I think for a moment and then concede, “Well, yes. But it’s not what I thought a dominant would do.”
He puts his head on his side, regarding me. “I see you sewing figurines in the garden. I see you hugging a cushion as you read. Wearing pretty dresses. Clinging to me as you cry. The things you do to comfort yourself make you happy, so I like them, too.”
His thumb, which was stroking my hair, moves to my cheek, and his voice drops almost to a whisper. “You can be little with me. Small and sweet. Meld to me, obey me, cling to me. I like it. It makes me feel good, having you soft and happy in my arms.”
Five months of Frederic’s fierce-sounding lovemaking, cuddles and pet names while he works on Jane Eyre and you work on the book. Five months of someone who listens to what turns you on, who feels good when you’re happy and tries to fix it when you’re sad. That would put a smile on your face. I can easily imagine, five years from now, someone asking me my opinion of Frederic d’Estang and me looking dreamy and saying something like, “Oh yes, isn’t he nice.”
And if it’s got a time limit you don’t need to worry about being a traitor to your gender or having to justify what you feel for him to anyone else. It’s just a fling, an indulgence. Something just for the two of you. You and Frederic.
Oh, god. Me and Frederic. He’s standing so close and my hands itch to touch him. Noticing my breath has become shallow, he smiles and says, “You think about it for a while, minette. I’ll be here if you have any questions.” He picks up the knife and places it back on the cutting board next to the peaches. “Would you like any help here?” I shake my head. “All right, then.”
I smile at him from beneath my lashes, liking the warm look in his eyes. As I turn away to find a colander to rinse the lettuce in he loops an arm around my waist and pulls me back tight against him. I close my eyes, melting against the expanse of his chest.
“Beautiful girl,” he murmurs, planting a kiss on the side of my neck, and then releasing me.
* * *
I’ve interviewed enough people now that I can put together a detailed outline for the book. It’ll be a few months' work, fleshing it out and editing the drafts. I’ll have an editor at the publishing house to work with once it’s submitted and do a few rounds of edits with them, but I’m determined to get it into the best possible shape before they read it.
It also means it’s time to start interviewing Frederic. By some instinct I predict he’s going to be difficult and reluctant to answer my questions. He is.
“Minette, you’ve talked to so many people and you have read so many interviews and profiles about me. You must be swimming in material.”
“I don’t have everything I need, and the book is about you. People are going to want to hear your perspective on all the things you’ve done. They’ll want the inside story. Now, come and sit on the sofa.”
Sighing, he gets up from the piano, where he still spends most of his free time. I glance down at my notebook when we’re settled. “I’ve made a list of the turning points in your life and career and the questions I have about each one. Think of the questions as a way for you to remember interesting details and anecdotes about each period. Colors, sights and sounds are good, the people you’ve met and the conversations you’ve had. What inspired and influenced you at the time. How you felt.” He’s smiling when I look up. “What?”
“I like seeing you like this. You’re confident in your work.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling back at him, “I am. Now, forget that you’re being recorded, if you can. If you can’t forget, remember that the words you’re saying aren’t being carved into stone. You’ll have the chance to change anything later.”
There’s a teasing light in his eyes as he says, “Yes, minette.”
“All right. First, something easy. Tell me about your family home when you were a boy.”
He talks, and I take notes as I listen, just a few details here and there that will help me plan what will go where. Mostly I watch him, the heel of his hand pressed against his temple, the shape of his mouth as he speaks. The things he describes are vivid and interesting, which makes my job so much easier as I don’t have to keep prompting him for details.
My mind wanders every now and then to our conversation two days ago. Being submissive is about being yourself, if you enjoy that sort of thing. And that’s the question. Is it my sort of thing? Am I turned on by the thought of Frederic being austere, commanding, domineering in a sexual way? I did some furtive research on my phone into BDSM and landed on all manner of confusing yet arousing websites. After a while, though, I found I wasn’t getting the answers I needed, so I shut down the browser and thought about Frederic’s words instead. Meld to me, obey me, cling to me. I like it. It makes me feel good, having you soft and happy in my arms.
How beautiful he makes it sound. It’s what I didn’t understand from the websites, that the point is for both of us to feel good. And if I don’t obey him? I remember the spanking, vividly. Frederic thwarted is Frederic ferocious. But the thought of him like that isn’t daunting. It’s exciting.
Ninety minutes into the conversation I put my notepad aside, shake my skirt out and re-cross my legs.
Frederic stops midflow and exclaims, “You’re not wearing any underwear!” He starts to get up and move toward me but I put up a hand to stop him.
“We’re not finished yet. I have lots more questions.” I pick up my notepad again, an expression of exaggerated studiousness on my face.
His lips thin, amused. “I have questions, too. What do you taste like? What do you feel like, all slippery against my tongue?”
I’m tempted to abandon the interview, let him find out and then listen to the result on the recording later. But that would undermine what I set out to achieve. See, Frederic? You’re not the only one who can be surprising. “Oh, I don’t think your readers would be interested in that.”
“Damn my readers, I’m interested.”
“You were talking about your time in New York?” I say expectantly, trying not to smile.
“Little minx,” he mutters, but goes on talking, his eyes wandering up my legs every now and then.
I’m not trying to prove that I don’t want to be submissive to him. In a strange way I think this will help me decide whether to accept what he’s offering. It’s a little bit cheeky, a little bit disobedient, showing him I’m not wearing any underwear and then refusing to let him have what I flaunted. I’m pressing ever so lightly against the limits he wants to set for me, just to see what he does. I also want him to know that I can work perfectly competently even as I’m thinking about giving myself over to him. Doing a good job, no matter what, is important to me.