The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (48 page)

Thunder roared ferociously from outside.
 
I yelped, then jumped back, my pulse speeding into overdrive.
 
With a hand pressed against my chest, I bit my bottom lip and peered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
 
Rain poured down in powerful rivulets.
 
The weather hadn’t let up.
 
Then I cast a fretful glance up the stairs.
 
Nothing.
 
Seton was truly dead to the world.
 
Calming down again, I sank back against the desk chair and continued to read.

They had gone to Café Rouge, where a cocktail had turned into seven and where they’d decided to go back to his place for a shag.

           
The man wrapped his arms around the brunette’s waist, kissing her neck. ‘God, I want you,’ he whispered in her ear.

           
The woman didn’t stir. She found the rain crashing against the French windows far more fascinating than her partner’s arousal. She knew nothing about this bloke, except that he was an investment banker.
 
Come to think of it, most of her conquests were investment bankers who owned enormous flats in the Greater London area.
 
She had never met an interesting man in her young, twenty-nine-year old life—though she hadn’t a clue what made a man interesting. What was so fascinating about a bloody banker?
 
All they really do is put figures into a Microsoft Excel document.
 
And they work on bank holidays.
 
The brunette was under the firm belief that people who work on bank holidays should get shot for being such pathetic brown-nosers.
 
She’d had to sit through endless dinners listening to their rubbish, marvelling at their pathetic attempts to impress her.
 
Well, at least they had loads of money.
 
And cars.
 
They often owned flashy, expensive cars that they showed off as if having the best set of wheels was equivalent to having a big dick.

           
Aside from bankers and men in general, the brunette hated Central London. She preferred a much smaller, much cozier area, preferably in a neighbourhood where eclectic cafés, fashionable restaurants and stylish art galleries were dominant.
 
A neighbourhood populated by folk singers and poets.
 
God, she wished she had suggested going to her flat instead!

           
The man traced his fingers up and down her spine as he pressed his erection against the crack of her arse. ‘You drive me crazy, woman,’ he cooed in her ear.

           
Still facing the windows, she said, ‘Do I really?’

           
‘Yes,’ he whispered, brushing a soft kiss across her smooth, delicate shoulders. ‘You’re a strikingly beautiful woman, you know.’

           
‘Yes, I know.’

           
And she most certainly knew. Taking long drags on her cigarette, she felt like a femme fatale in a film noir—cool, aloof, sexy. She loved the fact that she didn’t have to feign lack of interest in the man, for she was genuinely not interested in him.
 
But, alas, she came to fuck him, so fuck him she would.
 
You know how it goes—get your jollies whilst you can and all that.

           
The man’s erection startled her when she turned to him, momentarily destroying her seductive front.

           
‘God, that’s ugly,’ she thought as she watched him stroke his glistening little copper top in front of her.
 
She had always thought that penises were ugly, and she marvelled at the way men treated their equipment as though it were something worthy of worship, like having a penis made them the masters of the universe or something.

           
Gaining her composure, she put out her cigarette, took the man by the hand and led him to his stylish four-poster bed that overlooked a fifty-inch flat-screen LED TV with a blu-ray player and stereo system. Men and their gadgets, she mused.

           
In a swift motion, she took her bra and knickers off and rolled a condom—extra small—over the man’s underwhelming genitalia.
 
Then she lay there and thought of England as the man groaned his way into her tight, semi-wet passage.

           
He was on top of her, panting irregularly in her ear as he thrust in and out.

‘Oh shit!’ he groaned with pleasure.

The brunette stifled a yawn and thought of dogs having sex—the way the bitch just stands there whilst the dog is on top of her, drooling and doing all the work. Men and women aren’t so very different. Most humans act on impulse and instinct, don’t they?
 
Their behaviours aren’t so very different either. After all, her lover’s sweaty face resembled a bulldog’s as he continued to pant heavily on her.
 
But if he was a dog, then that must make her a bitch. A beautiful bitch, mind you—perhaps a Toy Poodle or a Shih Tzu.

           
She couldn’t wait for the man to finish.
 
She wanted to be off of him straight away.
 
His breath stank and his thrusts had no effect on her. (She moaned every now and then and scratched his back for good measure.)

           
Alas, she was patient.
 
