“I’ve got a type. Grumpy, filthy boys.”
Her eyes fall to the item in my hand. I’d forgotten I was holding it. I hold it out to her. A bunch of roses.
“A wise woman once told me to always bring flowers to a first date.”
She takes the flowers. She pulls them close and, with those green eyes on mine, she inhales in deeply.
Why is the sight of her smelling my roses so erotic?
“Roses,” she says, her voice slow, as though she’s measuring the weight of the word on her tongue. “Predictable.” With a violent swing of her arm, she throws the whole thing in the metal trash bin. “Try harder.”
Her gaze doesn’t leave me the whole time. I can’t please her, and I love it.
My dick is strong, my knees are weak, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest.
Is it wrong to meet your dominatrix’s friends with half an erection? We’re about to find out. We get inside and we’re met with a burst of hot air. A blush hits her cheeks from the heat and she unfastens her coat, pulling it from her shoulders. Gently, I take it from her, draping it over my arm. She’s wearing a red dress underneath that hugs her curves in all the right ways.
“Oh,” she says, and she puts her hand on my chest when she says it. The second she touches me, my brain short circuits like the dumb animal I am, and I’m unable to comprehend the next words, which sound something like…
“Bytheway, allmyfriendsareSeekers.”
“Yourfriends are…what?”
“Come on, let me introduce them.”
She fists her fingers in my shirt and tugs, pulling me forward. I am at least a foot taller than her, but I let her lead me around like a horse with a bit.
It looks like Christmas exploded in The Hideaway. It’s a dive bar, but cozy about it. The space is strewn with multi-colored Christmas lights and they’re blasting rock and pop covers to holiday classics over the speakers. Many of the people in here are dressed in holiday “ugly” sweaters or Santa hats, and I clearly missed the memo, because I’m wearing my black coat, dark slacks, and a crisp grey shirt.
Dove drags us to the back, where there’s a small group crowded around a table. Everyone is drinking out of festive Christmas mugs. They glance up when we arrive, and a jock of a man who looks like he could double as a pro-football player immediately stands up, slaps his hand on the table, and shouts: “Slap my ass and call me Scrooge, it’s the ghost of Christmas past!”
Dove lifts her hand in a princess wave. By the way her friends are acting, I get the impression it’s a pretty big deal that she came out tonight. They hoot and hug her like they haven’t seen her in months—and I guess they haven’t.
What did she say? It’d been close to a year?
I haven’t seen shy-Dove in a long time. It’s almost cute—the downturned eyes, the uneasy smile.
“Okay,” she says, squeaking through a particularly bone-crushing hug. “Relax, guys. I didn’tdie, just…took a sabbatical.And. Look what I brought.” She slaps her hand amicably over my shoulder. It’s a dad move, and I almost expect her to introduce me aschamp. “This,” she announces, “is Dorian. Everyone sayhi, Dorian.”
There’s a round of unevenhi, Doriansspilling from the crowd. But when I really take in the group, that’s when my blood goes cold.
Because Irecognizesome of them from the Club. Specifically: Phantom and Princess. The stoic dom and the leggy blonde side-eye me from the corner.
My heart hiccups in my chest.Please, don’t use my old scene name. Please, give me anonymity for this one night. Please, please, please?—
“Dorian.” Phantom nods slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
Princess—as always—takes Phantom’s cues. She cocks her head, her pigtails wagging like floppy dog ears, and flashes me a bright smile. “Cool!”
I exhale. My secret is safe. For now, anyway.
“Thank you for letting me crash your party,” I say.
Ophelia flicks her hand. “People are always like, hey, Ophelia, why do you have your party so close to Christmas? And the thing is, most of us don’t have anywhere else to be for the holidays. So. Welcome to the island of misfit toys.”
A problem I know too well.I’ve been ostracized from my family (well, everyone except Maggie) for my deviant behavior. I imagine many at this table have, too. That’s a thought that’ll make my throat too tight if I linger on it, so I change the subject. “Sounds like I’m in good company.” I reach into my coat, where there’s a large pocket in the inner lining. I pull out a small, wrapped present and hand it over. “Just a little something. Happy birthday.”
She blinks at the gift, genuine surprise crossing her features. “Aw. You shouldn’t have.” But she rips into the present anyway. When the Santa wrapping paper peels back enough to reveal the gift underneath, she breaks out in large, cackling bouts of laughter.
