wonder if they were on to something.
Barclay found a time and had a word and did it smart, getting Olly half-shitfaced before he did it.
Feeling a massive sense of relief, half-shitfaced, Olly gave it to him. Something he’d never given anybody.
A window into those dark places in his head.
But Barclay had been cool. Extending an invitation, a guest membership to his club, and sharing that in that world, no one said dick. It wasn’t an unwritten rule, it was an unbroken law. You feared your kink getting out, the person next to you at the club had that same fear, maybe even a bigger one with more to lose.
It took two months for Olly to accept the invitation.
Enter Whitney, who was seriously pretty with an amazing body, both of these meaning he’d let her work him once.
His first.
She’d sucked at it and was clearly into giving some serious pain without really bothering with the pleasure, so he never went back to her.
He almost gave up.
But then came Jenna, pretty, petite, sweet, and she’d orgasmed within ten minutes of having him in that room, doing it while she was shackling his foot to the floor.
He knew topping from below. In other words, attempting to control the scene even though you were the sub, using whatever way you could to do that, any way that was, in Olly’s opinion, being underhanded in the part the sub was meant to play in that world. He hadn’t jumped in like an idiot. He’d observed. Chatted with some of the other members. Got some of the lingo down.
Mistresses didn’t do what Jenna did.
Regardless, he’d let her have him half a dozen times because she didn’t suck, just got overly excited. She got better, but the experience wasn’t what he’d hoped it would be.
When Olly didn’t go back to Jenna, and couldn’t find anyone in that club that interested him (not to mention, hanging around there he felt uncomfortable around all the leather and nurses outfits and spiked collars), Barclay had asked him out for a beer and told him about the Honey.
When the man gave him the intel, Olly told him he was interested, but not interested in the training period, which would mean he wouldn’t be able to choose anyone he wanted to work him, but had a much smaller pool that Barclay admitted, if rumor was true, were mostly guys.
To be fair, at that juncture, Barclay had strongly advised against him trying to con Aryas Weathers, the Bee’s Honey’s owner, into believing he wasn’t a rookie.
When they’d chatted about it in the club, Jenna, who knew the Honey (everyone in that scene did), advised strongly against it too.
Jenna liked him and wanted another go (or a hundred) so she wasn’t hard to convince to write a reference that said he had what was required: a D/s relationship with her that lasted six months or longer (she’d said in her letter it was eight, which he thought was nice).
Whitney did it for her own reasons and her letter gave the bare minimum.
Before he jumped in on Olly’s plan, Barclay, a switch-hitter (he could go both ways, Dom and sub), had demanded they meet so he could give Olly what he needed not to be found out and not to get his ass in a sling if he got in. This was because Barclay would have to substantiate Jenna’s and Whitney’s claims and give false information about the length of his membership at Barclay’s club.
“You do not wanna get on the bad side of Aryas Weathers, man,” he’d said. “And serious as shit, take that in. But more serious as shit, do not throw my ass under the bus with this because I don’t wanna be on that man’s bad side either.”
They’d met. Barclay shared a shitload. He’d also told him what magazines to read, what sex shops to go to, what books to download, so he could learn more. Study up. Not only to be successful at the con but so he didn’t do what he eventually did, get in over his head.
Olly went to the shops but didn’t do the magazines or books.
This was the only reason he knew how to put on the harness Amélie gave him. He’d never worn one. It wasn’t hard to figure out but if he’d had to fiddle with it, that could have led to uncomfortable questions.
And now that she’d done him with it, in his weaker moments, he was considering going to a shop so he could buy one of his own. One that fit.
In the end, he’d learned enough that he’d conned Weathers, but his approval as a member had been a surprise because, in the hour-long interview they’d had, he got the impression the guy saw right through him.
So he’d learned enough.
But he hadn’t learned enough.
And it was clear practice made perfect.
He’d fucked up at the get-go, thinking all that “yes, Mistress,” “no, Mistress,” no eye contact, following-like-a-dog bullshit was a certain type of sub’s kink.
But the way Amélie talked about it, it was expected.