The brunette is a very patient woman.
 
And she’s very understanding too.
 
Men are fickle, egocentric creatures, so she humours the poor chaps by stroking their delicate little egos.
 
She lets them talk her ear off about this and that.
 
She lets them fuck her.
 
She lets them drool and pant on her face.
 
She doesn’t mind.
 
And she would humour this bloke, make him think he was as virile as they come.
    

Besides which, he would have to finish eventually, surely!
 

           
The man’s quickened breath announced that he was about to come.
 
Our clever brunette braced herself for the final plunge. She clenched her muscles, tightened her legs around the man’s waist and let out a groan that implied that she, too, was coming.
 
The man shook like a leaf and yelped with a triumphant air on top of her whilst she made sexy little meowing sounds underneath him.
 
Her faux-orgasm looked and sounded quite convincing.
 
She should know.
 
She practiced a lot when she was on her own.

           
The woman smiled and resumed her seductress act after the man pulled out and rolled over to his side of the bed.
 
He lit a cigarette and shared it with her.

As she puffed on the cigarette, she wondered how she would get home. It was still raining outside and it would be difficult to hail a cab at two in the morning, and she was too tired to walk about in the rain and hail one.
 
Would he let her spend the night with him?
 
She glanced over at the man.
 
He had a cheesy, post-coital smile on his face.
 
The brunette supposed that he wouldn’t mind her staying at all. But did she want to spend the entire night with this bloke?
 
What if he wanted more sex? By God, she would rather walk home in the rain than be subjected to
that
again!

           
‘That was fucking great!’ he said, taking the fag from the brunette’s fingers. ‘Wasn’t it great, gorgeous?’

           
‘Er...yes, it was.’
 
As great as watching paint dry.

           
‘I can’t wait to do it again,’ he enthused.

           
The brunette sighed.
 
Running in the rain to find a cab at 2 A.M. didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

Blood drained from my face, perspiration breaking across my brow.
 
A numb, fuzzy sensation took over me.
 

What the hell was this?

 
It couldn’t be true.
 
My mind was playing tricks on me.
 
The brunette in the prologue wasn’t me.
 
Seton wouldn’t do that.
 
He wouldn’t be so cruel.

There was a brief synopsis on a separate page.
 
Swallowing back a lump of dread, I read it.

Meet Madeleine Faulkner.
 
She seems, by all accounts, to be a cold-hearted bitch.
 
She only engages in casual flings and treats the men in her life like they are nothing more than something you scrape off your shoe.
 
Our Madeleine is also an accomplished career woman.
 
She works for a small advertising agency that’s on the lookout for the Big Client that will take the company straight to the top.

           
Our Madeleine will be asked to court a potential big client, which means she will have to leave her ivory tower of catering to already established clients and do some actual work.
 
Her intelligent businesswoman façade has been put to the ultimate test.

           
What our clever little Madeleine doesn’t know is that the gentleman she will be courting, we’ll call him ‘S.,’ has much more than just a conventional business arrangement in mind.
 

           
S. will make her sell her body, and her soul, for his signature.
 
He also plans to beat the cold arrogance out of her—literally as well as metaphorically—and show her that she is nothing more than a sad, pathetic spinster in the making.

           
And in doing this, S. will send a message to all narcissistic, self-absorbed young ladies out there: Behave, or the big, bad S. will get you.

I snapped the laptop shut and pressed my hands against my stomach, fighting a wave of nausea.
 
I didn’t want to read anymore.
 

I was Madeleine Faulkner, the “coldhearted bitch” who was about to have her arrogance beaten out of her.
 
Except for the smoking and the whole sexy factor, and the fact that the story was set in London instead of Northampton, Madeleine was just like me.
 
I could even recall having similar thoughts during various casual dalliances.
 
He had me pegged, that much was certain.
 
I shuddered, clenching my fists and fighting the urge to run as far and as fast as I could from this place and from the man who had hurt me so much.
   

I crossed my arms over my chest and shivered violently, tears blurring my vision.
 
As horrible as it was, I wanted—needed—to know what other awful things Seton had written about me.
 
I was also curious about the story and how it would unfold.
 
Roughly, I wiped the tears away and opened up the computer.
 
The screen glared back to life, and I forced myself to read the damn novel all the way through.