Chapter 68

Kathleen

Let me tell you about this past month.

The moment I walked out on Ira in that restaurant, frustrated, confused, and definitely heartbroken because she's as dense as the ocean, I decided to sort out what it was I wanted before talking to her outside of work. The only way I could do that was by physically removing myself.

Could not remove myself emotionally, as I quickly found out the moment I stepped off the plane in Berlin and saw an airport attendant who looked a lot like Ira. Spoke German, but you know, doppelgangers aren't going to be 100% the same.

I went into the nearest bathroom and fucking cried.

Wish I could tell you that I spent the whole fortnight visiting my mother. Telling her what's going on. Getting hugs and jokes and some cookies from the local bakery. To be fair, there was a stellar shop on the corner of the street my mom's townhouse was on. But I only got to visit it twice, because I stayed with her for four days. I was going to spend the whole trip there, but she largely ignored me and the neuroses of her housekeeper sent me screaming into the German strasse.

So, I took my chances doing a bit of traveling. Berlin. Stockholm. London. I avoided Paris like the plague, even though I've usually enjoyed trips there, because of the baggage associated with the City of Romance… and because Ira is fluent in French, I've discovered during our relationship. While on the one hand, I didn't get to talk to people much outside of hotel hospitality, I did get a clean, shiny new environment to think about what it is I want from my life.

Being thousands of miles away from the one you love has all sorts of fucked up consequences on you. For one, well, you're away from the one you love. You swear that you can feel their heart beating in bed with you… an ocean away. You think you hear their voice calling you from the bedroom when you're in the shower. And you want to strangle every person calling a woman Kathleen, Kat, or heaven forbid, Katie.

On the other, having that distance allows you to stand back and take a hard look at your life choices.

They say you can't help who you fall in love with. No matter your preferences, who you actively go looking for, or the kind of people you surround yourself with, you're probably falling in love with the last person you expected.

Until a few months ago, I always assumed I would either marry a "normal" person, or a bedroom-sub. I don't want a lifestyle Dom/sub relationship, on either end. I had fun during my stint with Ira wearing the collar almost 24/7, but that's not for me in the long run. I can't give up that kind of control for so long.

And that brings me here, standing in my apartment on Sunday night after returning to America. I saw Ira tonight. At Midnight. I went there with some of my old friends, all Dommes. It was fun being around my usual brethren again. I was reminded of the thrills, the fun, and the passion we could instill in one another, especially when some subs stopped by and entertained us with their witty tongues and promises of pleasure. Eve and I were the only ones who didn't go home with one of them. Most were men and not Eve's cup of tea, and I'm not sure if I'm still seeing Ira. It felt like cheating.

After seeing her? After hearing her call me her darling? I now wonder if it was wrong to ignore all the texts she sent me when I first left that restaurant.

I'm sure she's thought of me as much as I've thought of her. I think of her as I pour myself an Old Fashioned, the drink I had when we made that bet. I think of her as I feed Sinéad, petting her soft fur and thanking God she's over her kitten-diarrhea phase. I even think of Ira as I wash off my heavy makeup and let down my hair.

There were two things I walked away from Europe with. The first is that I absolutely, in at least some life-altering capacity, love Ira Mathison. I love our banter, how she challenges me, how she makes me laugh at the most unexpected times. Her taste in movies is suspect, but it's not about watching the movie itself. It's about curling up in her hold, kissing her cheek, and reveling in her smart, masculine-but-soft cologne.

Thinking about those little things tells me again, as I get into the tub, that I love the asshole. I want more moments like those. I want to make love to her. I even want to… dare I say it… submit to her at times.

Ira has transformed me into the switch I never knew I could be. That much is true.

You know what else I want? Of course you know what I want. You've probably been yelling, no, screaming at me for weeks now. "Kathleen!" you're yelling right now, getting ready to reach through whatever you're reading this on. "Don't you see? The only way you could be happy with anyone, and not just Ira, is if you get to show them who's boss sometimes!"

That's right. It's not enough to spank a woman here and there for her titillation. I can't live off her knowing I'm a Domme, let alone one who is exclusive to her and can't take out her controlling frustrations on someone else. Listening to my Domme friends, watching them interact with submissives, reminded me of how much I used to enjoy that.