This was something he did not know and something he figured Barclay, Jenna, and Whitney (the latter two had told him to call them Mistress, he’d done it enough not to trip their triggers, but he was his own man in the common sections of the club) thought anyone with any experience would know and this was why they didn’t share it with him.
Time and again, he thought Amélie had made him and he had no idea what she would do if she did. She wouldn’t work him, that was a given. Not that she wasn’t into him, she so was. She made no bones about that. Just that it was clear she expected her subs to know how to serve, to take what she had to give, and she was impatient when he fucked up on the basics.
She got off on his struggle, though. Seriously got off on it. It tore him apart inside but she also made no bones about it being a turn-on for her.
Something that was totally fucked up.
And a big reason why he was not going back on Saturday, or ever.
He was in over his head. He was going to get found out. He’d be ousted, or something in that crazy-ass, long contract he’d signed meant Aryas Weathers would own his house.
“Bro, you gettin’ a suntan or what?”
With a guilty start, like Chad could read his mind, Olly turned to his best bud and brother firefighter.
“Yo,” he greeted.
Chad stopped close and gave him a look.
“Dude, you’re in a mood,” he stated.
“Standin’ at the bay, lookin’ outside,” Olly pointed out. “This does not say mood. So what the fuck?”
“Plebes are fuckin’ terrified, sure you’re gonna make them wash the rigs with a toothbrush, their toothbrush, you been bein’ such a dick all day.”
This was why he’d moved to the bay. Not a lot of sleep but a lot of shit cluttering up his head, making him act like a dick. He didn’t like assholes so it didn’t need to be said he didn’t like to be one.
He stilled.
Jesus.
Fuck.
He felt his lips slightly part as Chad went out of focus.
That was it.
By the time Amélie had made her round of inspection, his mind was clear.
Clear of everything.
Except her. Her beauty. Those tawny eyes that were never cold, always so fucking warm, when she looked at him it was like a touch on his skin. Her soft voice with that very soft accent, a pretty accent, like a lilt. An accent he couldn’t place until she’d called him chevalier. What she’d done to him, barely touching him … no, the fact that she did barely touch him being part of what centered his focus. Nothing else got in but what was happening between them.
Nothing but what he was feeling.
Nothing but needing her to fucking touch him.
Nothing but unease that was mixed with a liberal dose of thrill at what she might do next.
Nothing but how hard his dick got, how heavy his balls became, how he got off on how tight the harness was, the bite of the straps running up the crack of his ass.
Nothing but how bad he needed to blow.
Nothing.
All his life, sexually, his mind had been cluttered. And because of those channels to the dark places in his brain that black box in his parents’ closet opened up, this leaked into life. Women he’d banged, girlfriends—he got off. Like anything, he figured, if you were going to do it, you not only did it right but you gave the best you could give, so he was good at it.
But always in the back of his head, in those dark places, he knew those women would go because he’d send them away, never having the balls to tell them he wanted them to tie him up. To blindfold him. To play with his cock and not let him come until he thought it would explode.
Even with seeing as many people who’d been at both clubs he’d attended, everyone knew it wasn’t right. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be a part of him.
Especially not him.
He was a guy. A big guy. A big guy who liked women exclusively. He liked the taste of pussy, the feel of it. He fought fires for a living. He liked football and basketball and finding a stretch of road where he could ride his motorcycle fast.
That kind of guy did not like his ass strapped open. He did not ride the paddle that just spanked that ass like it was a woman’s hand.
But he was the kind of guy who got off on that and there was no denying it.
Except the part he needed to find a way to fucking deny it.
“Uh … hello?” Chad called.
Olly shook his head and refocused.
“Sorry, bud,” he muttered.
“You good?” Chad asked, studying him closely.
“Yeah,” Olly answered. “Just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”
Chad grinned. “Hit the scene?”
More like the scene hit him.
“No, just had trouble sleeping,” Olly replied.
“Dude, you need to find a woman,” Chad advised, and he would advise that.
He’d been married to Annie for five years. They had two kids and one on the way. And Chad was one of those assholes who was an asshole because he got it all and got it early. Annie was a knockout. She was funny. She could be one of the guys and she still kicked ass in a dress and heels. She loved her husband like crazy. Was a good mom. And she got the life.
“Maybe, me bein’ in a mood, we cannot go there,” Olly returned.
