The Dom of My Dreams: A BDSM Novel

by M. F. Sinclair

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like a big deal.”

  “It is.”

  Having noticed that he had shifted the conversation to a topic in which he played no part, Mitch checked his watch and made to stand up. “All right, babe,” he said, taking one last sip of his coffee. “Gotta go. Thanks for listening. Hope we can still be friends, eh?”

  I smiled at him. “Absolutely.”

  “Friends with benefits?” he asked playfully.

  I laughed. Good ol’ Mitch. “That was exactly what we were before. Now we’ll be friends without the benefits.”

  He flashed me a wide grin. “Ah, well, can’t blame a guy for trying. If I can’t contact any of my girls tonight, I’ll spend another night alone, drinking myself to an early grave.”

  “You’d find any excuse to get drunk.”

  “Hey, I’m heartbroken, remember? It’s my pity party and I’ll get hammered if I want to.”

  I was up and ready to go when in swooped David J. Seton, looking scrumptious in an immaculately tailored dark suit. He reached the front register without sparing me a glance. Hmm. Maybe he hadn’t seen me.

  A surge of excitement stirred within me at the sight of him. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him, something that hadn’t escaped Mitch’s attention.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “He’s, uh, a new client,” I stuttered as I absently ran shaky fingers through my hair and stared openly at the gorgeous man ordering coffee.

  I wasn’t the only one looking. Sighs and stares—from both men and women—followed in his wake, and everyone fixed their eyes on the tall, dark, gorgeous and impeccably dressed stranger flirting with one of the female baristas, oblivious of the attention he was getting.

  Eager, I waited for him to get his morning caffeine fix. I had wanted to see him this morning and my dream had come true! I had no idea if I should introduce him to Mitch, or if he’d introduce himself, or if he’d want to be introduced, but since he enjoyed taking the initiative in everything, I would let him make that choice.

  He took his coffee, paid the cashier, left a big tip, and turned toward me. His lake-water green eyes glanced my way, a blank expression plastered across his beautiful face. Nervous, I wrapped my arms across my chest, smiled at him and was about to utter a good morning when he strode right by me and went straight to the front door, treating me as if I were nothing more than a passing stranger among the many. Without a word of explanation, not a look, nor a backward glance, he rushed out of the coffee shop.

  I couldn’t move, just stood there, my smile frozen into place. What had just happened? Why didn’t he stop and say hello? Was he angry at me? Had I done something wrong? Had he forgotten me already?

  I turned to Mitch. He was staring at me, a puzzled expression passing over his features. “I thought you said you knew him.”

  Embarrassed, I shrugged and toyed with the trackball on my BlackBerry. “I do know him. He was probably in a hurry or something.”

  “Yeah,” Mitch said, not convinced. “Probably.”

  ***

  Did he see me or didn’t he? I asked myself as I rushed to the office. Yes, he saw me. He definitely saw me. Our eyes met for a moment. But if he saw me, why the hell didn’t he stop and talk to me?

  My mind raced into overdrive as I gathered my messages from Rosie, the front desk receptionist-slash-assistant, and closed the door to my office. I quickly flipped through the messages. None of them was from Seton. Sighing, I stripped off my cashmere sweater, plopped down on my chair, switched on my computer and obsessed about my morning encounter with Seton.

  Why oh why did he ignore me? Had I been so terrible the night before that he’d decided I wasn’t worth his time? Had I been too submissive? Was I not challenging enough for him? I had no idea why he ignored me. All I knew was that I didn’t like it. What’s more, I didn’t like the way it made me feel. I felt clingy. And I wasn’t clingy. I didn’t do clingy. Clinginess was not a personality trait I possessed. I was damn proud of my forthrightness when it came to men. Sex without strings had always been my M.O.. Fucking someone and not expecting anything in return made me smarter than 99.9% of the female population, those pathetic souls who went out on dates, hoping they’d found The One, only to be disappointed yet again when the post-date phone call never came. I worshipped characters like Samantha Jones from Sex and the City, and I strove to emulate her care-free ways. Fuck ’em and leave ’em. That was my motto. Just ask any of my exes.

