by Lila Dubois
Cheryl grinned and started to walk toward her, but Jenny, who hadn’t noticed their byplay, snagged Cheryl’s arm, dragging both her and Christiana to the door. “Come on, you two, I want to get my people-watching game on.”
Vivienne looked at the dressing room door as it closed behind them. While she’d been watching the byplay, the room had emptied. There were a few other subs still hanging around, all of them dressed. Vivienne was probably one of the last to arrive.
Rather than make herself hurry, she padded barefoot to the bar, accepted a glass of champagne, and then took her time stripping out of her daytime clothes. She withdrew the garment bag and hooked it over the open locker door.
Naked, champagne glass in hand, she stepped back and eyed the outfit she’d chosen for tonight. She liked to think of it as formal fet wear. Black, high-waisted shorts were custom fit by her personal tailor and made of leather. They fastened with a small zipper at the back, and were cut high on her ass and hips, showing off the bottom of each ass cheek. With those she wore a strapless, black satin, full-coverage bra, over which she layered an off-the-shoulder lace shirt, long enough to cover the top inch of the leather shorts. The shirt had sleeves that covered her upper arms from shoulder to elbow, and the lace was studded with lines of jet beads.
Vivienne bent forward, adjusting her breasts to better fill the bra, then straightened. With these three pieces on, it had the effect of a leather and lace off-the-shoulder bodysuit or leotard. It was certainly sexy, and looked as expensive as it had been, but there was still one piece, her favorite piece, to go.
She unclipped the heavy satin overskirt from the hanger. The skirt was a bit longer than floor length, with a slight train. Like a traditional overskirt, it didn’t cover her all the way around. Vivienne unbuckled the delicate beaded belt, slipped it around her waist and buckled it in place. An overskirt attached to a belt had briefly been popular in the 1950s, and the combination of floor-length formal overskirt with tight leather and lace was something she’d been wanting to try forever.
The heavy satin was cold, and she shivered as it settled against her ass and hips. The fabric of the overskirt stopped at her hipbones, leaving a nearly foot-wide gap that exposed her legs and the front of the panties. Edmund Normandy, current creative fashion lead at Beauvalot, a juggernaut luxury apparel, fragrance and cosmetics company, had designed it for her. The in-house seamstresses at Beauvalot’s Paris fashion house had made it, and then Edmund—who was also the only member of her family she was close to—had sent it over with a note asking if he could expect to see photos of her wearing it. It was his way of asking her if the skirt was for some public appearance or for her personal needs. She’d let him know that he would not, and forced herself not to think about the fact that her family knew far too much about her sexual proclivities.
When she found someone to play with her tonight, he’d get to unwrap her layer by layer. She might need, and crave, the pain and freedom of submission, but she also knew how to tell a man, without saying a word, exactly how much he should cherish and appreciate her.
There were a pair of black lace stiletto booties she’d chosen to go with the outfit, but she’d been on her feet more than she’d planned today, and the idea of putting shoes on again made her want to cry. She’d go barefoot, which was hardly out of character for submissives.
Vivienne glided across the dressing room to the wall of vanities, her small bag of cosmetics in hand, loving the way the skirt felt as she moved. She felt a bit like Audrey Hepburn wearing the white Givenchy gown from Sabrina.
By the time she’d taken down her hair, darkened her eye makeup, and applied a Bordeaux-colored lip stain, she was the last person left in the dressing room, besides the bartender and a few attendants who were no doubt on hand to tighten corsets.
With her dark hair spilling around her otherwise bare shoulders, Vivienne made her way to the fifth floor. Attendants—handsome, silent men wearing tuxedos—stood at the top of the grand staircase, holding the handles of a set of double doors.
Vivienne paused, just long enough make sure she was ready—to ensure her walls were in place. As much as she desperately wanted to submit, needed the sweet release and blessed internal quiet that she could only find in a good scene, she was Vivienne Deschamps, and she could never forget that.
She nodded to the attendants, who opened the doors. Vivienne mounted the final steps and swept into the ballroom.
CHAPTER 3
“A re you sure you wouldn’t prefer to have this conversation later?” James asked him.
They were standing in the large ballroom that had been converted into a dungeon for the event. People milled around them. James was waiting for Christiana, and hadn’t gone far from the door so he’d see her when she walked in.
Solomon scrubbed a hand over his face. He was tired and this conversation was exactly as fucked as he’d worried it would be. “If you want privacy, let’s go back to the locker room.”
“I will not.” James’s words and tone were both polite, but the “fuck you” was there, if you knew British people well enough to read between the lines.
“If you really want to stay up here, we could to go outside on the balcony, and—” Solomon started.
James cleared his throat, cutting Solomon off. “That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? A rainy night in Paris would be a good backdrop for this asinine conversation.”
Solomon opened his mouth, then closed it. That was damn near what he’d been thinking earlier, and having James say it out loud only pissed Solomon off more.
“Listen, you fucker. I came here as your friend to stop you from making a mistake.”
“What mistake?” a female voice asked.
