“Leigh—”
Amélie lifted her free hand, palm out, but tightened her hold on Felicia with her other before letting her go, doing all of this talking.
“Felicia, I’m grateful, your concern is very sweet.” She dropped her raised hand. “But Olivier and I had three times together. They were lovely. They were…” She tried to find the words but failed as there were none. Therefore she had to go on lamely, “More than lovely. But he’s a man, very much a man, no matter how he likes his play, and if he’s to forgive me for my lapse, he’s the one who has to take that first step so I know he’s forgiven me. Then I can take the rest.”
“I hope he does,” Felicia replied.
So did Amélie.
But after his extremely heated yet justified outburst, and as time passed and she neither saw him nor heard word he was at the club, she knew she’d be foolish to hold her breath.
“While we were waiting for those crackers,” Felicia went on, her full pouty lips in that pixie face quirking (she could honestly be described as a living doll, but if a sub did such, they’d feel her switch), “we all made a pact. Because we all know, after you having him, he’s not gonna come back if he’s not coming back for you. So if we see him at the Honey, we’ll text you so fast, our fingers might catch fire. And if you’re down with it, we’ll spread that word.”
Amélie hoped she was right, that should Olivier return to the Honey, he would be doing so to mend things between them, rather than to attempt to find another Mistress to see to his needs.
She even so far as prayed to the fates she was.
So she was definitely down with their plan.
It was not normal operating procedure for Mistress Amélie, entirely because she’d never been in this situation.
But if Olivier returned to the Honey there was hope he did so to find her.
It was good she cared very little about what people thought of her, she was what she was, did what she did, wanted what she wanted.
And she wanted Olivier.
Therefore, she didn’t care if that word was spread.
So yes, she was down with it.
Amélie smiled. “That would be most appreciated.”
Felicia reached out and touched the back of Amélie’s hand before she removed her own and asked quietly, “No word from Evangeline?”
Amélie shook her head.
Felicia sighed before murmuring, “What are we going to do with that girl?”
Amélie had no idea and this was troubling her more and more.
Felicia said nothing further on that subject, took hold of the finished platter of pâté, and declared, “Now it’s time to feed that starving horde, not like we haven’t hoovered through all the goodies you’ve got out there. Seriously, I don’t know where you get this pâté, Leigh, but my mouth starts salivating for it days before we hit your house for book club. If you ever hosted our meeting and didn’t serve this stuff, I might go on a hunger strike until you produced it.”
Amélie had it flown in from a bistro with a particularly talented chef in New York City.
She didn’t tell Felicia that.
She said, “It’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.”
As Felicia made her way toward the door, she opened the drawer that hid the trash and recycle bins and pointed inside.
“It’s on the box, babe. If I was into digging through trash, I’d find it. Since I’m way not into digging through trash, I won’t. Just don’t think we don’t appreciate your relationship with Federal Express.”
She shoved the drawer to, tossed a wink over her shoulder, this wink stating plainly she knew exactly where that pâté was from, and sauntered around the island in her best Mistress stroll.
Which meant Amélie walked to the living room to see relieved faces.
This was because she walked there laughing.
Her friends cared about her deeply.
They were worried.
Now, they felt some ease.
Amélie just wished she could, too, deep down.
But she couldn’t.
Not until Olivier came back to the Honey.
If he did.
Oh, but she hoped he did.
But that nag of pain was still there because she knew with the depth of his anger, the session he had missed, the time that had passed …
She shouldn’t hold her breath.
seven
Too Delicious to Be Real
AMÉLIE
With a studiously unhurried gait, on Monday evening, Amélie walked up to the Honey, her head bent, hand up, just a woman checking her phone.
But she wasn’t just a woman checking her phone.
She was an idiot woman who was excited beyond reason and terrified beyond words who was checking her phone.
The text string included:
Romy: There’s a big, brooding boy holding up the wall, waiting for his Mistress.
Amélie: Thank you, darling.
Romy: Would you like me to reserve a room for you?
Amélie: Yes, please. Number 17. You’re a love.
Romy: 17? My, my. I hope you keep the blinds up, sweetie.
Oh, she was going to keep the blinds up.
If he was there to deal with what happened between them, they’d do just that.
And then for all the stress he put her through waiting for him to forgive her, she was going to crop his ass.
She opened the door of the club and it felt like the atmosphere hit charged just by her presence the second she walked in.
She knew he was still there. Even though she’d taken time to prepare herself (and give herself time to attempt to calm down, this not working), Romy would have shared he was leaving or had left.
So he was there. She just hoped he wasn’t there to further make a point already well made by finding someone else.
She walked into the club with many eyes already on her.
She found Romy first to send her a nod of thanks. Her gaze caught Stellan next, and noted his attention was on her and he looked strangely unhappy. She further saw Felicia, holding court with two male toys, and she was smirking a knowing (but happy) smirk.
