Chapter 32

Kathleen

This morning, all I could think about was what I would wear today. Whatever it was, it had to be functional for work, but also good enough for a date.

I don't know what Ira and I are doing. After our lunch the other day, I'm not sure I want to know. I'll either be so horny that I don't care about what's going on until she fucks me, or I'll be so over her shit that I leave early and call everything off.

We'll see.

The way I ended up dressing… you'd think I was trying to impress her. My dress is a crimson halter that matches nicely with my black flats I have to wear around the construction site. I decided on a plunging necklace to make sure Ira stares at my cleavage all day – without realizing that everyone else will be looking too. Oops.

It's fine. I'm a professional. They… try to be professional. I could do without the foreman and his cronies muttering to each other with stupid smiles on their faces every time I walk by. I don't let it get to me.

At least Ira is looking. Although the only thing she's commented on is my hair, worn up for work. What she doesn't know is that I'm now in the bathroom, after work, getting ready for our date.

First thing I do is take down my hair, combing it out so it falls nice and straight on my shoulders. Then I open my purse, searching for my makeup kit, because sometimes a girl needs to put on some red lipstick, light blush, and thank the heavens for liquid eyeliner.

Once I'm convinced I'm the most beautiful woman on Earth – for five seconds, anyway, until I notice a zit on my chin and promptly freak out – I collect my stuff and meet Ira in the foyer of her gutted hotel.

"Aren't you a vision?" She doesn't take my arm. We've decided to keep this relationship a secret for now. Not because we're ashamed, but because it's so complicated that we don't know how long it will last or if it's worth the press we'd get. I can already see the papers discussing our marriage date – and how long it would take Ira to cheat on me. I want to barf.

"Thanks." I walk beside her out of the building and to the curb, where Ira hails a cab. She lives close enough that she's been walking to and from the site every day. Saying something about needing the exercise if she's not able to hit the gym.

I'm glad she's keeping her physique in check because I know under all these clothes she's strong enough to, well, somewhat pick me up and half-carry me to her room.

I hide a grin of excitement as she closes the cab door behind me. Within ten seconds, she's sitting beside me, telling the driver to take us to the restaurant I stood her up at. As usual, we have things to prove to one another.

Although it takes one small glass of liquor to get me settled, I'm soon relaxed enough to laugh at one of her stupid jokes. So far she hasn't said or done anything that implies domination. The more I think of this as a regular "vanilla" date, the more I'm able to see her as my equal in all areas, including sex. Remember, Kathleen? You are capable of this with a woman like her.

Not always, but usually.

"There was this gal in my house," Ira says, referring to her stint in a high-class sorority in college, "who dated a new guy every month. Except you'd never guess, because all the guys looked the same. Redheads. Freckles. Some of them dressed differently, and a lot of them had the most basic names you've ever heard, but once we caught on… shit, we never let her live it down. The girl had a real fetish."

I smile over my half-eaten dinner. "You mean like you and your thing for blondes?"

"Why do people keep saying that?"

"Because it's true. By the way, how was Stephanie's pussy?" I drink some water. "I know you think she's me and all, but…"

"Why you gotta go there?" Ira is too relaxed from her drink to be offended. "That happened one time."

"Yes, but it happened."

I'm flirting with her for the first time in weeks. Probably because this is the first time in a long while I've felt comfortable around her. She has yet to make a move, let alone do something that makes me uneasy. I sit here thinking, "Well, we're more than likely having sex tonight." As the night wears on, I feel better about it. Not that I didn't feel okay with it before – plus, I could always say no if I decide it's not in the cards. There's a good amount of power in that, even if she's calling the shots.

Tonight, she is totally not calling the shots!

"I think you like tormenting me," Ira says, leaning across the table. We're sitting opposite one another, but the table is small, and it's not difficult to slip my foot out of my heel and play with her ankle. The smile that instantly lights up her face as she realizes what I'm doing spurs me on to tuck my toes beneath the hem of her pants. "Yes. You like tormenting me."

"How do I torment you?" My arms are crossed on the table, pushing my cleavage forward so she sees deep into it. Her eyes are not on mine. "Spare no detail, Ms. Mathison."

"You damn well know how."

We hold our mutual gaze until I break with a snort. I don't get it. I'm Kathleen Allen, Domme extraordinaire, and yet staring down this woman makes me weak in the knees and want to hide my blush in wine.