Christiana glided up to James. She was barefoot and lovely, with straight dark hair framing her face. She wore a cream-colored evening gown, and when James slid his hand around her waist, her nipples hardened visibly.
James pulled her to him and kissed her softly. “You look lovely, my sweet.”
“Thank you for the dress, Sir. Also, who should I ask about the glass ceiling? Is that original to this building? When was it built? A domed glass ceiling would have been an engineering feat even seventy years ago.”
Solomon felt himself grin. Damn it, he liked Christiana. And he even liked her for James.
All the more reason he had to get James to listen.
James raised one eyebrow. “Sir?”
Christiana blinked, focusing on James, then cleared her throat. “Sorry, but I’m not there yet.”
“Where?” Solomon asked.
“Do you mind?” James glared at him, but in a polite British way.
“Hi, Solomon,” Christiana said. “Do you know about the…okay, okay, I’ll look up the building stuff later.” She leaned into James, while looking at Solomon. “I’m not in subspace yet.” As she spoke, her attention drifted. She looked critically at the walls and ceiling.
Solomon smiled again. He couldn’t help it. He really did like Christiana, who had an honest-to-god job as a structural engineer. Christiana, and his respect for her, were the primary reasons he’d come to this miserable city.
“Ah, well, my sweet, you may have a few more minutes to transition, but no more than that.” James’s voice had deepened. He hooked a finger in the small ring at the front of the leather collar Christiana wore and gave it at tug.
She turned to face James, and the way her eyes widened for a moment before her lids lowered told Solomon that she was no longer thinking about the building.
“Yes, Master,” she murmured.
James made a pleased noise and pulled her back against his side, his hand settling on her hip. “Now, Solomon, what is it you were saying?”
Solomon looked pointedly at Christiana, whose head rested on James’s shoulder.
“You can speak freely in front of her. I have no secrets from Christiana.”
Maybe James thought that would shut Solomon down, that he wouldn’t say anything in front of the w
oman James was, stupidly, falling in love with. It wouldn’t, but at the same time, he didn’t want to hurt her.
“I came here to stop you from, uh, falling in love.”
Christiana looked up, frowning. “With me?”
“Too late,” James said cheerfully. “I’m already in love with her.”
“Is this one of those things like in movies where your friends think I’m too poor for you to marry?” Christiana asked. “Like in Crazy Rich Asians?” She seemed rather delighted at that idea.
“No, it has nothing to do with anyone being poor. I like you. I like both of you.” Solomon had known coming tonight that this was a fucking stupid idea. It was going even worse than he’d imagined. He’d figured James would pop him in the nose, and the big challenge would be not to hit James back, but calmly explain to the other man how not to fuck up his life. James’s attitude of almost patronizing amusement was actually worse than a broken nose. “But, uh, falling in love is a bad idea,” Solomon finished lamely.
Christiana shifted, glancing up at James. The first hint of a frown made a line between her brows. James, who’d been looking at Solomon with an expression that wavered between bemused and pitying, looked down at his lover.
Whatever James saw in Christiana’s face, and Solomon could guess—doubt, anxiety—made the other man’s head whip around. He stared hard at Solomon.
Maybe Solomon was still going to get that broken nose.
“Walk away, and I’ll try to pretend this conversation never happened,” James said lowly.
“I’m not trying to hurt or insult your submissive.” Solomon wanted to bash his head against one of the marble columns that supported the soaring roof. A portion of the roof was a half-dome of glass. He understood why that fascinated Christiana. It was something that would have been ridiculously extravagant when the building was first constructed. And the half a dozen massive chandeliers would have taken hundreds of expensive candles to light. Even now that they had electric bulbs, the crystals magnifying and scattering the light gave the room a feel of golden opulence.
He fucking hated Paris.
“You have insulted her, and I do not allow anyone to speak to her that way. Walk away, Solomon.”
“Wait, I still want to know why you shouldn’t fall in love with me.” Christiana was back to looking puzzled. She was unlike any woman James had ever brought to one of Solomon’s parties before. She’d been a novice submissive, but brave, working through each challenge James put in front of her. Solomon had watched them, assessing their relationship because he had to. They’d been in his dungeon, and that meant the safety of every submissive there was his responsibility. He’d been worried James would push her too far too fast.
Instead what he’d seen was two people hurtling headlong toward a powerful, wonderful, fulfilling BDSM relationship.
Then James had fucked it up and fallen in love with her.
“Don’t engage with him,” James told her.
Christiana’s eyebrows rose. “You’re…telling me who I can and can’t talk to?”
Solomon put his fist over his mouth and fake coughed. “Abort.”
Christiana snorted in amusement.
James looked exasperated, but when he turned his head to look down at Christiana, still at his side, within the circle of his arm though no longer plastered against him, that expression softened. He looked…besotted.
“That,” Solomon said. “Don’t do that.”
“Have you perhaps had a seizure? Stroke?” James asked.
“Don’t fall in love with your submissive.” He finally got the words out, and, thankfully, both Christiana and James were paying attention.
“You think people in BDSM relationships shouldn’t be in love?” Christiana asked.