  I wasn’t promiscuous, mind you. I could count the amount of exploits I’d had with one hand. But they had all been passing flings, and that was just the way I’d wanted them to be. I enjoyed my independence. I liked who I was and I would never change, especially not for some guy. So, if Mr. I’m-Too-Good-to-Stop-and-Say-Hello didn’t feel like greeting me in public, then so be it.

  But…maybe he didn’t want to talk to me in front of Mitch. As a bestselling author living in a small city, he would want to maintain a low profile. He probably didn’t want the hassle of having to introduce himself to a complete stranger. Yes, I thought, sighing with relief, that’s probably it. He wishes to maintain his privacy, and I should respect his wishes.

  In a show of goodwill, I decided to send him an e-mail. I rummaged through my handbag until I found the card he gave me during our lunch meeting yesterday—the one with his home and e-mail address and cell phone number written on it—and typed in his e-mail addy on my Bookends account. My message was discreet, in case third parties, namely Alfred, read this stuff.

  Dear Mr. Seton,

  I hope this e-mail finds you well. I’d like to thank you for our meeting yesterday. It was very…enlightening. It was also nice to see you this morning at the coffee shop. The young man you saw me with was Mr. Mitchell Briars, one of Bookends’ many talented authors. Perhaps you’d like to be introduced to him some time? I’m certain that he’ll be able to give you a more unbiased opinion about us. Anyway, I look forward to hearing from you soon. And I hope to be able to get my hands on your manuscript in the not-so-distant future. Do not hesitate to contact me if you have any questions. You can call, e-mail or text me any time. Take care.

  —Marjorie Fordham

  I took a couple of deep breaths before clicking on “Send.” There. Mission accomplished. All I had to do now was wait for his reply. I tackled the pile of unfinished work sitting on my desk to keep myself busy for the time being.

  There was a slight knock on my door before Magda, one of Bookends’ most talented editors, sauntered in, a coffee mug in one hand and a file folder in the other. “Got a minute?” she asked.

  I smiled and motioned her to come in.

  “I’m supposed to be checking these out,” she said, indicating the folder in her hand. “But I’ve had it up to here with reading depressing crap from suicidal poets. So, could you work with them instead?” She dumped the file folder on my desk before I could respond. Then she glanced around my office before sitting on the chair across from me. “I thought our meal ticket would be here.”

  I laughed and looked up from my computer screen. “No. I met him yesterday for drinks though.”

  “And?” she asked, shifting in her chair. “How’s he like? You know he’s got our future in his hands, something Alfred doesn’t get tired of reminding us.”

  I shrugged in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. “He’s…interesting.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Interesting?”

  “Yeah, he’s…he’s a very forthright person. He went straight to the point. No bullshit. He wants me to court him while he writes his new book.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  I shrugged again. “Who knows? I don’t know if he’s ever worked under a deadline. I assume he has. But now that he’s a free man, all bets are off. We’ll just have to wait until he sees fit.”

  Magda nodded while she blew into her coffee mug and took a tentative sip.

  “So, how’s home life?” I asked, changing the subjec
t. I was trying very hard not to think about Seton, and talking about him was counterproductive.

  Magda grimaced and waved a hand at me as if she were swatting an annoying mosquito. “My mother’s coming over this weekend.”

  “Again?”

  She shook her head in annoyance, her short, blonde, Shirley Temple-like curls bouncing about her head. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? And here I thought I had finally gotten rid of her, that she’d leave me alone now that I’m married, but nooooooo! That was only the beginning.”

  I nodded sympathetically as we headed to the kitchenette to see if Rosie had brought in the morning muffins and bagels.