"You are so stunning," Ira murmurs across the table, fingers trailing up my arm. Her light touch makes me shiver, although I do an admirable job containing it. "Women like Stephanie May don't even compare to you because you are so much more… woman?"

"So suave." I pretend to be disinterested in her explanation. "So good with words. Ira Mathison, the person who will transform The Ace, ladies and gentlemen."

"Another testament to what you do to me. I can't even find my words anymore."

Wrapped around my wrist is her hand, not tight, but noticeable. I imagine her hands all over me, squeezing my breasts, fondling my thighs, and of course… this time I can't contain my shiver as I think about her spanking me, fingering me, and holding me down like…

Shit. See what she does to me? I'm not myself.

Apparently, she isn't either.

We could talk about it. We could sit here, over dinner, discussing why we act like this around one another. She and I both know that it won't end well. At present, we're feeling pretty comfortable around each other. Why would we disrupt that with talk of Domming and subbing? Why would we want to drag that up when this is supposed to be a date night? This is as good for her as it is for me… right?

I think she knows to avoid the topic. So she talks about her mother's latest shenanigans dating some retired European soccer player and going on some sex blog to talk about this guy's drill kick skills and how mortified her offspring would be to read it.

"I don't really care," Ira says, her hand still wrapped in mine as we ignore our cooling dinners. "My mother's been dating guys left and right since the divorce almost a decade ago. Probably before that. They weren't exactly monogamous… ever."

"They told you this?"

"Hell no! I heard it from other people, and they've both dropped hints. Did you know they still hook up?"

"Why in the world did they get divorced if they still like each other and are okay with seeing other people? That makes no sense."

Ira shrugs in that lackadaisical way that's starting to turn me on more and more. This is someone who gets her shit done and still knows how to relax. That's admirable. "Principle of the thing. They weren't in love, apparently, and their prenup said my mother got half the fortune if she stuck it out for at least twenty years. I think it was an image thing for my father."

"So when they hit twenty years…"

"She filed the day after their twentieth anniversary. They were on a second honeymoon in Italy when the paperwork arrived!"

"What?"

"I'm serious. Dad was angry for about two seconds because of the inconvenience she caused. Not to mention she sort of ruined the vibe of their supposed romantic getaway."

The Mathisons are certainly interesting people. Everyone knows how unpredictable Carolyn can be, but you don't hear much about Donovan. Ira has always taken more after her father, but I think I sense streaks of her mother in her.

Would she spring a divorce on me if we got married?

What the hell! Why am I thinking about marriage?

My hand falters in hers, and the next thing I know I'm shoveling food in my mouth while Ira peruses the dessert menu. She orders a piece of gourmet chocolate cake, which is promptly brought out the moment I push aside my empty plate.

"Didn't ask me if I wanted anything." I pick up the dessert menu before the server leaves.

The cake slides in my direction. "I got it for you."

"Hm?" She's kidding, right? Why would she assume that? "I mean… we could share…"

"Why? Not on a diet, are you?" Ira grins, shit-eating. She knows she's pressing a volatile button. "Eat the cake already."

The server backs away. I pick up the tiny fork and stab the corner of the fluffy, melting dessert. Oh, man, it looks so tasty. I can barely speak before the delectable chocolate hits my mouth. "I'm not on a diet, per se, but girls can rarely keep a nice figure eating whatever they want. This is a splurge." I stick my tongue out so she can see all the half-digested cake on it.

She doesn't flinch. "Most women I've been with could stand to gain a few more pounds. You must know how good it feels to thrust between a pair of soft thighs. Ms. Avalon Lite."

Is she flirting? I keep my eyes on her as the fork plays with my lips. "That's nice for you. I'm the one who has to find clothes to fit those thighs. We're not all wearing male boxers and tailored pants."

Ira brushes her hand against mine again, and I feel it – that electricity shooting through me, demanding I throw myself onto the table and let her take me. I'm barely horny. It's purely mental. Wild, huh?

"You could weigh fifty more pounds and you'd still be the hottest woman strutting around, making me so crazy that it takes every bit of self-restraint to not throw you down somewhere and fuck your damned brains out."

That growl in her voice is so intoxicating that a fog clouds my mind, containing images of her doing just that. Right now. She could take me right now, and I would let her.

But no. Ira likes to play her long games. You know what? I can play long games too.

