“No, Sir.”
“Is now around the time you’d usually eat?”
“I don’t know what time it is, Sir.”
He looked at his wristwatch, “Almost 5:30.”
“Yes, Sir. I usually eat between five and seven.”
“Stop calling me Sir.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Call me Dare or Dario.”
“Yes, Dare.” Sensation prickled in me at using his name. But if I was to be his wife I’d have to do that in public. Public. I pushed away my anxiety.
“Where do you have dinner?”
“If I’m not entertaining I eat dinner with the others who are off duty. If I am entertaining I sit at the feet of the patron I’m attending to while he or she eats.”
“Where?”
“In the patron’s suite or in one of the dining areas, Sir. I mean Dare. Sorry, Sir. I mean Dare.” My face heated. I hadn’t felt flustered like this in… in I don’t know how long. If I wasn’t more careful I was going to be punished for this. It had been a long time since I’d been punished. And even worse, I could screw this up. I directed my brain to forget what was at stake here and to just go on autopilot.
A to B. A to B. That’s what I needed to do to get to C. I’m at C now. Don’t mess up.
He moved to the desk beside the bed and lifted a telephone and pushed a button, “I want menus for dinner, please. Right, okay.” He opened a bedside table drawer and pulled menus out, “I’ve got them. No, we’ll dine in the suite. Right. Fine.” He hung up.
I remained standing at the end of the bed. He sat down at the head of the bed,
“What’s good here?” he asked and I turned to face him. He passed a menu to me.
“What do you like, S--” I blushed again, “Dare?”
He gave me a little smile and my heart spasmed. But I was thinking, ‘wait for it…’ knowing that the crazy or kinky or evil or a combo of any or all of the above would reveal itself sooner or later. It usually didn’t take long. The longer it took the more chances of it being brutal when it came.
“I like everything. What do you like?”
“I…” I swallowed and then stupidly I said, “Pasta.”
Damn, why did I give him a personal answer? I knew better than to give anyone ammo that could be used against me. I hadn’t had pasta in 2 years and the answer just slipped. How could I let it slip?
“They don’t serve pasta?” He opened the menu and looked, “There’s a shit load of pasta.”
I shook my head a little, “I’m not permitted pasta.” I stopped myself from ending with the ‘Sir’.
“Why not?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Too fattening,” I answered.
His eyes roved over me and I knew he was assessing my body shape. I was very slender. I was fit and healthy but definitely 10-15 pounds underweight.
“What sauce do you like on your pasta?”
My eyes widened, “Anything, Sir. Dare.” Another blush.
“What’s your favorite?”