Falloir (Passion Noire Book 2) (32 page)

I don’t believe in fate but I do believe in hope. And when I met Jones, right from the start, there was something about him. He irked me, he pressed my buttons and I’d thought it was all about the unfortunate characteristics of his colouring, but it wasn’t. Shaving his head and hiding his blue eyes proved that. He’s as sexy as hell but it’s more than that. I’ve found myself turning to him, leaning on him even. That’s not me. Not at all. Not since Thierri and Helene helped to fix me up have I looked to anyone for help or support. I don’t need anyone. Yet I’ve found myself needing Jones and the hope that his presence gives me, no matter how hard I try to deny it. When I stopped denying it, I still fought it until I dared to hope that he could be as special as he seemed. But he’s not an outward alpha with a submissive centre. No matter how hard he tries, that’s not who he is.

Maybe it’s because he’s The Kid’s uncle. Maybe that’s why I'm drawn to him. Maybe the hope I feel is not for me, but for The Kid. I don’t mind; I’m glad they’ve found one another and if that’s the part I was destined to play then I’m proud to have played it. It’s probably for the best. My life is hectic enough, although thanks to Jones, Thierri can live out his days the way he wants to, knowing that his will is now in safe hands so his funeral and estate will be handled his way. And thanks to Thierri, I know that Paul is being taken care of so I don’t have to look over my shoulder again. He says that provision is in place to make sure I never have to—even after he’s gone.

And if Jones takes The Kid to live with him eventually, like I’m expecting, my life can get back to some sort of normality. Although, if I’m honest, the thought of that scares me. I don’t want to lose The Kid. I know he’s not mine and that I can’t have children of my own, thanks to Paul, but I'm not thinking of him as some sort of stand-in child. I’ve got used to having him around. In fact, I love having him around and can't imagine him not being here. But, as they say, blood’s thicker than water so I’m guessing it’s only a matter of time. Maybe that’s another reason I’m not confessing my fears to Jones. Maybe keeping him close is helping me to keep The Kid close too.

I wish it could all work out. I wish I could be with a dominant man, for all our sakes but I can’t live my life like that. My Domme persona has helped me through tough times and I cling to her like a life raft, drawing strength from her when times get tough. And Helene is right, two Dominants in a relationship is asking for trouble. I think I knew it anyway, deep down. I think that’s why I insisted that we keep it from The Kid. I have a feeling that he’d be overjoyed if Jones and I were together. But if it ultimately didn’t work or if it turned into the destructive relationship I fear it could, it wouldn’t be fair to The Kid. And he’s been through enough. He needs stability in his life.

But I’ll forever hate the fact that I didn’t even give it a try. There’s a part of me that doesn’t like being defeated—and that’s what this feels like, being defeated before we’ve even had a chance. The last time I felt like that was when I wanted to become a Domme. Thierri had laughed at me until Helene persuaded him to indulge me. She thought it would be a good distraction to get me over the trauma of Paul’s abuse. My spirit needed to heal as well as my body.

I remember it well—not that I’m ever likely to forget it. Paul had inflicted injuries on me that could be seen but there were others that couldn’t. I don’t just mean emotional injuries in that second group. No, my missing ovaries are thanks to him for example. And God alone knows how many broken bones I’d suffered. I’d found out by accident a couple of years later—thanks to an MRI scan of my brain when I kept having horrendous headaches that Thierri was convinced were purely psychological—that I had suffered a fractured skull at some point. Depressingly, when I tried to figure out when it was that Paul had inflicted that on me, there were so many occasions that sprang to mind that I’m still none the wiser.

So, at Helene’s urging—albeit it out of sheer indulgence, Thierri had humoured me, teaching me the basics of Dominance and, although I’m a fairly dominant person in everyday life, I admit that it didn’t come naturally to me. But, partly because there was no way that I was ever going to put myself in a vulnerable position with a man ever again, and partly out of sheer bloody-mindedness, I did it. And I’m a bloody good Domme. Even Thierri had to concede that. I’m not as harsh as many, far from it, but I don’t need to be. That’s what finally convinced Thierri that I’d cracked it—I don’t follow stereotypes, I tread my own path. I do what I’m comfortable with and that’s what seems to suit the more masculine subs ... which in turn, suits me just fine.

Wait a minute … If I could pull something like that off, proving Thierri and Helene wrong because I wanted it badly enough, could I do the same with Jones—assuming I wanted him badly enough?

THE BARMAN ... WHAT’S HIS name? ... Gabe ... yeah, that’s it. I wonder what his problem is. He lets me in but gives me a look that leaves me in no doubt that he’s pissed off about it. Whether he’s just pissed off from doing Veuve’s donkey work or whether he resents me being here, I couldn’t say.

‘She’s still doing her last client,’ he announces smugly before walking off. ‘You’ll have to wait in here until she’s finished with him. She’ll let you know when she’s done. They’ve been going at it for ages.’

He stomps off behind the bar but I don’t follow him over there. I stay near the rear exit and glower at him as I wait for Veuve. I know he chose his words carefully, even before he coated them with acid. Fuck knows what his problem is. He’s always been fine with me before. I wonder if he and Veuve have had words. I know they’re close. But why would he take that out on me?

I remember him kneeling before her when she had that funny turn. I remember how he looked at her—it looked like he worshipped the ground she walked upon. And when he fucked her, although her mouth was around my cock, he couldn’t have been happier. He wants her, I know he does. Is that what this is? Is he jealous that her clients are getting more Veuve action than he is? I hear a phone notification sound and he stills behind the bar. I hear him mutter before he storms past me.