My mind keeps going back to Ira. While she was training me, I was content to indulge in only my forbidden fantasies. Well, now I want to indulge in the public ones. Push her down. Tie her hands behind her back so she can't get grabby. Take her to the edge and back. Ride her fucking face, feeling her tongue all over my pussy as I inform that insubordinate asshole that I am the woman who commands her heart and loins.

That is the source of my frustration. My heartache.

Ira Mathison will never submit to me. I know it like I know I love her.

And now I've gotta go back to work. I have to look her in the eye, overcome my feelings for her, and tell her why we would never work.

I'm probably going to have to move after the ball next weekend. Fuck the museum. My dad can do it. I… won't last another day around Ira. Even though I have to. For now.

Life, right?

I check myself in the bathroom mirror one last time before going out into the ballroom.

Blue dress I bought at The Blue Peacock? Check. Diamond clasps in my hair? Check. Minimum makeup with a smack of pink lipstick? Check.

Oh, don't forget your clutch on the bathroom sink, Kathleen!

I'm not the only woman in here. The restroom in the main hall of the renovated Ace is stuffed with well-to-do women checking their hair and makeup, looking for panty lines beneath their dresses, and gabbing about their dates. While I see a lot of women from my social circles here, I also see some new faces. Rube-type girls trying to blend in with their lower-class dresses and heels that break with too much ease. Their language isn't that great, either.

I assume most of them are escorts, paid for by men who need a date for the evening. The way they gather around one end of the sink and mutter about Johns… ahahaha.

There is one woman who pops up beside me, however, who is neither an escort nor high society. She's both.

"I was hoping I would see you here." June, dressed in a sexy black number, black pumps, and with hair as big as her tall body, appears with a smile in the mirror. "I had heard you jetted out of the country."

My lipstick almost falls into the sink. "You…"

"Am both working and having fun." She winks. "My patron brought me as a date. Sorry. I'm unavailable tonight."

She's joking, but I can sense she's intrigued by me. I should hope so. She only got half the usual effort in the Kathleen Special when I rubbed her clit and spanked her ass at the Manoir. Not a bad run with another woman, if I do say so myself.

Something I pretty much did for Ira. I sigh.

"Was hoping to see you up in the mountains again. You and your charming partner."

I can't tell if she's making small talk or genuinely missing my touch. Is it the same way I miss Ira's touch right now? I don't know.

"They're not my partner." I lower my voice as two women walk by, leaving the bathroom. "We're on break, anyway."

"Aw. You're a hot couple. Can only imagine what it's like when two Dommes collide. More than sparks flying, right?"

"You could say that."

"I am saying that." June turns, leaning against the sink as she watches me pat down errant hairs on my scalp. "If you hadn't kicked me out of my room… well, the only reason I let you do that is because y'all paid me such a nice tip to fuck on my bed. Was a shame to change those linens the next day. I had to sleep in a guest room."

I'd feel for her plight, but I highly doubt Ira and I were the only ones to do that. "Our relationship is complicated."

"Totally! You know, it's not nice to gossip behind someone's back, but you two were the topic du jour for a few days around the place. Me and another girl got into a heated discussion about whether two Dommes could have a functioning relationship. We figured they'd either have to be poly and get their kicks elsewhere or switch like the Anderssens."

She looks at me, waiting for me to confirm one or the other.

"I wish it were that simple."

"Nothing about love and sex ever is, right?" June steps away, waving a hand in my direction. "I've gotta go. Ol' man is waiting for me. Says something about wanting a dance while the night is still young. Try to enjoy yourself."

The bathroom door swings shut, and I'm alone on my end of the sink. Before the silence can get to me, I grab my clutch and vacate.

The Ace has come a long way from the sheet-covered spectacle it was months ago. The Mathisons and their subcontractors did an amazing job transforming it so quickly, and without compromising quality. That means they paid a hefty sum. I hope they have the funds to cover it.

Haha, who am I kidding? They're richer than my family!

I'm rather late to the party, so people are already dancing and mingling. People dressed in the uniform the Mathisons picked out for the employees make the rounds with trays full of champagne. I grab a glass and look for my father, currently talking to Donovan Mathison.

