The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel (5 page)

And away we go, I thought as we headed to Seton’s house, where I would embark upon the beginning of what I hoped would be a very stimulating evening.

Chapter Three

Seton’s residence was within the town square’s limit.  It was a beautiful colonial house several streets above Smith College.  His driver—a beefy, olive-skinned man in his late forties named George—dropped me off at the entrance and instructed me to use the side door.  I rolled my eyes.  What was the deal about the side door?
 
Well, I definitely intended to find out.

The side door opened before I knocked.  Seton had removed his jacket and tie.
 
His shirtsleeves were pushed up to his elbows, the top buttons on his shirt were undone, and his dark hair was slightly disheveled.
 
He looked relaxed, and very appealing.
 
His gaze skimmed my leather dress, a glint of lustful approval flickering in his eyes.

“Just in time,” he said.  “Do come in.”

I walked into the house, my heels clicking in the marble-tiled floor, Seton close behind me.
 
He pressed a hand against my back, his fingers seeming to burn against my spine, and I fought the urge to quiver at his smoldering touch.
 
I tried to walk sexily and seductively to get in the mood for the illicit fantasy role play—if that’s what it was—but the seven inch heels made my knees almost buckle, and I felt like a total idiot. 
I glanced at Seton over my shoulder and saw a
musement flit across his face.
 
He’d seen my sorry-ass attempt at sexiness. 

I tore my gaze away from his and tried to walk as normally as possible—a difficult chore in itself.
 
The dress was hurting me around the waist and it was very difficult to breathe or walk in it.
 
The super high heels made things worse.
 

My discomfort must’ve been obvious to Seton because he said, “Don’t worry.  You won’t be wearing it for very long.”
 
His voice was little more than a throaty purr.
 
The sensual promise in his words lit tiny fires within me, making me momentarily forget about my discomfort.

We crossed over a long corridor and arrived in a rather large, luxurious kitchen full of titanium appliances and cherry wood furniture.  There were no pictures on the walls, no personal items on the counters, or indeed anything that would make the place look like it had been lived in.  It had the kind of minimalist look that most bachelors seem to go for nowadays, but the lack of homely details didn’t minimize its splendor.  It was beautiful—masculine and elegant, just like its owner.
 
 

Seton moved around the kitchen with ease.  He pored both of us a glass of red wine and, carrying two ready-made plates full of spaghetti and meat sauce, walked to the large, round kitchen table set for two. 

“The salad is in the fridge.  Get it for me,” he asked me.
 
More like ordered me. 

Not for the first time, I was taken aback by his imperious nature, but I did as he asked.  Carrying the large bowl of salad to the table, I sat down and asked him what had been on my mind since arriving at the house.

“Why were you so adamant about me knocking on the side door instead of the front one?”

He gave me a quick sidelong glance as he picked up two wooden spoons and stirred the salad.  “Isn’t it obvious?”

I raised an eyebrow.  “I wouldn’t be asking you if it were.”       

He nodded, his face expressionless, and served salad into two large plates.  “Very well.  I am new in this neighborhood and wish to maintain a low profile.  I don’t want my neighbors to see that I’ve welcomed a whore into my house.”

My body stiffened.  I stared at him, not sure I’d heard him correctly.
 
Not wanting to believe I’d heard him correctly.
 

Seton cast me an amused glance, his mouth curving into a devilish smile.  His words had been a dare—a blatant attempt to provoke a reaction—and the bastard succeeded.
 
Suddenly angry, I leaped out of my chair and made to leave the house.

“Sit down, Marjorie!” he shouted. 

His voice startled me.  I didn’t know why his unpredictable nature disconcerted me so much, or why it turned me on just as much, but it did, and I hated myself for feeling a spark of arousal instead of outrage at that moment.  But I refused to obey him like I’d done before.  I spun back to him and shot him a glare. 

“I’m not staying here if you’re going to insult me,” I bit out.  “I’m not a whore.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I am not!”

“You’re
my
whore,” he stated darkly.

“I am nobody’s whore!  I thought I made that clear to you.”

He tightened his jaw and glared at the set up table in front of him.
 
“You know more or less what I want from you, but if you want me to put it into very simple terms, then I shall.”
 
He stirred the lettuce violently in the salad bowl and continued.
 
“I may well sign with Bookends AtoZ, but in exchange I’ve asked for your sexual favors.
 
But you already know that, and the fact that you’re here, dressed like that, means that you’ve agreed to do it, or at least you’re about to, after hearing my full proposal.
 
So, yes, Miss Fordham, tonight, you are a whore.  Or rather, you are
my
whore.”
 
His gaze met mine and the coldness there made me shudder.
 
“You’ve tried my patience for the second and last time today.
 
You’re here to obey orders.
 
If you’re as offended as you say then you’re free to leave.
 
Otherwise stop with this nonsense and sit down.”