  Magda Jones was my good friend at Bookends AtoZ after Jeremy and, in some ways, Alfred Williams. She was a lovable heavyset woman with crinkly gray eyes and adorable dimples on her round cheeks. She was thirty-seven years old, recently married to an equally heavyset man named Tom. She was a hoot, especially when Jeremy was around. She used to have a crush on Jer. She loved his dark and handsome looks that reminded us all of Will from Will and Grace. She eventually got over her crush after she realized that Jeremy wouldn’t be seeing the error of his homosexual ways and turn straight any time soon. Now she saw him only as a friend, a friend she spent a lot of time bickering with, for they hardly ever agreed on anything. She also hated that Jeremy made fun of her husband’s name. His name was Tom Jones, and Magda grimaced whenever Jeremy hummed “It’s Not Unusual” at the water cooler. “I can’t believe I used to have a crush on that asshole,” she’d complained to me one time.

  “Now she plans to come over every other weekend,” Magda continued. “Every other fucking weekend! Can you believe it? And she won’t stop badgering me about having kids. The woman’s never happy. First, she constantly nagged at me because I was single in my thirties and she was ‘worried’—”

  “Because you live in Northampton and therefore might be a lesbian?”

  “Exactly! Now she wants me to have babies. When does the nightmare end? What does it take to be left alone?”

  “Having babies?”

  She rolled her eyes as she smeared grape jelly on a blueberry bagel. “I wish! If I have a baby boy, she’ll want a baby girl, and vice versa. I will never be free.”

  I laughed and understood her plight. My mother had been behaving the exact same way lately. She was “concerned” about my single girl status in a town largely populated by homosexuals and called regularly to see if I’d met “someone special” or to give me an I-won’t-love-you-less-if-you-turn-out-to-be-a-lesbian speech. My mother lives in Hartford, Connecticut, which is about an hour drive away from Northampton. The old gal ain’t perfect, God only knows she’s not, but I love her anyway, especially from a safe distance.

  “Pretty!” Magda gushed suddenly, staring down at my feet.

  Curious, I glanced down and spotted the object of her admiration. My ankle bracelet and toe ring twinkled back at me.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “O-oh, um,” I stuttered, not knowing what to say. “I—I bought it. I saw it at a jewelry store at the mall and thought it looked nice, so I bought it.”

  She smiled, a dimple peeking out from one side of her mouth. “They’re beautiful! Are those real diamonds? That must’ve been quite a splurge. They must have you cost a fortune!”

  I was saved from answering by Jeremy’s appearance at the door. “Alfred wants us. Staff meeting. Or, as I like to call it, a ‘let’s get together and talk about David J. Seton’ meeting.”

  “Great,” I muttered, rolling my eyes at Jeremy. I waited for Magda to grab her coffee and bagel and then charged into the staff room, which would soon become the David J. Seton worship room. Magda showed my ankle bracelet and toe ring to everyone. They all complimented me on how lovely the set of jewels was—all except for Jeremy, who just stared at the twinkling items on my left foot with a frown.

  ***

  It was the longest day of my life.

  I had waited to hear from Seton all day long and nothing. He hadn’t answered my e-mail. There were no text messages from him on my cell phone. So I rushed home from work, hoping to hear a message from him on my answering machine.

  “Why did you delete that scene in chapter four? That was an awesome scene! It was imperative to the story development…”

  “Marjorie, it’s your mother. You do remember you have a mother, don’t you?”

  “Hi, Marge, I’ve got a question. Do you by any chance know if people ate biscuits during Civil War America? I’ve been doing research and haven’t found anything on that subject. Call me pronto!”

  Nada from Seton. I sighed.

  Fine. Didn’t really care. I had a lot of work to do anyway. And when that was done, I’d do other fun stuff. Like watch TV. Read. Pick at my toenails. I would order greasy Chinese takeout and watch Gone with the Wind on DVD, and perhaps indulge in a chaser of chocolate and maybe even some wine, with one eye on Scarlett and Rhett and the other one on my BlackBerry.

  I thought about joining Mitch for that drinking binge he’d planned on having later, but he would only want to talk about his ex-girlfriend and have sex afterwards, and I was so not in the mood for either one right now. I sighed. I had become one of those women I hated. I was Cathy from the Cathy comics. At any rate, I was just another sad single woman, waiting for a man to call.

  ***

  “Have you gone gray yet?” Magda asked me.