"What a fantastic display of ingenuity and historical accuracy," my father says, cheeks flushed from too much champagne. "I'm impressed you made it this far on such short notice."

Donovan smiles, but there's something hollow about it. Maybe he's turning into his kid, wherever she is.

Yeah, he's turning into Ira. Because here comes Stephanie May, sashaying in a pearly-white gown and up-do.

"Kathleen," she says, lips dripping with venom. "So nice to see you. I heard you went on a trip… I hope it was nice. That would explain why I haven't contacted you recently."

Fuck her. She's talking about the fact I haven't paid her off this month. I would have arranged it while I was gone, but Carolyn was insistent that she would "take care of it." So far, nothing seems to have been taken care of.

"It's nice seeing you too." I turn to my father, avoiding both Stephanie and Donovan's gaze. "Daddy, you should try the wine they have around here. I sampled the same brand in Germany, and it was divine." Finally, I glance at Donovan, a sour smile on my face. "You have good taste, Mr. Mathison."

"Oh, I didn't select that. Ira did."

"Of course they did."

"If you see that bugger, let them know they need to dance with someone before I throw Stephanie into their arms."

"Oh, Donnie, you needn't be so awkward."

Everyone except Stephanie is stiffening, and she's playing up the image of her and Ira in case I missed it. Yes, honey, I'm jealous.

And annoyed that Donovan is not-so-subtly suggesting that I dance with Ira. Someone I haven't touched since we last fucked.

I see her out of the corner of my eye, weaving in and out of people, servers, and reporters. She stops to kiss an elderly woman's hand and compliments her husband. She pulls aside a server and informs her that there's a run in her tights. She steals multiple glances in my direction, probably shitting herself over me talking to Donovan and Stephanie.

Time to make my escape.

My salvation is in the form of Eve, who is here because I begged her to be, and because her family is here, checking out their investments. She's talking to her sister Helen when I appear, offering her a glass of champagne I stole off a tray and asking if she would like to sample some hors-d'oeuvres.

"I'd like to sample the clams around here if you know what I mean." She's eyeballing a woman in a green dress as we stand next to a wall. The orchestra finishes one piece and begins another, creating a scuffle of people in the middle of the ballroom as they leave, find new partners, or decide to have "just one more." In a way, it reminds me of the gala I went to twelve years ago, where Ira Mathison and Kathleen Allen first charged into a relationship from hell.

A dozen years in the making, folks!

"Try to contain yourself. This is a family affair," I joke.

"Oh, whatever. Like you're faring much better than me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I see all your favorite people here. In fact…" She tips her drink up, motioning beyond my body. "Here comes your ultimate favorite."

"Evelyn." Ira stands a mere few inches behind me, nodding to the both of us, acting like she's all business. "You look nice."

She glances down at her suit. "This old thing? Clearance rack at Kohl's."

"Cute."

Eve downs the rest of her champagne. "That's my middle name. Evelyn Cute Warner. Anyway… what the hell do you want?"

"Not you, surely." Ira turns to me, and I can smell that cologne she was wearing the last time we made love. The time before that. Before that. "I came by to ask Kathleen to dance."

I pretend that we have no romantic history. It's the only way I can look her in the eye and channel the old Kathleen who would be tempted to rip her head off and present it on one of the champagne trays running around.

"Your father was telling me that you need to dance with someone. I guess it's because you're young and single."

Boom. Right in the fucking gut. Yeah, I can play dirty.

Yet her expression only flinches. "I heard the same thing from your father. Funny, that."

Either Ira is lying or my father has some explaining to do. Regardless, some man landed on my shit list yet again.

"Why would I dance with you?" I keep my champagne glass to my lips, letting it act as a buffer between us. Get any closer, Ira, and I might touch you.

It's not like… I don't want to touch you…

"You would dance with me because it's not something you get to do every day. Meanwhile…" she jerks her thumb in Eve's direction. "You can talk to her anytime you want."

"Not true. I'm in grad school."

"All right, whenever she feels like skipping class. Which is every day, I'm guessing."

