The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (10 page)

I sighed.
 
The man was pouting like a spoiled little boy who didn’t get the toy he wanted.
  
Annoyance ran through me as I discreetly glanced down at my watch.
 
I had about fifteen minutes left of this absurd tête-à-tête.
 
I looked back at Mitch and smiled gently at him while trying to think of a way to soothe his wounded ego.
 

“It’s got nothing to do with whether or not you’re good in bed, Mitch,” I said soothingly.
 
“You’re great in bed, you know that.
 
In fact, I’ve sought you out because you’re the only one who can satisfy me.”
 
A total lie, of course, but it was the only way I could let him down easily—by making him feel like the virile stud muffin he believed himself to be.

His expression softened a little, and I knew I was on the right track.
 
That’s it, Marjorie, do what you do best.
 
Throw the dog a bone.

“And as you know,” I continued, more animated, “about eighty percent of the heterosexual female population in Northampton seeks you out.
 
I’d say that’s more than enough evidence that you’re an amazing lover, wouldn’t you?”

He thought about it for a few heartbeats.
 
Then he threw a grin my way and said, “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
 

I sighed, relieved.
 
That was all it took to make this shallow man happy.
 
Call him a stud and all was good in Mitchell Briar’s little world.
 
Man, I thought derisively, this guy’s
narcissism is a thing to behold.
 

“So who’s this new author you’re courting?” he said, changing the subject now that he’d gotten his morning ego boost.

A double rush of excitement swept through me.
 
Flustered, I toyed with my hair and stared fixedly at my BlackBerry for a long while.
 
The mere mention of David J. Seton sprung me over the edge now.
 
I’d had only one tryst with the man and already I felt dangerously attached to him.
 
Seton was like chocolate—once you had a bite, you had to have more.

I had found myself yearning for his touch when I woke up.
 
I’d longed to hear the sound of his velvety English accent over the phone.
 
I needed some kind of positive message from him, especially after his odd behaviour before I left his house last night.
 
I almost sent him a text message, but stopped myself just in time.
 
I didn’t want to seem too eager, after all.

“I—I’m not in the liberty of sharing that,” I stammered.
 
“All I can say is that he’s a bestselling author.
 
To Bookends AtoZ, signing him is the equivalent of winning the big jackpot.”

Mitch raised his eyebrows.
 
“Sounds like a big deal.”

“It is.”

Having noticed that he had shifted the conversation to a topic in which he played no part, Mitch checked his watch and made to stand up.
 
“All right, babe,” he said, taking one last sip of his coffee.
 
“Gotta go.
 
Thanks for listening.
 
Hope we can still be friends, eh?”

I smiled at him.
 
“Absolutely.”

“Friends with benefits?” he asked playfully.

I laughed.
 
Good ol’ Mitch.
 
“That was exactly what we were before.
 
Now we’ll be friends
without
the benefits.”

He flashed me a wide grin.
 
“Ah, well, can’t blame a guy for trying.
 
If I can’t contact any of my girls tonight, I’ll spend another night alone, drinking myself to an early grave.”

“You’d find any excuse to get drunk.”

“Hey, I’m heartbroken, remember?
 
It’s my pity party and I’ll get hammered if I want to.”

I was up and ready to go when in swooped David J. Seton, looking scrumptious in an immaculately tailored dark suit.
 
He reached the front register without sparing me a glance.
 
Hmm.
 
Maybe he hadn’t seen me.
 

A surge of excitement stirred within me at the sight of him.
 
I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him, something that hadn’t escaped Mitch’s attention.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“He’s, uh, a new client,” I stuttered as I absently ran shaky fingers through my hair and stared openly at the gorgeous man ordering coffee.

I wasn’t the only one looking.
 
Sighs and stares—from both men and women—followed in his wake, and everyone fixed their eyes on the tall, dark, gorgeous and impeccably dressed stranger flirting with one of the female baristas, oblivious of the attention he was getting.

Eager, I waited for him to get his morning caffeine fix.
 
I had wanted to see him this morning and my dream had come true!
 
I had no idea if I should introduce him to Mitch, or if he’d introduce himself, or if he’d want to be introduced, but since he enjoyed taking the initiative in everything, I would let him make that choice.

He took his coffee, paid the cashier, left a big tip, and turned toward me.
 
His lake-water green eyes glanced my way, a blank expression plastered across his beautiful face.
 
Nervous, I wrapped my arms across my chest, smiled at him and was about to utter a good morning when he strode right by me and went straight to the front door, treating me as if I were nothing more than a passing stranger among the many.
 
Without a word of explanation, not a look, nor a backward glance, he rushed out of the coffee shop.

