Page 203 of The Dommes

“I will. And tomorrow when you call me up, I hopefully won’t be saying I told you so.”

Ira finagled reservations at the French place downtown. I say “the” French place because although there are at least three French eateries around here, only one is worthy of our attention. Naturally, it is the most expensive one.

Dressed in my best, which to most means a black dress, I enter the restaurant with my head held high and my hair pinned higher. After all, I’ve garnered over the past few weeks that Ira Mathison finds me particularly intimidating – or sexy, depending on the night – when I wear my hair up like this.

“I’m here to meet with Ira Mathison,” I tell the host. “They’re expecting me.”

The hosts at these places are paid well. Partly because they have to be discreet, good actors, and polite to a fault. This one is no different, but I catch a look of disbelief in his eyes as I tell him who I’m meeting. That’s right, buddy. Your bigshot Mathison – wherever you’re keeping her – has a date with this looker.

“Right this way, ma’am.”

I’m led through the belly of the restaurant, past friendly and not-so-friendly eyes. Nobody I recognize offhand. I’m sure they recognize me. This is high society. This is middle-class couples who have saved up all year to come here on birthdays and anniversaries. A full meal here costs at least a couple hundred dollars, and that doesn’t include drinks.

I hope Ira got us some wine. I’m parched.

When I step into the small but private room, I find out why the host is so surprised at my presence. Or at least my sultry look.

The room is dark. The table is littered with candles and flowers, rose petals creating a romantic trail from the door to my chair opposite Ira. More petals dance around the scented centerpiece. A glass of red wine waits for me, my plate already filled with salad.

Ira sits on the far side, welcoming me with a raise of her glass.

“Your meal has already been ordered, ma’am,” the host says, taking the door handle and closing me into this room with a fucking Domme. “Please ring if anything is needed.”

Yeah, I need a stiffer drink than wine.

“Kathleen.” Ira gestures to the seat across from her. The one covered in rose petals. “Thank you for joining me tonight.”

Warily I sit, my purse slipping off my shoulder and landing unceremoniously on the floor. There’s a wooden basket provided for bags, but I can’t be assed to place mine in there. I’m too dumbfounded. Well, I guess I know her answer.

“It was the least I could do.” I keep my manners proper as I fix my purse and sit up straight in my chair. I’m even gladder that I wore my hair up and out of the way. “Especially after what I asked of you.”

“Yes. Let’s talk about that.”

I stare at the salad, picking up a fork and stabbing a piece of spinach. I sort of hate that Ira knew exactly what I would want and then had the gall to order for me. I’m not her sub tonight. I’m not even here as her girlfriend, really. Yet I feel… taken care of.

I’m sure she’s paying tonight.

That is the one appealing thing about having a Domme, or at least a very “alpha” girlfriend. She will take care of you. Dote on you. Make sure you have everything you need and then some. Not just financially – not that I need help with that – but emotionally. Ira never has to order for me. She does it as a way of coddling me. I’m guilty of thinking of this as controlling many years ago, back when I first got into the kink scene. Now I get it. It’s comforting.

I did not come here to be comforted.

“You’re radiant,” Ira says in a smooth manner that makes me think of being seduced in the club. Seduced as a sub. “It’s a shame we’re here to talk business.”

“The rose petals and candles say otherwise.”

Ira leans forward, the glow of the centerpiece candle illuminating her steely visage. Those hazel eyes penetrate my brain, and her self-assured grin… so arrogant. So arrogant. So fucking arrogant and drop-dead gorgeous.

“Who says that business and pleasure can’t mingle?” She snorts. “Certainly not you. You’re the one asking me to prostitute herself for fifteen million.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“You’ve got the biggest balls of anyone I know. I admire that. I also admit that it’s sexy.”

“Thanks.”

Salad enters my mouth. I chew methodically, keeping my eyes neither downcast nor locked on hers. I don’t want to look avoidant or too interested, after all.

“I’m not easily bought, even by you, Kathleen. I will need something from you if I am to deign to do that…”

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