  “Gray?”

  “Yeah, gray. Gray hair. Have you got any?”

  “Uh, no, don’t think so,” I replied, making a mental note to check in the mirror for any strands of gray hair scattered around my head and…in other parts. “Why?”

  Magda groaned. “I found eight this morning. It’s not fair, Marjorie! I shouldn’t be going gray already. I’m only thirty-seven, you know. Tom is forty-five and his head is full of lovely brown hair. Why do women go through all this shit? They—and by ‘they,’ I mean my mother—expect us to get married, have kids and be young and beautiful forever. But nature is cruel. We’re the ones expected to be gorgeous all the time, yet we’re the ones who age sooner.”

  “Actually, I read somewhere that women age slower than men. Something to do with biology.”

  Magda snorted. “Try telling that to my mother!”

  I laughed. “Man, you really are pissed off about your mother coming over, huh?”

  “You think?”

  A smile teased my lips. “You get all philosophical whenever she comes over.”

  She snorted softly. “Pondering over the pains and hardships of womanhood is my coping strategy. It keeps me from murdering the old hag.”

  “You should write a book about it.”

  “Not a bad idea. You can edit it for me.”

  I laughed again and cast a glance at my surroundings.

  We were sitting on a bench, waiting for Jeremy to buy us lunch. We were outside of the Academy of Music, a performance art school for kids, the best hangout and relaxing spot in Northampton. There are benches, a garden, trees and a playground for kids to play. The heart of the town square is in this tiny spot and you can see just about everyone walking by. You see all kinds of people jogging, walking their dogs or simply lying around with their books and iPods. Sitting on a bench outside of the Academy of Music is my favorite springtime pastime. I always come here to relax and do some people-watching while enjoying the sounds of the leaves in the trees rustling against the cool, crisp breeze. This is the sort of place one comes to relax…and to free oneself from obsessions and worries, at least for a little while.

  “I come bearing gifts,” Jeremy announced, running toward us with his hands full of sandwiches and super-sized sodas.

  “Where the hell did you go to buy that, Siberia?” Magda asked, scooting to the side to make room for Jeremy. “Christ, I’m starving!”

  “Hey, it’s lunchtime, what do you expect?” Jeremy countered. “Place was full. I’m not your personal servant, you know. Next time, you get your own damn lunch.”<
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  “The fag doth protests too much,” Magda muttered as she grabbed her lunch and passed mine over to me.

  Jeremy perched on the other side of the bench, grumbling something to himself about being nice to ungrateful bitches.

  I left them to their bantering and took a big bite of my BLT, chewing with relish. I hadn’t eaten well during the last couple of days. Four days had passed since my passionate—albeit intercourse-free—encounter with Seton and I hadn’t heard a peep from him. He never returned my e-mail. He also never responded to the text message I sent him the day after that. So I finally called him yesterday, and when he didn’t answer his cell phone, I left him a brief message on his voice mail. He was obviously avoiding me. I had decided not to contact him anymore. When I almost accidentally-on-purpose walked by his house yesterday, I realized I had to get a grip. We had only spent one night together, for crying out loud! We didn’t even engage in intercourse. Even though our D/s encounter was absolutely incredible, I had to face the possibility that it may not happen again. For all I knew, he had changed his mind about Bookends AtoZ. And so, I had to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable “thanks but no thanks” phone call from him.

  But try as I might, I couldn’t help thinking about him. I couldn’t help asking myself if I’d done something to upset him. And I couldn’t help but pray that he hadn’t changed his mind about Bookends AtoZ, that he hadn’t changed his mind about me.

  “So how are things with Mr. Bestseller?” Magda asked me.

  I swallowed my big bite of sandwich and shrugged. “I haven’t heard from him since last Monday. He said he may sign with us, but is not yet sure.”

  “He won’t sign with us,” proclaimed Jeremy, talking with his mouth full. A bit of mustard clung to the corner of his mouth. He licked it off absentmindedly.

  Magda turned to him. “And how the hell do you know that?” I couldn’t see the expression on her face, but her voice sounded annoyed.