I couldn’t move, just stood there, my smile frozen into place.
 
What had just happened?
 
Why didn’t he stop and say hello?
 
Was he angry at me?
 
Had I done something wrong?
 
Had he forgotten me already?

I turned to Mitch.
 
He was staring at me, a puzzled expression passing over his features.
 
“I thought you said you knew him.”

Embarrassed, I shrugged and toyed with the trackball on my BlackBerry.
 
“I do know him.
 
He was probably in a hurry or something.”

“Yeah,” Mitch said, not convinced.
 
“Probably.”

***

Did he see me or didn’t he?
I asked myself as I rushed to the office.
 
Yes, he saw me.
 
He definitely saw me.
 
Our eyes met for a moment.
 
But if he saw me, why the hell didn’t he stop and talk to me?

           
My mind raced into overdrive as I gathered my messages from Rosie, the front desk receptionist-slash-assistant, and closed the door to my office.
 
I quickly flipped through the messages.
 
None of them was from Seton.
 
Sighing, I stripped off my cashmere sweater, plopped down on my chair, switched on my computer and obsessed about my morning encounter with Seton.

           
Why oh why did he ignore me?
 
Had I been so terrible the night before that he’d decided I wasn’t worth his time?
 
Had I been too submissive?
 
Was I not challenging enough for him?
 
I had no idea why he ignored me.
 
All I knew was that I didn’t like it.
 
What’s more, I didn’t like the way it made me feel.
 
I felt clingy.
 
And I wasn’t clingy.
 
I didn’t do clingy.
 
Clinginess was not a personality trait I possessed.
 
I was damn proud of my forthrightness when it came to men.
 
Sex without strings had always been my M.O..
 
Fucking someone and not expecting anything in return made me smarter than 99.9% of the female population, those pathetic souls who went out on dates, hoping they’d found The One, only to be disappointed yet again when the post-date phone call never came.
 
I worshipped characters like Samantha Jones from
Sex and the City
, and I strove to emulate her care-free ways.
 
Fuck ’em and leave ’em.
 
That was my motto.
 
Just ask any of my exes.

I wasn’t promiscuous, mind you.
 
I could count the amount of exploits I’d had with one hand.
 
But they had all been passing flings, and that was just the way I’d wanted them to be.
 
I enjoyed my independence.
 
I liked who I was and I would never change, especially not for some guy.
 
So, if Mr. I’m-Too-Good-to-Stop-and-Say-Hello didn’t feel like greeting me in public, then so be it.
 

           
But…maybe he didn’t want to talk to me in front of Mitch.
 
As a bestselling author living in a small city, he would want to maintain a low profile.
 
He probably didn’t want the hassle of having to introduce himself to a complete stranger.
 
Yes, I thought, sighing with relief, that’s probably it.
 
He wishes to maintain his privacy, and I should respect his wishes.

           
In a show of goodwill, I decided to send him an e-mail.
 
I rummaged through my handbag until I found the card he gave me during our lunch meeting yesterday—the one with his home and e-mail address and cell phone number written on it—and typed in his e-mail addy on my Bookends account.
  
My message was discreet, in case third parties, namely Alfred, read this stuff.

           
Dear Mr. Seton,

I hope this e-mail finds you well.
 
I’d like to thank you for our meeting yesterday.
 
It was very…enlightening.
 
It was also nice to see you this morning at the coffee shop.
 
The young man you saw me with was Mr. Mitchell Briars, one of Bookends’ many talented authors.
 
Perhaps you’d like to be introduced to him some time?
 
I’m certain that he’ll be able to give you a more unbiased opinion about us.
 
Anyway, I look forward to hearing from you soon.
 
And I hope to be able to get my hands on your manuscript in the not-so-distant future.
 
Do not hesitate to contact me if you have any questions.
 
You can call, e-mail or text me any time.
 
Take care.

—Marjorie Fordham

I took a couple of deep breaths before clicking on “Send.”
 
There.
 
Mission accomplished.
 
All I had to do now was wait for his reply.
 
I tackled the pile of unfinished work sitting on my desk to keep myself busy for the time being.
 

There was a slight knock on my door before Magda, one of Bookends’ most talented editors, sauntered in, a coffee mug in one hand and a file folder in the other.
 
“Got a minute?” she asked.

I smiled and motioned her to come in.
 

“I’m supposed to be checking these out,” she said, indicating the folder in her hand.
 
“But I’ve had it up to here with reading depressing crap from suicidal poets.
 
So, could you work with them instead?”
 
She dumped the file folder on my desk before I could respond.
 
Then she glanced around my office before sitting on the chair across from me.
 
“I thought our meal ticket would be here.”