“Annie’s got a friend,” Chad shared.
Olly felt his eyes narrow. “And, bud, been there, done that, twice, and your woman is the shit. But her friends are fucked way the hell up.”
“Mandy just liked you,” Chad declared.
“Mandy called me five times from the minute I dropped her at her house to the minute I got to mine and I live ten minutes away from her, which is about ten hours too close,” Olly shot back.
Chad grinned again. “Okay, Mandy liked you a lot.”
“She was a stalker, Chad. I had to change phones.”
“Sorry ’bout that,” Chad muttered, not looking sorry. He’d always found the whole thing funny.
And luckily, Mandy had been so embarrassed by it (this being after a party at Chad and Annie’s that they’d both attended, and she’d made her approach, which included a fucking plea for another shot), he now knew she always asked Annie if he was coming. If he was, she didn’t show.
Which was a relief.
“Shannon was just psycho,” Olly pointed out.
“Yeah, even Annie doesn’t talk to her anymore. She’s a little self-involved.”
“She didn’t tear her eyes off her reflection in the car window the whole time I drove her to dinner,” Olly shared. “Bitch was gorgeous but no one is that gorgeous.”
Except Amélie.
Fuck.
“Two strikes. This time, Annie says she’s got a good one lined up for you,” Chad wheedled.
“In this game, man, there is no strike three.”
Chad kept grinning. “Just think about it. We’ll have a big party. You two can circle each other. See if you wanna give it a go.”
Circle each other.
Olly had far more interest in Amélie taking her sweet fucking time circling him again, looking hot and gorgeous and classy and in command, than he did whatever whackjob Annie had picked out for him.
“I think I’ve hit my quota of parties for this year,” Olly announced.
Chad started laughing and through it said, “Bro, it’s football season. That’s sacrilege.”
“Whatever,” Olly muttered.
Chad lifted a hand and slapped him on the arm. “Shake off your mood. Pull your shit together. Come up to the kitchen and have lunch. Stare down the recruits and scare the shit of them. But don’t stand out here any longer. Don’t gotta remind you we live in the Valley of the Sun. Your eyes’ll get burned out.”
“That might be a better option then eating lunch with a smartass.”
Chad never lost his grin. “Your call.”
Olly said nothing and didn’t watch Chad walk away.
He looked out into the sun.
Circle each other.
She was who she was. Amélie. Mistress Amélie. A woman who liked to tie men down and paddle their asses. A genius at that shit. And she was that, apparently, just like Barclay, with no hang-ups.
He was not that. He was not ready for the Bee’s Honey. He wasn’t thinking he’d ever be ready and he had some serious shit fucking with his head wondering if he even wanted to be.
So it sucked. She was gorgeous. He liked her voice. He totally got off on what she did to him. He wanted more and that included the fact he wouldn’t mind actually getting to know her.
But it was done. He had to end this shit.
All of it.
It was tearing him apart.
So Olly was not going back on Saturday.
No way.
AMÉLIE
Word is, you gave quite a show last night, the text from Mirabelle read.
Amélie’s lips curved as, late evening the day after her session with Olivier, she moved through her house with her phone in one hand, a glass of chilled white wine in the other, doing this with practiced ease even as her cat, Cleopatra, wove through her feet.
She arrived at the couch that faced her wall of windows. Windows that showed a stunning view of Phoenix at night off Camelback Mountain, where her home was located in an exclusive neighborhood in Paradise Valley.
This view, of course, being beyond the negative-edge pool, clean-lined decking, contemporary but comfortable outdoor furniture and, before that, the open gas fireplace that sat inside her expansive living room between her and the vista beyond.
The evening proved enjoyable, she texted back, a smile curving her mouth.
Enjoyable.
A vast understatement.
Cleopatra jumped up to the couch after Amélie sat, took a sip of wine, and leaned forward to rest the elegantly curved glass on her equally elegantly curved coffee table. After she relaxed back into the couch, the Siamese put her two front paws to Amélie’s thigh, knowing what she was demanding and knowing she would get it.
Amélie was a Dominatrix but she felt no shame admitting she was the dominated when it came to her pets.