“I think they shouldn’t fall in love, because people in love want to do stupid shit like be boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“So I can’t be his girlfriend?”
“You are more than my girlfriend.” James sounded pained.
She reached up and touched his cheek. “Time. We just need time.”
Maybe he needed to try another approach. “Christiana, are you submissive outside of the bedroom?” Solomon asked.
“You will not ask my submissive such personal things.”
“That seems like a dumb thing to say, since he’s seen me naked and also you let him touch me the first time I met him,” Christiana pointed out.
“That was the first and last time another man will touch you,” James declared.
“Wait, what?” Now Christiana sounded disappointed. “No more blindfolded stranger fondling?”
James’s shoulders relaxed. “No, of course not. I know how much you enjoy that, my sweet.”
“Talking to the two of you is like herding cats.”
James sighed. “I’m afraid we won’t get rid of him until we hear him out.”
“I want to know why he thinks you shouldn’t date me.”
James led Christiana toward the far end of the long rectangular ballroom, where the bar was. The center of the room, beneath the skylight, was free of the BDSM equipment and furniture that was scattered around the edges of the room.
Solomon trailed after them, aware of eyes on him. A few people nodded his way, and he ignored them.
Was it rude? Yes.
Did he care? No.
James got Christiana a glass of champagne, himself a glass of red wine. Solomon snagged James’s glass when it was delivered, forcing the other man to place his order a second time. Once everyone had a drink, James once more led their little trio, this time towards a seating area beside the bar.
James sank into an armchair. Christiana hesitated, looking at the large floor pillow beside the chair, then to Solomon and back.
James patted his lap. “You sit on my lap while we talk. I don’t want you feeling limited, or that you shouldn’t speak, and I think you would feel both if you were on the floor.”
“Herding. Cats.” Solomon took a sip.
James made a rude gesture as he guided Christiana down onto his lap.
Solomon sat across from them and stared at the couple.
Pity. He pitied them, because they were in the calm before the storm. They had no idea what would happen if they stayed their current course.
Solomon set the wine glass down on the low wooden table between the chairs. Eyebolts were sunk into the wooden sides and legs, offering a variety of restraint points for a submissive who sat or knelt on top.
“You said you like both of us?” Christiana asked.
That was a good place to start. Compliment them, particularly her. “Yes. I’ve put up with James for years—”
“Always so gracious.”
“—and I genuinely like you,” he told Christiana.
She looked at his face, her attention never once shifting to his scar. He met and held her gaze, leaning forward a little. His expression hardened, his body language powerful and commanding.
Christiana dropped her gaze to his knees.
Solomon winced. He hadn’t even thought about it—she was a submissive in a BDSM club, and the part of him that needed to be in control, needed to be a Dom, had taken over. With nothing more than a look and a bit of body language he’d asserted his dominance over her.
James had seen it too. He looked at Solomon, his gaze hard. Solomon held up his hands in apology and sat back. James hooked a finger in Christiana’s collar and pulled her down for a kiss. As he did, his fingers went to the tie on her right shoulder, freeing the knot there.
“Kneel,” James commanded when he ended the kiss.
Christiana slid off his lap onto the pillow beside the chair. She knelt with her legs curled to the side, a posture that would allow her to be comfortable for a longer period of time than if she were sitting back on her heels. James stroked her cheek with the back of two fingers. She turned into it, kissing his wrist.
Solomon had to look away.
“If you’re not comfortable asking Solomon
something, you ask me, and I will speak for both of us. However, you are more than welcome to speak to him directly.”
“Yes, Master,” she murmured.
James flicked at the fabric he’d untied. The bodice of the dress slid a few inches, revealing the upper curve of one breast. Christiana let out a little sigh of contentment.
In that moment Solomon knew he’d been right to come here.
“I hate Paris.” That got both of their attention. James glanced at him and frowned, while Christiana looked confused. “I’m telling you that so you know how important it was for me to talk to you.” He’d only been planning to talk to James, but maybe this worked better.
“You could have called.”
Solomon shook his head. “This is an in-person conversation. You would have already hung up on me and blocked my number.”
“True.”
“I would never hurt him,” Christana said softly. “I know he’s your friend, but I won’t hurt him.”
“That’s not something anyone can promise.” Solomon’s words hung in the air.
“Paris,” James said slowly, frowning as if he were trying to remember something.
Shit. He shouldn’t have said anything. He hadn’t known James back then, but he’d probably heard the story.
Solomon ignored him. “What you two have, as master and submissive, is rare. It’s rare, hard to find, and precious. Trust me, I know. I’ve been in, and seen, plenty of BDSM relationships.”
Christiana smiled sadly. “I thought I could find what I had with James with any Dom—”
James growled.
“—and uh, I was wrong,” Christiana hurriedly finished.
“When it’s done right, a power exchange, a BDSM relationship, it can keep you sane. It can make you whole.”
“I agree,” James said. “But I sense a ‘but’.”
“But,” Solomon said softly. “You can’t mix BDSM and a vanilla relationship.”
Christiana blinked. “That’s it? That’s why you think we shouldn’t date?”
