“You know, they do say the best Tops are those who have bottomed, experienced the sensations if not the mind-set,” he said.
“You’re going to tell me you’ve bottomed?”
“Me? Fuck no. Well, not aside from letting another trusted Top or two hit me with a flogger, a whip, a cane, a wooden paddle. While I felt I needed to know what the toys felt like, I sincerely doubt there is any chance I will ever reach subspace. Now Topspace—that’s another matter.”
“I have a feeling you mostly live there,” she muttered into her napkin.
“Ha! I heard that. And yeah, it’s probably true. I understand that you do, too—believe me, I get it. The sensation of being energized. The hyperfocus where the entire world narrows down to you and your partner. The need for perfectionism is a high in itself, and even though that’s not necessarily a common aspect of Topspace, I have the sense you feel it, too. But you’ve also been a bottom. Enough that you must have experienced the difference in energy, that floating space. You weren’t only a sensation bottom, I feel certain. You were a submissive, even. Yes?”
He held her gaze, trying to see into her, to read her unspoken response through pupil dilation, through the slight flaring of her nostrils. Finally she licked her lips, which was another sign in itself, and he knew he’d gotten through the tough shell she wore. A little, at any rate.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
He gave a small nod of his chin. “And I can see it didn’t sit well with you, or doesn’t now, in any case. But . . .” He wiped his hands on his napkin, then steepled his fingers as he leaned toward her, lowering his voice. “I have a thought. What do you say we play a game? We’ll pretend you’re a bottom. A submissive. Now, it’s only pretend, mind you. You can tell yourself it’s okay—you can justify it—because you know it’s only a game.”
Her features hardened. “Your game.”
“No, it’s yours, too. Because we can’t play without your consent. That’s the only way people at our level of kink can play. The ball is in your court, and you have the power. You know that’s how it works.”
“Why do I feel like you’re trying to trick me into something?” she asked even as her features began to soften.
“Layla, I am not hiding my interest in you, sexual, kinky or otherwise. I’m assuming there’s some interest on your end, as well, or you wouldn’t be here having a meal with me and definitely not having this conversation.”
She bit her lip. “Okay. That’s fair. But I am really not a submissive. Not anymore, if I ever truly was, which is something I question.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? Just like that?”
Leaning even closer, he smiled at her. “Are you telling me you want me to continue pressing the issue? I’m more than happy to do that, you know.” Her mouth was hanging in a stunned little O as he lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across the back of it. He wanted to lick it, to suck each of her delicate fingers, one at a time, slowly, swirling his tongue over the tips in a way that would let her know exactly what it would feel like when he went down on her.
His cock filled, aching with need. But that was all right. He could take it—kind of wanted it, even, this delicious torture. And at that moment, his entire focus was on this exquisite woman before him. Her fire and sass. Her gorgeous green eyes and succulent cleavage. And whatever parts of her body were yet to be discovered.
She exhaled, a slow breath with a small gasp in it. Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her. “Why are you looking at me as if you want to eat me alive?”
“Because that’s exactly what I want to do.” He kissed her fingers once more, letting his lips linger at the tips for several long moments before looking up at her. “Let me.”
? ? ?
LAYLA WASN’T EVEN sure how she’d get through the rest of the evening, but the food came just in time, distracting her from having to answer that last plea. That world-rocking, mind-blowing plea that had left her brain in turmoil and her panties damp.
“Let me.”
God, if he’d had any idea of the effect those softly spoken words had on her. But he probably did know. This man was the real thing. A true Dom. And every fiber in his being was geared toward every word, every touch, every glance having a desired effect. Toward breaking a person’s walls down. It was working beautifully.
Letting her hand go, he leaned back in his chair as the waitress set their plates down. But he kept his steady hazel gaze on her. Oh, yes, he was very good at this game. She knew he’d be every bit as good at the one he’d just proposed. Better, no doubt.
“You can give me your answer later,” he said. “Change of subject while we enjoy our food, shall we?”
She bit her lip again. “Excellent idea.”
They started on their meal, and while they ate, he asked her again about her sculpting medium, and then about her musical preferences. They found they had a lot in common, which surprised her—that they both loved hard-driving metal, alternative rock, punk, soul and R&B, and even some rap. But Duff seemed to be full of surprises, and she had to remind herself not to judge a book by its cover. A huge Scotsman could be into rap, couldn’t he?
“Now that I’m here,” Duff continued, “I really want to get a dog once the buildout on the shop is done and we’re open for business.” He took a bite of his curry and paused to chew. “Plus, I’m living at Jamie’s place for now. I’ll need to house hunt at some point, and I mean to find something with a yard.”
“I’ve always wanted a dog, but I can’t have one at my place. I want to get a French bulldog and name her Lolita. They have such funny faces. I love the absurdity of it.”
“No kidding? Seriously? I’ve wanted to get a bulldog or maybe a mastiff and call her Lolita.” He laid a hand over his heart. “I swear it.”
“No—you’re making that up,” she accused, half teasing him.
“On my honor. Boy Scout’s honor.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You were never a Boy Scout, Duff.”
“No, but it did sound good, didn’t it? But it’s true, about the dog’s name.”