She also noticed Delia was looking at her, and her look was a look that, for some bizarre reason (possibly because Delia never seemed in a good mood and it further seemed she didn’t like anybody), could kill.
Halfway through the hunting ground on her way to an empty booth, she turned her head to the wall and saw him there. Standing right where she first saw him, looking just like he not only was holding up the long wall, but that he could.
God, she wanted him not to be as amazing as she remembered, so if he rejected her entirely and moved on, she could do the same.
But he was just that amazing.
And he became more amazing immediately.
This was because his attention was on her as well. And when her gaze caught his, he straightened from the wall and turned in her direction.
But he didn’t move in her direction. He just stood there, showing her he’d come if called.
In order not to do the real thing, she visualized melting to her knees, such was her relief.
She dipped her chin and twisted it slightly to the side.
It was not a demand he attend her. It was an acknowledgment of his message.
It was also an indication she was going to make him wait.
This could anger him and throw her right back to where she was five seconds before, if not make it worse.
But she saw his lips hitch up at the side before he slouched back with his shoulder to the wall and watched her walk the rest of her way to her table.
She barely got her bottom on the bench when a waitress was there.
“You gonna sit long enough for a drink or you gonna go hit that right away?” the waitress asked.
Yes, they all were talking.
And they were all watching.
Not a surprise.
And Amélie could care less.
For Olivier
was here to forgive her.
So all was well in her world.
She looked at the waitress, a new-ish hire she’d seen more than once, but since the woman had never waited on Amélie, she didn’t yet know her name.
In that moment, she also didn’t take the time to ask.
Allowing her lips to curl up, she requested, “A drink, darling, and bring whatever Olivier likes to drink too.”
“Gotcha,” she muttered and moved away.
Moving in the instant she did was Talia, who slid in opposite Amélie without invitation.
“Sooooo…” She grinned. “Do you think it’ll be a stampede to room seventeen?”
That was likely.
“Romy has a big mouth,” Amélie replied.
“Romy saw you jack him on his knees. An already legendary spectacle I unfortunately missed. She wants a repeat performance. We all do. And thus Romy’s putting together your application to be admitted to the Dominatrix Hall of Fame,” Talia returned.
Amélie laughed quietly. “Would that there was such a thing.”
“Girl, you’re giving Sixx a run for her money.”
Sixx used to live in Phoenix. Amélie had trained under her for a time years ago.
She wasn’t a talented Mistress. She was the stick by which everyone was measured.
It was a nice thing to say but it wasn’t true.
“That’s sweet,” she said. “Though, I’ll be taking some time to sit and enjoy my beast and a drink so seventeen will be vacant for that time.”
“Want me to get a slave to call him over?” Talia offered.
“That’d be lovely. Thank you,” Amélie accepted.
Talia didn’t vacate the booth immediately.
She gave Amélie a sweet look and whispered, “So glad he came back, baby.”
Amélie felt her mouth get soft.
Talia took that in then slid out and the drinks were at the table by the time Olivier arrived.
He stood next to her, eyes to hers before they went to her neck. “Mistress Amélie.”
“Olivier, please slide in. All the way to the back,” she invited.
Clearly thinking that was a lot easier than expected, he assumed a startled expression before he moved to the side opposite her and did as asked.
She slid in farther, closer to him. When she was where she wanted to be, she reached for the drinks, moving his in front of him and taking a sip before she put hers to the table.
“Thought I was supposed to do that kind of shit,” he muttered.
She looked his way, saw him studying the beer, and informed him, “I’m in a benevolent mood.”
“And I bet I should thank Christ for that,” he stated.
He thought she could be cute.
He could be cute too.
She was not going to tell him that, but even if she was, he lifted his hand, curled it around the pilsner glass, and moved his gaze to the room, doing this speaking quickly.
“What I did was fucked, Amélie. I know it. I had a point to make but there was a better way to make it. I lost my temper and that was not cool. I got a bad habit of doin’ that, a habit I gotta learn to lock down. It took some time to get my head together about it and I didn’t come to the Honey like you wanted on Friday and that wasn’t cool either. I fucked up, I wish I didn’t but I did. And,” he drew in a huge breath, “I’m sorry.”
That took a lot and she knew it. He was not that man in life and he was not that toy in the playroom.
So every word meant as much to her as it took him to say them.
That said, she was surprised, with her transgression, it was he who apologized.
It was his place in this world, but again, he was not that man and had made that clear in a variety of ways, most specifically during their last, painful encounter.
This made his words all the more prized.
To show him that, she moved closer to him, close enough to brush his arm with her breasts, as she curled a hand high on his thick thigh.
He turned to her in surprise.
“Mistress Mirabelle, my friend I was talking to that night before I saw to you, had a minor, but important, decision to make. She was leaning the wrong way, a way that, if she took that path, might have caused her some pain. I care about her a great deal and I didn’t want her to do anything she’d regret.”