When he returns, there’s a girl trailing in his wake. She’s probably early twenties, pretty, fit—no, very fit and not at all shy.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Are you waiting to see Veuve?’

I nod, I can’t do much else ... I’ve just realised that she’s wearing a white vest top and she’s definitely not wearing a bra. She doesn’t have big tits like Veuve—God, nowhere near. Hers are way, way smaller but they jut right out. Pyramids where Veuve’s are definitely spheres.

Oh God, she’s caught me staring. She just grins and then looks down at her chest and sticks them out at me.

‘Can you see my nipples?’ she asks. ‘I knew it was a physical session so I didn’t bother putting a harness on the puppies.’ She grabs them and gives them a squeeze. When she releases them, her nipples are rock solid balls pushing through her vest. A blind man could probably see them ... well, he’d have no problem reading her tit Braille.

I realise she’s waiting for my reply.

‘Um, just a bit.’

‘Oh they’re not very dark,’ she says before yanking up her top and exposing her bare tits. ‘Look.’

I’m fucking looking, I want to tell her. Have no fear about that. Even my fucking cock’s woken up to take a look.

‘I don’t know what it is. My skin tone’s actually quite dark but I don’t have much pigmentation in my nipples or my lips.’ She tweaks one of her nipples. ‘Look, they don’t even get very red when you abuse them. You can pull them, pinch them, bite them ... whatever, it doesn’t make much difference. It’s a pain in the arse. I have to wear a tinted lip balm, even when I want my lips to look nude otherwise I look dead.’

Oh ... she’s talking about the lips on her face. The way she was carrying on with her nipple, I thought at first that she meant her ... you know. I was wondering whether she was going to show me them as well. I wonder whether they colour up if you pull them, pinch them and bite them. Or pound your fucking balls against them ...

I realise she’s now asking me about today’s session that Veuve is apparently going to oversee. I cannot bloody wait—she’s so open and matter of fact about her body that it relaxes me somehow. I get the feeling that she’s very laidback and not judgemental at all. She pulls her top back down but it’s hanging oddly, as if it now has two pleats sown in it. I think she takes my silence as nerves.

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Kayla by the way. And you’re Dean, yes? Anyway, I think you’re the one that I should be worrying about. I could be in danger of death by multiple orgasm overdose, couldn’t I?’ she gushes, giving me a wink that presumably is meant to reassure me but frankly, the mention of making her come multiple times puts the fear of God into me.

‘I think you’re safe,’ I mutter drily. So much for my newfound confidence. By the time Veuve comes out, I’m ready to bolt. Kayla has spent the last ten minutes filling me in on exactly what gets her off and then says she’s going to see how I do. It feels like I’m going in for a fucking test, not therapy. A test that I’m bound to fail because I haven’t revised. I haven’t even had the lesson.

‘Ready?’ Veuve says, and I want to say no. She gives much such a disarming smile that I begin to relax. The need to bolt fades. I give a tight nod.

‘Of course, we’re ready,’ Kayla blurts enthusiastically. ‘I’ve been priming him with inside information.’

Veuve raises an eyebrow. ‘If you’ve exposed yourself ...’

‘No!’ Kayla cries, making my eyebrows jump. ‘I’ve not lifted my skirt once in all the time I’ve been here.’

Veuve nods. ‘I see you didn’t bother to put a bra underneath your most see-through top. Knickers? Remember what the judge said, Kayla.’

‘I thought that not wearing underwear would help ... seeing as you want me to help you and that means getting my kit off.’

Giving her a look that says she’s fooling no one, Veuve replies, ‘And taking off a pair of knickers and a bra takes how many seconds out of the session, exactly?’

Kayla shrugs, sulkily.

‘So, come on. Confess or I’ll write to your probation officer and tell him you’re wandering around London minus underwear again. That will be enough for the judge to want another word. And you’re on your last warning, honey.’

Kayla’s head falls forward as her whole body seems to slump. Gone is the larger than life chatterbox that I’ve spent the best part of twenty minutes with, replaced by a crumpled, muted version. I watch the exchange between them in fascination but then Veuve turns to me.

‘Dean, did she flash her tits or her minge at you?’

I sense an opportunity to forge an allegiance. I shake my head. ‘No.’

Kayla turns to me in surprise, telling Veuve all she needs to know.

‘Kayla, I can read you like a book. Telling me that you’ve not lifted your skirt once since you’ve been here either means that you’ve lifted it more than once, you’ve not lifted but dropped it or you’ve not touched your skirt but flashed your tits instead. And, that only covers the
in all the time I’ve been here
part of the equation. Just how many people have had the unexpected and perhaps unwelcome pleasure of coming face to face with your tits or your pussy today?’

The girl shrugs but says nothing.

‘You don’t have to be specific. A ballpark figure will suffice.’

‘Bout twenty ... maybe thirty. Or if everyone on the bus
did
see, probably close to a hundred.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Kayla. You are going to end up with only a prison guard to flash, you know that don’t you?’

She nods slowly. ‘Are you going to tell them?’

‘I have to, Kayla. You know that. But if you’ll consider my offer of learning the pole-dancing ropes, I’ll be able to mention that as a next treatment step and they may be willing to wait to see whether you can be content to flash people inside this club when you’re working and not poor, unsuspecting members of the public.’

Kayla huffs. ‘But that’s no fun. It’s the unexpected part ... the surprise ... the shock ... the outrage ... that’s what gives me such a thrill.’