Her eyes scanned for Stasia, her other furry darling. She was unsurprised when Stasia was nowhere to be seen.
Stasia loved her Maman. She was just exceptionally choosy about the times she wished to display that.
Cleo, on the other hand, was purring loudly as Amélie scratched her neck and occasionally gently rubbed both ears, able to do this now without Cleo racing away when she touched the mutilated one as had happened when Cleo first came home. The notch out of Cleopatra’s ear had been one of several sad and infuriating reasons Dr. Hill had not allowed her to go back to her owners after they’d brought her in to his veterinary clinic.
These sad and infuriating reasons meant Amélie had no idea if it was the natural curiosity and intelligence of a Siamese that meant Cleopatra’s spirit had not been broken in the first home she’d shared with humans (like, alas, her sweet but very shy Stasia’s had).
She’d just painstakingly, with great love, an abundance of patience, and pure joy, made certain she reinforced that spirit so the second (and last) home Cleo would share with a human would be an entirely different experience.
Amélie heard a noise come from her laptop that was sitting on the coffee table in front of her. She looked to it to see the notification in the bottom right corner and felt her mouth get tight when she saw who the email was from at the same time another noise came from her phone.
She reached for the laptop before she looked to her phone.
The email was from her financial adviser, sharing yet again that, although they’d just returned from a series of travel to see to business, he was advising two more meetings, one in Seattle, one in San Francisco.
It wasn’t her financial adviser that set her mouth. He was a good man, she’d known him a long time and he was absolutely trustworthy.
No, it was something else.
Amélie stared at the email, having hesitated after his earlier email on the same subject to pull the trigger on scheduling the meetings due to the fact that they’d just returned. She had a home. She volunteered at Dr. Hill’s practice, and although she was a volunteer, she took the time she gave him as serious as if it were paid employment. Not to mention, she had pets who liked her around (even Stasia, although she rarely showed it).
She enjoyed travel but she’d been gone weeks, she didn’t want to leave again so soon.
And last, the reason she wasn’t pleased to see that email pop up reminding her she needed to make a decision, she found these business trips mind-numbingly dull.
Like waking anesthesia.
She detested them.
She just needed to attend them because …
Because …
She blinked at the computer screen.
She had no idea what that “because” was.
What she did know was that, now, she definitely wasn’t going to schedule those meetings.
Not for a good while.
This was because she had a home. She had pets. She did office work at Dr. Hill’s clinic. What she did was not essential in the aid of the animals he cared for, but it did assist his endeavors. And, regardless of the repetitive quality of the work, it was the only thing at the end of any day that Amélie felt good about in her life, something with more than a small amount of alarm she was allowing herself to realize.
And last, there was the very not insignificant fact that she had Olivier in a playroom on Saturday.
She felt her face get soft at that thought, a coil of anticipation in her belly, both highly welcome reactions.
It had only been a day and her mind had wandered to him repeatedly, and with each time she had that same exact response.
Highly welcome.
She dismissed the email with a clap of screen to keyboard and looked to her phone, still scratching Cleo, who’d hunkered down, eyes closed, purr loud, claws coming out to knead Amélie’s thigh.
More play in the near future? Mira had asked.
That garnered another soft look because, yes, there would be.
And early indications screamed it would be scrumptious.
Saturday evening, she texted back.
Marvelous, my lovely, Mirabelle returned.
Absolutely, Amélie agreed.
She waited for more, even watched her screen, her heart feeling oddly suspended as she did.
It took time, time enough for Amélie to lean forward and take hold of her wine, have a sip, locate the remote that fired up the fireplace and wonder where she’d left the book she’d been reading, thinking about a contented night in for a change with wine, fire, book, and Cleo (and Stasia, if she’d deign to make an appearance).
In her life, she had a number of nights in … alone.
The change would be the “contented” part.
With Olivier to look forward to, that adjective could now be added.
This was also, obviously, highly welcome.
The text finally came and Amélie looked right to it.
Book club at yours?
That made her mouth turn down in a frown for this was not the text she expected, or more aptly, wished to receive.
She’d been waiting for word about what had (or had not) happened with Trey.
And yet there was no word.