With her eyes bearing down on me, I cut some cake and hold the fork up to her lips. Within a second she bites down on it, still staring at me, those piercing hazel eyes taunting me as her lips wraps around the fork. Shit, that's hot. It's not hard to imagine that tongue plunging down my throat, in my pussy, all over my body, over and over until I'm so tired from coming that I have to shove her away.

"Are you trying to seduce me?" My voice is nothing short of husky. It's the voice I use on my subs when I'm about to reward them. Perhaps not the most appropriate voice, but… what other one do I use? This feels most natural. "You're doing an admirable job, Ms. Mathison."

"I try to seduce you every day, Ms. Allen." She plucks the fork from my hand and attempts to serve me a bite. I'm more docile in my acceptance. Just a quick bite, pulling the cake off the fork with my teeth bared.

You're seducing me, Ira, and while it's working, I'm not going to let you think I'm anything but who I am. Whoever that is.

Presently, Kathleen Allen is someone who bites.

I'll bite her ear, her shoulder, that stupid bottom lip that pushes out when she's pouting – but totally thinks she isn't pouting. I'll bite one of her nipples, and then… ahaha, I'll give her the thrill of her life when I bite her right on the pussy.

Not hard, of course. Just enough to graze my teeth over her skin, to make her tingle, worry a little bit, and then realize I'm that good.

This oral fixation between us is working. I'd love to crawl beneath this table and make her keep eating dinner while I eat a different dessert of my own.

"You all right?"

"It's a little chilly in here."

"We need to finish up here anyway. We've got a show to catch."

"Oh? The cinema?"

"Better. Symphony. If you want to go."

"I love the symphony. Especially if you have a private balcony."

"We have one named after my family. Let's go."

The check arrives. You can imagine what happens.

"I've got it." Ira tries to take it from my hand, but my grip is firm. "Let me. It's a date."

"And that means you pay because you're the one who asked, right?"

"It's not like that. Just let me pay it."

"What's wrong with me paying it? Not like I can't afford it."

Here's the scoop: the Mathisons and the Allens have a similar net worth when you put us together, but I'm sure Ira's fortune is larger than mine. She works more high-profile jobs while I run around doing charity. I've made quite a bit of money on my own thanks to my family, but I admit, a lot of my fortune does come from my trusts. So does hers. We're pretty even no matter how you slice it.

Sometimes I want to buy my date dinner.

"You're taking me to the symphony." My smile is so terse that I must look sarcastic. "So I'll pay for dinner." When she still won't release the check, I growl, "Give it."

She drops the check, hands in the air as if I've raised a gun.

The air is tense as I open my purse, pull out my wallet, and fish for a credit card to give to the server. It's a motion I go through often enough. But with Ira sitting there, watching me, it feels somehow… dirty.

In our world, gender roles are fairly solid. I'm an outlier in that I'm a femme who wants to work as hard as the men in her family and can pay her way – and pay for her dates. Most of the women people like Ira date are either too poor to even think about it, or they're coming from that state of mind that says "the masc pays for everything." I don't like it when anyone at my level pays for me. Not if I can afford it.

As I said. She's taking me to the symphony. That makes us even.

Except I need her to stop looking at me like that. As if I've insulted her and threatened her self-perceived masculinity in a world where that trumps all. Maybe we should talk about that soon. Her. Me. What gender means to us, since we're hardly the most cut-and-dry queer couple to ever prance around in front of other people, especially the hetero-normies.

We leave disconnected, thanks to trying to keep a low profile from people who may recognize us… and because the mood between us has changed. We're no longer flirty. She doesn't act like she's itching to touch me as we get into a cab. In fact, we're pretty quiet as the taxi rolls down the street and takes us to the concert hall on the other side of town.

The show has already started when we arrive. The usher recognizes Ira and escorts us to the private balcony right away. My family was never much into music. I was the strange child buying up MP3s and subscribing to every streaming service online. So, unlike the Mathisons, we don't have anything named after us here. Sometimes even this rich bitch can have a new thrill.

The balcony is small. Seats maybe five people. So it's plenty cozy for two people sitting next to one another and enjoying the darkness as the lights focus on the orchestra below.

The moment I sit down, I feel Ira's hands on me. She touches me under the guise of removing my coat, but her hands linger – right on my breasts, her mouth in my ear.

"When we're done here, we're going back to my place. I have plans for you."

Bristling, I play her coy game. "Sit your ass down, Mathison. I've got plans for you first."