I couldn't decide. More of my femme/domme or more of my fox. So I went with fox. Maybe tomorrow I'll strap on the high-heeled boots and pick up my whip. Or give you a bit of my watching-my-wife WIP, which has taken an unexpected turn. Of course, there is a sliver of domme in this one, too. You know me and fetishes. The more the merrier.
Oh, and for your soundtrack, please see Carney. (The straight razor. Holy fuck.)
Eric sat across the table from me and gazed. There isn’t a better word for what he was doing. He couldn’t take his eyes off me. I found the whole situation disconcerting, which may be why I acted so aggressively.
“So what’s wrong with you?”
He didn’t seem bothered by me baiting him. “What do you mean?”
“You’re handsome.” God, he was handsome. Why did he have to be so handsome? “And you have a good job. You seem normal enough. Why are you interested in someone two decades your senior? Who fucked you up? Did your mom wean you too early?”
A different type of man would have left. Eric sat back in his chair and licked his lips. “I didn’t know my mom.”
I nodded. So that was it. Mommy issues.
“Before you go all Freudian on me,” he continued, “I’m not fucked up. I don’t have an agenda. I fell for your photo, and I want to know more about you.”
He laughed. Damn, he was different from Hank. If I’d tried this tone on Hank, he would have left the restaurant and refused to speak to me for a week. I was actually enjoying the meeting, in spite of myself.
“Yeah,” he said, “carnally. I could spread you out on this table right now, pull those tight jeans of yours down your thighs, and press my face to your split.”
I looked around to see if anyone had heard us. That made Eric laugh again. “You have no problem saying I’m fucked up, but you don’t want other people hear me say I’d eat your pussy?”
I looked around once more. Still no heads turned, no eyebrows raised.
“What is it with you and pussy eating?” I asked, my voice hushed.
“What is it with anyone?” he shrugged. “People have their fetishes. I like to go down on women. I like to serve.”
“But why me?”
He put his hand out and captured mine in his. I felt a spark jolt through me. I could not deny the chemistry. At some base level, some inexplicable plane, I was hot-wired to want him.
“Why not you?” he asked matter-of-factly. “Let me.”
“You keep saying that.”
“I can’t. I’m not a daisy. I’m wheat.”
I named him Eric before I ever watched True Blood. And then look. The Queen of Louisiana is in the video!