the rules—and I don’t go out to dinner with submissives unless I’m eating off them. Secondly, and you seem to have a good memory so I’m not sure why it’s failing you now, it’s officially the weekend . And that means I don’t do subs, and I don’t change out of my pajamas.” That should shut the book on his argument. I realized, however, that the Unabomber was the one speaking, not me. Truthfully, I kind of wanted to take him up on his offer.
So did Bizzy.
“I didn’t forget about your weekend rules when it comes to flannel,” he said, smirking. “That’s why I brought this.”
William unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a cocktail dress. A couture, adorable, little black flannel cocktail dress.
“One of my friends is a fashion designer, and I told him what I needed, so he whipped up this little number. I think it fits your weekend-worthy criteria—it’s completely flannel and jersey, and he says it’s comfortable enough to wear to bed. The only problem is,” he said, grinning, “I think you’ll have to change out of your slippers.”
Could her jaw drop lower? asked gravity. Yes, why, yes it could. I put my hand under my chin and demurely brought it back to my face.
He walked slowly closer to me, and placed the dress in my immobile hands. “I’ll pick you up around six,” he said softly, spun on one heel, and walked out my door.
Then I promptly stabbed my Unabomber in the throat and got ready for my hot date.
CHAPTER TEN
Cerise
If I had roller skates on, you could call me Sex on Wheels. Damn, I looked fine in this little dress. I never thought flannel, the most unsexy and innocuous fabric of all time, could cling this well to my small curves and still suck in the parts of me that need sucking in. It was a matte black halter dress with sort of crisscrossed ruching along the torso that fell into a swishy skirt that stopped at my knees. I paired it with maroon pumps for effect. I wondered if this fashion designer was that Steve fellow his niece is married to. Then again, I wondered if Steve actually existed outside of the vampire journals.
I heard the purr of the car outside my door, so I slicked on some lipstick—MAC’s Full Bodied, a nice wine color, and walked out the door. The air was warm, finally, considering this had been the coolest spring in New Hampshire history. The sun was just starting to turn the sky pink, and I somehow knew tonight would be amazing. The inner cynic inside me had calmed, soothed by the warmth of the air and the sun.
William was standing at the doorstep with a long, blood-red calla lily. He was wearing a suit—surprisingly well fitted, with a trendy plaid handkerchief artfully folded into the pocket.
“You look breathtaking,” he said, taking my hand. He wasn’t timid in his touch. Usually, he recoils somewhat, perhaps ashamed of his cool complexion, but I slipped my hand into his and squeezed in consent. He smiled and opened the car door for me.
For a few minutes, we drove in relative silence, aside from the classical music pouring out of the car’s sound system. Piano, guitar, and even some lilting flute in the background. All perfectly arranged.
“What is this?” I asked about the tune. “Can’t be another original composition,” I said, immediately embarrassed by my assertion. I felt hesitant tonight. I didn’t know how to talk to him in this capacity. Date capacity. Not spanking or role-playing or post-coital dining.
“Yes, it is. I play many instruments, and we have a recording studio in the basement. I use it frequently, and Breanna loves to bring in friends for some high-tech karaoke sometimes,” he said, looking over at me for far too long. Please keep your eyes on the road, William . “I actually composed it after our talk. The only way I could express what I was feeling was through music, so I recorded it for you to hear.”
I listened to the melody. It thrummed in my ears, demanding to be heard. It was more forceful than
So did Bizzy.
“I didn’t forget about your weekend rules when it comes to flannel,” he said, smirking. “That’s why I brought this.”
William unzipped the garment bag and pulled out a cocktail dress. A couture, adorable, little black flannel cocktail dress.
“One of my friends is a fashion designer, and I told him what I needed, so he whipped up this little number. I think it fits your weekend-worthy criteria—it’s completely flannel and jersey, and he says it’s comfortable enough to wear to bed. The only problem is,” he said, grinning, “I think you’ll have to change out of your slippers.”
Could her jaw drop lower? asked gravity. Yes, why, yes it could. I put my hand under my chin and demurely brought it back to my face.
He walked slowly closer to me, and placed the dress in my immobile hands. “I’ll pick you up around six,” he said softly, spun on one heel, and walked out my door.
Then I promptly stabbed my Unabomber in the throat and got ready for my hot date.
CHAPTER TEN
Cerise
If I had roller skates on, you could call me Sex on Wheels. Damn, I looked fine in this little dress. I never thought flannel, the most unsexy and innocuous fabric of all time, could cling this well to my small curves and still suck in the parts of me that need sucking in. It was a matte black halter dress with sort of crisscrossed ruching along the torso that fell into a swishy skirt that stopped at my knees. I paired it with maroon pumps for effect. I wondered if this fashion designer was that Steve fellow his niece is married to. Then again, I wondered if Steve actually existed outside of the vampire journals.
I heard the purr of the car outside my door, so I slicked on some lipstick—MAC’s Full Bodied, a nice wine color, and walked out the door. The air was warm, finally, considering this had been the coolest spring in New Hampshire history. The sun was just starting to turn the sky pink, and I somehow knew tonight would be amazing. The inner cynic inside me had calmed, soothed by the warmth of the air and the sun.
William was standing at the doorstep with a long, blood-red calla lily. He was wearing a suit—surprisingly well fitted, with a trendy plaid handkerchief artfully folded into the pocket.
“You look breathtaking,” he said, taking my hand. He wasn’t timid in his touch. Usually, he recoils somewhat, perhaps ashamed of his cool complexion, but I slipped my hand into his and squeezed in consent. He smiled and opened the car door for me.
For a few minutes, we drove in relative silence, aside from the classical music pouring out of the car’s sound system. Piano, guitar, and even some lilting flute in the background. All perfectly arranged.
“What is this?” I asked about the tune. “Can’t be another original composition,” I said, immediately embarrassed by my assertion. I felt hesitant tonight. I didn’t know how to talk to him in this capacity. Date capacity. Not spanking or role-playing or post-coital dining.
“Yes, it is. I play many instruments, and we have a recording studio in the basement. I use it frequently, and Breanna loves to bring in friends for some high-tech karaoke sometimes,” he said, looking over at me for far too long. Please keep your eyes on the road, William . “I actually composed it after our talk. The only way I could express what I was feeling was through music, so I recorded it for you to hear.”
I listened to the melody. It thrummed in my ears, demanding to be heard. It was more forceful than
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