Chapter 7 #2
Like many of the private courtyards in the city, the small space held a gazing pool with a small bubbling fountain.
Jasmine climbed the brick wall on one side, perfuming the air and adding to the sense of barely restrained wildness, while verbena and other herbs fought for space in the small planting areas carved out between the cobblestone pavers.
It was a lush, humid oasis and an exercise in barely restrained excess.
The perfect place to bring the woman who seemed determined to keep her desires under lock and key.
“I had no idea this place existed,” she said, glancing around the room.
“It’s not open to the public.”
She arched a brow in question as she sipped her café au lait.
“Members and guests only. Discretion is paramount. I was confident that was something you could both appreciate and respect.” Despite my earlier lapses in judgment, I wouldn’t have brought her to Madame Arlene’s if I’d had any question about her ability to keep a secret.
Her livelihood depended on maintaining others’ privacy.
She tipped her cup in mock salute before reaching across to snag a beignet from the plate sitting in front of me.
The simple act illustrated how little she cared about impressing me.
Normally, I’d correct her and serve her myself either from my plate or my hand but coaxing Alexandra out of her shell was going to be more challenging than making friends with a reluctant hermit crab.
I didn’t want to bash through her shell; I wanted her to come to me willingly.
She bit into the pastry and let out a groan of pure pleasure that made anything else I’d been thinking irrelevant. That sound—the sound of her surrendering to the shear sensual pleasure of an experience—became my new Holy Grail.
“These are better than the beignets at the Café du Monde—different somehow,” she said, taking another bite and letting her eyes drift closed.
When she licked the powdered sugar from her lips, it was because she wanted the taste, not with any kind of artifice designed to seduce. It was for her pleasure alone, which had what I was sure was the unintended consequence of amplifying mine.
“They infuse the water they use to make the dough with herbs.”
She looked at me as if I’d just spoken Greek.
Reaching over, I ran my thumb over the crease in her forehead, smoothing her pale skin.
Her gaze stayed locked on mine, her brown eyes slightly wary, and I felt the way her breath hitched at my touch.
I wanted her on edge, unable to hide behind her normal carefully constructed walls.
The easiest way to do that seemed to be sneaking in gentle touches when she was preoccupied with something else and couldn’t slip into her practiced routine.
I gave myself the pleasure of sliding my hand down to cup her cheek for a moment before letting go of her and relaxing back in my chair.
She leaned forward at the absence of my touch and I felt a small flash of triumph.
Not a victory—not yet—in the war or even the battle, but all parties were present on the field.
“You know how they make the beignets?” The crease was back in place on her forehead but this time I stayed my hand.
“I like to cook. I could arrange for them to show you if you want, or I could teach you myself.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew it would be the latter.
Before we were done with each other, I’d have Alexandra in my kitchen, eating out of my hand not because of some dare, but because that’s exactly where she wanted to be.
“I don’t cook. This is New Orleans. People come here to eat. Why would I think I could make anything better than what I can get from one of the over a thousand restaurants?”
I tipped my head to the side, watching her for a moment. “For the pleasure of creating something yourself.”
She looked so genuinely puzzled at what I’d said, I left the rest of what I’d been thinking trail off and picked up a beignet instead.
They’d cooled and the powdered sugar had melted into the fat, making almost a sweet pasty icing on the surface of the pillow of dough, but even cold, Arlene’s beignets were the best I’d ever tasted.
“Would you like a fresh batch?” I asked when she’d finished the last pastry.
“No,” she said, looking at the empty plate with longing. “I think I’m always going to want more of those, but I’m full.”
I loved the way she’d eaten without reservation, and I got the sense that she was saying no because she was genuinely sated and not out of some misguided attempt to deny herself.
Some women had strange relationships with food, but that seemed like the easiest way to get behind Alexandra’s walls.
She appeared, for the moment at least, comfortable enjoying the pleasure of eating with me, or perhaps in spite of me.
If I’d been someone she cared about impressing, maybe she would have acted differently.
It didn’t matter what the reason was. I’d found the seam in the oyster shell and I intended to work at it until I pried it open, revealing the pearl inside.
She took a swallow of her coffee and I watched her hesitate a moment as she set the thin china cup back in its saucer.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything,” I said. I might not answer, but I wanted her to ask.
“Can you tell me more about what happened with Kyle? At the club you mentioned?”
I felt my jaw tighten at the unwanted image of the middle-aged man being forcibly escorted from Bacchus. But he was the reason I’d ended up neck-deep in the clusterfuck of a lawsuit and the reason Alexandra was sitting next to me.
“He was so timid during our sessions,” she said, filling the space when I didn’t immediately answer. It might have been nerves but it felt more like a genuine desire to understand what had gone wrong.
“He beat his submissive with a cane, hard enough to break the skin. If the dungeon monitor hadn’t stopped him, he would have permanently marked her.”
She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
The shock and horror was clear in her eyes.
Part of me wanted to take that away from her—to give her a beautiful image to replace it.
The other part wanted to show her the photographs the club had taken to document the injuries in case anything further came of the encounter.
I settled someplace in between, waiting for her to deal with the reality of the situation.
She’d been playing with power she didn’t fully understand and innocence was no excuse. Not when people got hurt.
“I don’t understand,” she said, curling in on herself.
“I know. That’s part of the problem.”
I took a sip of my coffee, letting the silence stretch between us for a moment.
I didn’t know her well, but I understood Dr. Smithson enough to know that her intentions were good, if misguided.
If she believed she’d done something wrong, she’d chastise herself for it.
She wouldn’t need me to punish her. Not for that.
“Tell me why you started the Gentleman’s Submissive. Why not teach or go back and get your counselor’s license? Go into private practice?”
“I thought I could help people.”
I bit back a snort of disbelief.
“I know. The irony’s not lost on me,” she said, holding a hand up in front of her and suddenly looking very tired.
I took her hand, cradling her slender fingers in my palm while I gently cuffed her wrist with my other hand. I wanted her to feel safe with me. Safe enough to tell me the truth.
“I wanted to be a professor—write a book about the consequences of the shifting power dynamics between the sexes. Something like that.”
She’d gone from seeming like a confident academic to sounding lost, and I stroked her wrist, feeling her pulse beat against my thumb. The desire to protect her, to soothe her had moved in and set up housekeeping in my psyche, and I had no doubt it would come back to bite me in the ass.
“Why didn’t you?”
“There aren’t a lot of professorships in gender studies. Turns out the people in the jobs have no intentions of going anywhere. Classic supply and demand.”
She looked thoughtful and I waited for a moment, giving her space to work through whatever was going on in that gorgeous head of hers.
“I think I wanted to be more hands-on. Don’t laugh,” she said, the smile lighting her up from the inside.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Bullshit.” She paused for a moment, as if deciding how much to share. “I grew up reading Harlequin bodice rippers under the soapstone counter in chem lab and then sneaking my hand into my panties in the bathroom between classes.”
“Please God, tell me you went to a Catholic school.” Images of Alexandra in plaid skirts and knee socks filled my head. I added play professor and naughty schoolgirl to the to-do list I’d started to compile. I’d have to see if I could dig up a wooden ruler from somewhere.
“Sorry, dirty old man, but no.”
I hit her with my best Big Bad Wolf grin and waited until she couldn’t help but smile in return.
“The point I was trying to make before you got all skeezy.”
I snorted. I hadn’t pegged Dr. Smithson as someone who’d use that word.