I was stunned into silence.  I knew what he’d wanted from me, but the reality of the situation was nevertheless disconcerting.  He wanted me to play the part of a corporate whore—one so desperate to land a client that she was willing to become said client’s plaything for the night.  The clothes I wore implied that I was no better than a streetwalker.
 
I hated to admit it, but he was right.
 
I wasn’t playing a part, was I?
 
It was the truth.
 
I wanted Bookends to publish his next book, and I’d agreed to dress up this way for him, expecting sex in exchange for his manuscript and nothing more—or so he thought.
 
He had no way of knowing that I was here more out of desire for him than anything else.
 
But there was no way I was going to tell him that.
 
There was no way I was going to make myself that vulnerable to him or any other man.
 
So, he was free to think what he wished.
 

I sat back at the table, defeated. 

Seton grinned, pleased.  “That’s my girl.”

We ate our dinner in silence.  I only spoke to compliment him on the dish and to ask if he’d cooked it himself.  He nodded without looking at me and we continued to eat without saying a word.

We were finishing our coffees and dessert—chocolate mousse—when Seton’s lustful eyes feasted upon me for the second time that night.  His eyes swept through my dress and lingered on my breasts, his pupils dazzling with sexual admiration.
 

“You look so fucking sexy dressed like that,” he drawled seductively.
 
“And your hair…I’m glad you’ve left it loose.
 
You really look like a whore.
 
I can’t wait to have you, my pet.”

I felt my cheeks flaming red.  I said nothing and took a sip of coffee, facing the other way.

“Look at me, Marjorie,” he said.

I turned shy eyes to him, not wanting to show how his inspection of me was turning me on, but unable to conceal my reaction altogether.

“I want you to listen to my full proposal.”
 
He finished his coffee, then looked at me with blank, unreadable eyes.
 
“I haven’t made up my mind over whether to write for Bookends AtoZ or do what my agent says and sign with a New York publisher.
 
No doubt that a bidding war would ensue over me, but I’m not interested in that at the moment.
 
As I’m sure you’ve noticed, I’m not accustomed to being told what to do, and I don’t let others influence me on my decisions.
 
It is something my agent has learned to tolerate about me, and it is something you’ve encountered and shall continue to encounter with me.
 
I will let you court me for as long as I work on my new book.
 
You will also do things for me, sexual things, while you court me.
 
As I said before, it amuses me to see how far you would go just to get me to write for you.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but one look into the uncompromising green depths of his eyes made me close it again.

He went on.
 
“For as long as it takes, you will do everything I tell you to do, you will wear everything I demand of you, no ifs or buts.
 
You will receive messages from me, which will instruct you on what to do.
 
These messages will come at any given time, whenever I feel like using you.
 
I don’t care how uncomfortable wearing the garments or obeying my orders may be to you.
 
You will obey orders at all times.”
 
He cleared his throat.
 
“I practice bondage and I’m quite domineering, which means that I may choose to do to you what I like during unexpected moments.
 
If my demands become unbearable, you are, of course, entitled to cease our agreement by using a Safe Word.
 
You ever heard of a Safe Word?”

Swallowing hard, I nodded.

“Good.
 
You may choose whichever Safe Word you like, but more on that at another time.
 
I have thought of experimenting with you tonight just to see if you’ll be comfortable with our arrangement—that’s why I had you dress up like a whore.
 
I wanted to see not only if you’d do it, but if you’d feel comfortable enough to go along with playing the role of being my tart.”
 
His green gaze roamed slowly over my leather-clad body, a dimpled smile curving his luscious lips.
 
“I’d say that, aside from that ridiculous display of indignation earlier, you are doing quite well thus far.”

His words made me blush, and aroused me beyond belief.
 
My pussy pulsed just listening to Seton’s velvety tones as he described the terms and conditions of our “agreement.”
 
Well, well.
 
So he
was
a Dom.
 
He was precisely what I had longed for.
 
I smiled inwardly, so happy I felt like leaping up and dancing.
 
I couldn’t wait to spend the night with this gorgeous Dom who wanted me.
 
And I wanted him.
 
Now.

As if reading my thoughts, Seton flashed me a wolfish grin and said, “Shall we move to the sitting room?”

I’d rather move to your bedroom.
 

I cleared my throat and nodded.
 
I could wait a little while longer to jump his bones.
 
The night was still young.
 

Seton watched me as I tottered along uncomfortably in my heels.
 
He had the look of a buyer at a slave market.
 
Under normal circumstances, the lascivious look on his face would have offended me, but now it just aroused me.
 

He opened a room to reveal a foyer with a large staircase, the room’s subdued lighting casting a faint glow across the hallway.
 
When we crossed over to the sitting room, I stopped and gasped.
 

His walls had top to bottom built-in cherry wood bookshelves filled with every book imaginable.
 
Seton had quite an impressive library—everything from Dickens to Hemingway, from Plato to
Nietzsche, from Leo Tolstoy to Boris Pasternak, from the Marquis de Sade to Pauline Reage and Anais Nin.
 
His collection was every bibliophile’s wet dream.