Amélie wanted to ask her friend if the subject had been broached after their session last night. If Trey had asked Mirabelle out. Or if, perhaps, Mira brought it up.
What she did not want to do was ask her friend if the subject had been broached if it indeed had and this back-and-forth over texts was a brave face Mira was putting on to hide it had not gone well. For if it had, she would lead with that, not questions about Olivier.
Therefore she did not ask.
She replied, Yes, darling.
Good. And hey, have you heard from Evangeline?
This also set Amélie’s mouth turning down, for she had not.
Evangeline, a fellow Mistress, but more, a close friend, had had the unspeakable happen to her. And unbelievably, the event had occurred at the Honey—the first of its kind, to Amélie’s knowledge.
Aryas had lost his mind when it had happened and still carried guilt it was arguable, in Amélie’s opinion, he should carry.
However it was so much guilt, he refused to speak of it. But there were times, with her relationship with Ary, her skills as a Domme, Amélie saw it show.
She said nothing, also knowing Aryas was doing what he could with Evangeline to see to her healing and not doing this simply to assuage his guilt.
Not surprisingly, Evangeline had taken a break from the scene.
Disturbingly, this was lasting a good long while.
Too long.
Worse, she’d nearly disappeared and not just from the club. Cursory returns of texts. No-show at parties and bad excuses not to make lunch or dinner plans.
Something needed to be done.
It was just that Amélie, unusually, didn’t know what that something was. She’d tried gentle, at first. She’d tried firm. She’d even tried (carefully) insistent.
Evangeline was immune.
Or, knowing her friend, stubborn.
And if someone refused to heal, even a friend who cared deeply had to understand when the time came to leave them to that.
The only thing Amélie knew was that now was not yet that time.
No, Mira. I’ll ask her to the next club meeting and urge her strongly to come, she texted in return.
Excellent. I will too. Right, heading for the bath. Talk soon.
Good night, Mira, Amélie finished it.
She took a deep breath before another long sip of wine, listening to Cleopatra’s purring, giving her scratches down the length of her spine to her kitty-booty.
She did this sending her message to the fates that they’d take care of Mirabelle.
And Evangeline.
Careful to keep Cleo comfortable, instead of going to find her book, she shoved the laptop out of her way and curled her legs under her, now looking about space that was her space and had been for some years.
She was into minimalism, clean lines, modernism, with occasional statement pieces or flashes of color.
Throughout her large home, there were a lot of silvers, blacks, and grays.
There was also the phenomenal fireplace in front of her.
And the masterpiece of colorful glass art that was the chandelier that took over the full ceiling of her foyer.
Further, the five-foot-tall, four-foot-wide curvaceous, faceless goddess structure at the northwestern corner of the back deck—the goddess sitting on unseen calves, the sculpture starting at knees, leading to the juncture of the pubis and wide, rounded hips, back up, globular breasts, eyeless face looking straight on, arms raised up in curlicues.
A magnificent piece of beauty and power and femininity.
As she examined environs that were so familiar to her, she barely saw them anymore, suddenly, she saw them with new eyes.
New eyes wondering what Olivier would make of all of this. If she were to have him there, if he would like it, feel at home, share in her tastes.
And more, Amélie wondered what his home was like, and if he were to ask her there, if she would like it, feel at home there, share his tastes.
Practically the moment this thought entered her head, Amélie pushed it out.
One session and she was wondering if he’d like her goddess sculpture.
Not even one session and she was comparing the blue of his eyes to the hue in a rainbow.
You must be cautious, Leigh, she warned herself on another sip of her wine, eyes now fixed to the fire, hand now fully stroking her purring cat.
It was good advice. She knew it.
And she knew she had no choice but to take it.
But that did not diminish the coil of anticipation that twined deliciously in her belly.
One session. They’d had one session.
And they would have another one.
Her lips curved as she forced her mind to that. Just that. And with her considerable control, she was able to block out the rest and the hope that came with it, wondering about his space, wondering what he’d think of hers, how they’d fit into each other’s lives if they were to do so outside the club.
Hope.
She knew she couldn’t go there.
Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Amélie had to focus only on what there was and what she knew there would be.
They’d had one exceptionally fulfilling session.
And soon, she with her magnificent beast would have another one.