"Speaking of fucking off, Mathison, isn't that what you should be doing?"

God, listen to us. A bunch of high school children standing in front of the lockers and acting like this is the most important moment of our lives. I'd blame these two immature imbeciles, but I'm not helping the situation any. In fact, my indecision is making things worse.

"All right." I hand Eve my half-empty glass. I'm sure she'll finish it off for me. "One dance, with enough room for Jesus, as Mrs. Caruthers would have said at Winslow Academy."

"History?"

"Biology," Ira corrects. "Mrs. Caruthers was an odd choice for a biology teacher."

"You two need Jesus, that's for sure." Eve stalks off with two glasses in her hands. "I want the full report of how many times you called God tonight. And five Hail Marys for every time you feel bad about it."

Once she's gone, I snort.

"How about it, Ms. Allen?" Ira extends an open hand to me. "Dance? The good news is that the song is probably half over by now. Though it's hard to tell with orchestras. Ever heard a five-minute cello solo?"

"Yes." I take her hand. It's warm. A reminder of what she can do to me with that hand. "There was one during that night at the symphony, remember?"

Ira leads me away, my hand still in hers. "No. I was distracted by other things."

Yes, like my mouth on you. You know what I remember the most from that night, Ira?

Surrendering myself to you for the first time. The first time without screaming, anyway.

Her lips touch my knuckles when we reach the center of the ballroom. Couples are spinning, dipping, and laughing all around us. Under any other circumstance, this would be a whimsical time.

Naturally, she leads. Because she's masculine. I must defer to her lead.

It's a petty thing to cling to. I've been feeling pretty petty lately.

"We haven't had much chance to talk since you've been back." Ira keeps a respectful distance between us as we turn on the dance floor. "Tell me all about Europe."

My hand squeezes in hers, and I blame it on the movements of the dance as opposed to her forwardness. Or is it me initiating this contact? Sometimes I have no idea what I'm doing.

"Europe was fine. Rainy in London, but when isn't it?"

"London? I thought you went to Germany to see your mother."

"I did, for as long as I could bear it." I briefly tell her about my mother waking up "hating everything" and throwing her bedspread from her second-floor balcony and onto the street.

"Yikes."

"Yes, that was the day I decided to fly to Stockholm."

"Private?"

"Commercial."

"Yikes, again."

I shrug. As long as I fly First Class, commercial airlines don't bother me all that much. I only spring for private when I'm taking people with me. Since this was a solo trip, even without Annie, I opted for some headphones and my tablet to keep me preoccupied as I went from Berlin to Stockholm and then Stockholm to London.

"What was in Sweden? Ah, let me guess." Her hand detaches from my shoulder and brushes against my hair. "Family?"

"You're assuming that because I'm pale and blond I'm Scandinavian."

"Would I be wrong?"

"Not too far off." We are, in fact, Swedish on my paternal grandmother's side. That's why I first had an interest in Sweden, but not why I went this time. When I was in college I studied abroad for a semester and wanted to see the old sights again. Talk to some friends. See what was going on in that part of the world. "You know what they say about assumptions, Mathison."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They make an ass out of you."

"I'm not sure that's quite how it goes."

My foot doesn't turn fast enough, my heel catching and threatening to take me down. Ira clenches me closer, hand pressing against the small of my back. My chest is pressed against hers. Some people are staring.

"I missed you," she whispers in my ear.

Jolts of electricity explode within me, reaching my extremities, filling my loins with desire. You think I don't remember what it's like to have her in my grasp, breathing hard, resisting the urge to kiss me? I don't doubt that she's sincere. I bet she did miss me, like I missed her.

We love each other, after all.

It breaks my heart. What is so wrong with two people falling in love? Making love? Literally, the only thing holding us back is…

"I missed you too." Reason is losing out to my wants. Now that I feel her against me again, all I can think about is bringing her lips to mine and getting lost in the back of her throat. I haven't kissed her in over a month. I want her hands on me. I want her lips to kiss every speck of skin on my body. I want… I want…

Damnit, all I want is her!

"Come on." I step back, taking her hand long enough to give her an idea. "Ten minutes."

Someone like her needs longer than that. A woman like me knows how to have a quickie.