She squeezed his thigh, getting closer.
“My mind was on you, Olivier, when I was working you. Only you. And I had other plans for you that I felt taking care of a friend took priority over. Not that you aren’t a priority, just that I, too, had a decision to make that night and I felt the right one was to look after my friend. That said, I was disappointed not being able to carry my plans for you through. Very disappointed, my chevalier. Because of that, I’m afraid my mind wandered.”
She said no more. She did not explicitly apologize.
And she wouldn’t.
If some miracle occurred and the them they were became another type of them, and she was more than Mistress to him, there were times when she would (maybe).
Now, she would not.
She felt her breath catch at the warm look he was giving her.
“Not my place to say,” he started. “But with your girl, you made the right decision.”
She felt relief sweep through her and her face got soft.
“I should have listened to you when you wanted to share that,” he said.
She should have shared it before he had to lay it out.
She gazed deep into his eyes, squeezing his thigh, and replied, “There were several shoulds that simply weren’t in that situation, Olivier. You’re sitting here, let’s move on.”
“Works for me,” he muttered.
She gave him another squeeze, saw his hand still on his drink, and realized she’d been remiss. “Partake of your beer freely, mon chou.”
“My cabbage,” he muttered, lifting his beer.
She raised her brows, surprised he knew what mon chou meant.
“You speak French?”
“I looked it up.”
Her belly melted.
“Means pastry too,” he stated, putting down his beer and looking at her. “Which one am I to you?”
Oh, he was definitely a delectable pastry.
There was a teasing light in his eye and she leaned closer.
“It’s just an endearment,” she told him.
“I know. That’s where I found it. On a list of French endearments. Wasn’t sure about it but at least you don’t call my mon cochon.”
My pig.
She laughed softly.
He grinned and lifted the beer to his lips.
She slipped her hand lower, cupping his cock and balls.
He jolted and coughed, putting the beer down without sipping it.
But she was feeling something.
Gently, fingering around his hardening cock, she probed deeper.
“Olivier,” she whispered at what she felt.
“Bought it for you,” he told the room. “Wore it for you.” He shifted as she traced the strap. “And it fits better.”
He was harnessed.
She rubbed her lips together so they wouldn’t tremble.
Her other lips between her legs she wasn’t able to do that with so they carried on.
“This pleases me,” she told him.
“Hoped it would.” He looked to her and dipped his voice. “Glad it does.”
She held him, stroking his lengthening cock with her thumb.
He adjusted again.
She smiled.
“How old are you, my chevalier?” she asked.
He lifted his beer and answered, “Thirty-two,” before he took a sip.
“Hmm…” she murmured, still stroking.
“Can I ask, uh … Mistress, how old are you?”
“Thirty-three,” she shared.
“You seem older,” he muttered. “When you aren’t bein’ cute. Then you seem younger.”
She grippe
d him semi-tightly and his lower body tensed. “You should never tell a woman she seems older.”
He turned to look at her, “Experience, Amélie, not age.”
“Ah,” she breathed out.
She ungripped him only to unzip him.
His lower half went still again and she heard a noise he strangled back when she pulled him out.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
She slid her hand in the opening and inspected the harness more closely.
“Jesus,” he blew out.
“I approve, mon chou,” she told him, lightly cupping his balls.
His, “Good,” came thick.
She gave him a slight squeeze and he shifted in his seat again. “How did you come to the life?”
“What?”
His mind was on other things.
“The life, our life, Olivier,” she explained.
“Used to go to the Bolt,” he told her.
“I’ve never been there,” she noted.
“You’re not missing much,” he replied.
“I’d heard that.”
“Owner’s a good guy, one of them, anyway. He’s a friend of mine,” he offered.
She looked up at him as she massaged his balls. “Yes?”
“Yeah,” he pushed out.
“Please put your arms on the back of the booth on either side of you, Olivier. And don’t take them off. Yes?”
“Fuck,” he bit out. Not in anger, he was again shifting under her his attentions to his balls. “Yeah,” he went on. “Yes, Mistress,” he finished.
He did as told.
“And coming to understand your nature?” she asked. He didn’t answer immediately so she stopped massaging and just cupped him as she pressed closer. “You don’t have to tell. It’s your story and yours to give. That’s nobody’s to command. But I’d be delighted if you decided to share it with me.”
He turned his head and dipped his chin down so their faces were close. She didn’t move and she didn’t ask him to move. This made the setting intimate, just the two of them, when he spoke.
“Black box.”
She was confused. “I’m sorry?”
“Boys jack off. I did a lot of that when I was a kid, all guys do. Shit in my head, though, wasn’t women in magazines showin’ their tits. I guess I had a good imagination. Didn’t know where some of it came from until, well … I did.”